LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 
 
 efjap ^tp^m^i :5u 
 
 Shelf ...X^!? 
 
 UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 
 
V;^-^-^-^ , d/tl.<l.^| 
 
 y Z^/ /~7 f /' r/^^'-z:-^-^-'^'^ 
 
 .^ 
 
 m..Jv "^.^r.y,.^- 
 

 'if 
 
 to EMS m WRITINGS 
 
 ■/O OF 
 
 i 
 
 Henry Wyllys Taylor 
 
 OF 
 
 HARTFORD 
 
 ^ 
 
 COMPILED AND ARRANGED BY 
 
 ALICE J. MEINS, BROOKLINE, MaSS. 
 
 HARTFORD, CONN. 
 
 press of Ubc Case, XocIjwooC' & 36ratnar^ Compans 
 
 1895 
 
 
 / 
 

 Copyright, 1895 
 By Alice J. Meins 
 
TO 
 
 OF 
 
 HENRY WYLLYS TAYLOR 
 
 THIS VOLUME IS RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Genealogy ....... 9 
 
 Biography ...... 15 
 
 Extracts of Letter ikom Rev. J. H. Twichell . 19 
 
 " B. Rowland Allen . 21 
 
 Dr. Willl\m Terry . 23 
 
 Poems ....... 25 
 
 Eglantine — 3 Parts ..... 25 
 
 Legend of Serious Club .... 129 
 
 The Pond ....... 165 
 
 Miscellaneous Poems ..... 183 
 
 Extracts from Mr. Taylor's Letters . . . 290 
 
 Essay on Tennyson . . . 354 
 
 Essay on John Keats ..... 363 
 
 Newspaper Reading ...... 391 
 
 Travels — Mr. Taylor's Letter to his Mother . 405 
 
 La Rochelle . .... 408 
 
 Ravenna ...... 417 
 
 Perugia ..... 428 
 
 Excursion to Monte Cavo ..... 438 
 
 Individual Opinions ..... 449 
 
(preface 
 
 The manuscripts of Mr. Taylor were not pre- 
 pared by him for publication. Undoubtedly he 
 would have made changes that it is inexpedient for 
 one editing his writings to do. They are accord- 
 ingly presented to his friends with little alteration. 
 
 No memorial would be complete without selec- 
 tions from his letters. They seem to have been a 
 part of himself, of his spiritual communings with 
 God and nature ; and those who were often favored 
 with his presence, and the elevating influence of 
 his manner and conversation, recall sweet and 
 precious memories, as they linger over cherished 
 reminiscences of his consistent Christian life. 
 
 " Who gives the world a noble thought, 
 And writes it out in prose or rhyme, 
 May furnish to some lowly soul 
 A stepping stone on which to climb. 
 
 Then send your noblest thoughts abroad, 
 
 Nor idly wait some higher call ; 
 Give to humanity and God, — 
 
 Your best, nor deem the gift too small." 
 
 Alice J. Meins, 
 May II, 1895. 
 
iiJi4,il!Lsb;ii^3^ 
 
 S^nttlitr 
 
HENRY WYLLYS TAYLOR came of an 
 illustrious and pious ancestry. He could 
 trace his descent back to the royal family of 
 the Plantagenets. In 1638 some of his ancestors, 
 with other Puritans, left their ancestral home in 
 England and settled in Hartford. 
 
 Mabel Harlakenden, who belonged to the royal 
 family of England, married John Haynes of 
 Copford Hall, Essex, England. He became Gov- 
 ernor of Connecticut in 1639. Their daughter, 
 Ruth Haynes, married Hon. Samuel Wyllys. 
 Their daughter, Ruth Wyllys of Hartford, Conn., 
 married Rev. Edward Taylor, born in Coventry, 
 England ; their descendants have been noted for 
 learning, piety, and patriotism. Representatives 
 of the family are to be found in nearly every 
 State of the Union. 
 
 Rev. Edward Taylor graduated at Harvard Col- 
 lege in 1674. He was the first pastor of the 
 orthodox church in Westfield, Mass. He died 
 when eighty-seven years old, having been an able 
 minister of the New Testament sixty years. 
 I (9) 
 
lO GENEALOGY 
 
 Near the pulpit in the church in Westfield is 
 a tablet to his memory. His wife was Ruth 
 Wyllys, daughter of Hon. Samuel Wyllys, an 
 eminent Christian in Congregational Church and 
 for thirty years Senator; also member of Con- 
 gress of New England Colonies; he died at 
 seventy-six years of age in 1709. The office of 
 secretary of the Connecticut Colony was ably 
 filled by the Wyllys family for a century. The 
 Charter Oak was on the Wyllys estate. Ruth 
 Wyllys 's grandfather was Col, George Wyllys, 
 Governor of Connecticut, who died in 1644. The 
 Society of Daughters of the American Revolu- 
 tion of Connecticut is called Ruth Wyllys Chap- 
 ter. 
 
 The fourteenth child of Rev. Edward Taylor 
 was Hon. Eldad Taylor, great-grandfather of the 
 late Henry Wyllys Taylor; he was long a dea- 
 con of the Congregational Church, and died at 
 the age of sixty-nine in Boston, Mass., in 1777, 
 while in the arduous performance of his duties 
 as a member of the Senate of the Provincial 
 Congress of Massachusetts. 
 
 Mr. Taylor's grandfather was Rev. John Tay- 
 
GENEALOGY ' II 
 
 lor, the fourteenth child of Hon. Eldad Taylor. 
 He was born in Westfield, Mass., in 1762, grad- 
 uted at Yale College under President Stiles, his 
 cousin, in 1784; he was settled pastor of the 
 church in Deerfield; owing to ill health he 
 removed to Enfield, Conn. ; afterwards, as he 
 recovered his health, was settled in Mendon, 
 N. Y. He was an amiable man and an excel- 
 lent preacher. The last years of his life were emi- 
 nently happy ; he wrote about two thousand ser- 
 mons ; and preached up to the time of his death ; 
 he died when he was seventy-three years old. 
 His wife was Elizabeth Terry, daughter of Col. 
 Nathaniel Terry, an eminent merchant and pa- 
 triot, civil and military, of the Revolutionary 
 War, in which he sacrificed a large property. He 
 was also an exemplary member of the Congrega- 
 tional church. Major-General Alfred H. Terry of 
 New Haven, who distinguished himself in the 
 late war of the Rebellion, and his gifted sister, 
 Rose Terry Cooke, the authoress, belong to this 
 family. Elizabeth Terry Taylor's grandmother 
 was a daughter of Lemuel Dwight. The Presi- 
 dents Dwight were of the same descent. 
 
12 GENEALOGY 
 
 Judge Jabez Terry Taylor, the late Henry W. 
 Taylor's father, was the son of Rev. John Tay- 
 lor. Judge Taylor was born in Deerfield, Mass., 
 in 1790. He died July 26, 1872, aged eighty-two 
 years. He was a member of the Connecticut 
 Legislature and Judge of Probate for many years. 
 He was loved and honored by the whole com- 
 munity. Judge Taylor married Esther Allen, 
 daughter of Major Moses Allen of Enfield, Conn., 
 who was a descendant of Samuel Allen, who 
 came from England in 1632, and located at Cam- 
 bridge, Mass. ; afterwards settled in Windsor, 
 Conn., in 1635. He was juryman in 1644. His 
 descendants have excelled in scientific pursuits. 
 His son, John Allen, was killed at Bloody Brook 
 by the Indians at the burning of Deerfield, 
 in 1675. His son John went to King St., Enfield, 
 about 1700. His son Moses was Mr. Taylor's 
 great-grandfather. He married Mary Adams, a 
 relative of the famous patriots, John and Samuel 
 Adams. 
 
 Ethan Allen, Brigadier-General in the Revo- 
 lutionary Army, the hero of Crown Point and 
 Ticonderoga, whose statue is in Statuary Hall 
 
GENEALOGY 1 3 
 
 in the Capitol at Washington, was a lineal de- 
 scendant of Samuel Allen. Jeremiah Mervin Allen, 
 President of Hartford Steam Boiler Insurance 
 Company, and a distinguished scientific scholar, B. 
 Rowland Allen, banker and broker, who married 
 Annie Pierson Dexter, descendant of Rector 
 Pierson, first president of Yale College; Charles 
 Dexter Allen, author of American Book Plates, 
 and Francis N. Allen, all now of Hartford, 
 belong to this family. 
 
 Mr. Taylor wrote of his father, "I have never 
 known him to vary in the least from the strictest 
 standard of Christian integrity. In his private 
 life he lived his Christianity seven days in the 
 week." Of his mother he writes, " A saintly 
 woman. How beautiful she looks to me as I 
 trace her lively steps and busy hand watching 
 and caring for her children. What a world of 
 love we have had poured out upon us!" She 
 died in June, 1880. Mr. Taylor was the last survi- 
 vor of his father's family of four. His sister, Ame- 
 lia Taylor, married Adolphus King, son of Col. 
 Jabez King of Enfield. She died leaving a daugh- 
 ter, Amelia King, now Mrs. Lorimer of Thomp- 
 
14 GENEALOGY 
 
 sonville, Conn. Olcott Allen Taylor, born in 1826, 
 died in 1850. Gilbert Allen Taylor died in 1886, 
 aged sixty-nine years. He married Helen M. 
 Page, and left one son, Henry Wyllys Taylor, 
 now in Denver, Colorado. 
 
 Hon. Henry Wyllys Taylor, LL.D., Justice of 
 the Supreme Court of New York, was Mr. Tay- 
 lor's uncle. A memorial tablet of white marble 
 has been placed in the Congregational Church, 
 where for fifty-two years Judge Taylor was a 
 deacon. 
 
HENRY WYLLYS TAYLOR was born in 
 Mendon, N. Y., May 29, 1822. He was the 
 son of Judge Jabez Terry Taylor and Esther 
 Allen Taylor. From his boyhood he was a 
 student, and a great lover of nature. He fitted 
 for college and spent several years in teaching. 
 He was afterwards for many years connected 
 with the Hartford Savings Bank, his uncle, Olcott 
 Allen, being treasurer. Owing to ill health he 
 traveled abroad extensively, where he gave his 
 heart and time once more, he said, 
 
 "To what he loved, there to be taught 
 By master minds of modern thought." 
 
 On his return he became interested in the 
 Gilbert Elevated Railroad project ; he was an 
 active promoter of that system, and was the sec- 
 retary and treasurer of the first elevated railroad 
 company in New York. He again spent a long 
 time in Europe studying. He said he almost 
 owed his life to the study of botany. He was a fine 
 linguist, fluent in many of the modern languages, 
 well read in the classics and sciences ; foreign 
 
 (15) 
 
l6 BIOGRAPHY 
 
 travel thrilled his soul ; his highly cultivated 
 mind could appreciate the beautiful in art and 
 nature. Returning to Hartford he was appointed 
 secretary of the Connecticut Humane Society, 
 and treasurer of the Connecticut Bible Society. 
 
 Mr. Taylor was a man of fine presence, great 
 dignity of character, and highly esteemed as a 
 Christian gentleman. Few men were more mod- 
 est. He loved Hartford, was one of the original 
 members of the Hartford City Guard, and be- 
 longed to the Veteran Association at the time 
 of his death ; also of the Connecticut Historical 
 Society, and the Connecticut Society of the Sons 
 of the American Revolution, and other organiz- 
 ations. 
 
 Mr. Taylor was a thorough student of the 
 Bible and spiritual truths ; and kept abreast in 
 the religious thought of the times. Always 
 abounding in the work of the Lord in his own 
 quiet, earnest way, he was prominent in the 
 church, serving as member of the choir, historian, 
 church clerk, and deacon. He loved the Sabbath- 
 school, and was always there as superintendent 
 or teacher, sometimes teaching in the Bible class. 
 
BIOGRAPHY 17 
 
 a German class, or a class in the State prison, 
 often calling on the lonely foreigner, conversing 
 with them in their own language on heavenly- 
 things. His faith fastened on God, a faith that 
 enlarged his heart and illumined his soul. He 
 was actively and influentially engaged in Home 
 and Foreign Missions, and his untiring labors in 
 philanthropic work can never be fully appreciated. 
 Along the paths of a life of Christian activity he 
 scattered seeds, that may yet bring forth abund- 
 ant fruit to the glory of God. 
 
 Mr. Taylor died August 20, 1894, at Crescent 
 Beach, Conn., where he was spending the summer. 
 Little did his friends realize that the day of 
 his departure was drawing nigh. Unconsciously 
 he entered the valley of the shadow of death. 
 We know the language of his abiding faith ; 
 " I shall be satisfied when I awake with Thy 
 likeness." " When He shall appear we shall be 
 like Him; for we shall see Him as He is." 
 
 The funeral was in Thompsonville, Conn., from 
 the residence of his niece, Mrs. Lorimer. Rev. 
 O. W. Means of the Enfield Congregational 
 Church conducted the services. Singing by the 
 
1 8 BIOGRAPHY 
 
 choir. The bearers were Rodney Dennis, Col. 
 Chas. E. Thompson, B. Rowland Allen, Francis 
 N. Allen, Horace King, and David Brainard. 
 Tenderly the sacred form was borne to the 
 family lot in the cemetery near the old church 
 at Enfield, where the family so lovely and pleas- 
 ant in their lives rest, " till the day break and 
 the shadows flee away." 
 
EXTRACT from letter from Rev. Joseph H. 
 TwiCHELL, Pastor of the Asylum Hill Con- 
 gregational Church, Hartford. 
 
 From the beginning of my acquaintance with 
 Mr. Taylor, I was consciously impressed with a 
 certain spiritual refinement and pure-heartedness in 
 him, which I came more and more, as the years 
 passed, to recognize as rare in its degree and char- 
 acteristic of him. While the principal manifestation 
 of it was moral and religious, it pervaded his whole 
 mind, and was beautifully reflected in his tastes 
 and feelings in all directions. In general the thing 
 I speak of was revealed in the tone of his thoughts 
 and sentiments; in the atmosphere he diffused 
 around him. 
 
 I remember his once telling me on his return 
 from a vacation, that he had enjoyed the solitude 
 and seclusion of the deep forest, because of the 
 thousand deHcate, hidden charms of nature he there 
 surprised, but chiefly because there, in a manner 
 peculiarly tranquilizing and uplifting, he felt the 
 nearness of God. 
 
 (19) 
 
20 EXTRACT OF LETTER 
 
 He said it very simply, as if referring to a 
 familiar experience. But I noted it, and recurred 
 to it ever after as an index of his inward life. 
 Modest, guileless, and sincere, in the company of 
 sweet and gracious thoughts ; it is easy to believe 
 that they were with him when he woke to greet 
 the dawn of the eternal morning. 
 
EXTRACTS OF LETTER 2 1 
 
 EXTRACTS from a letter by B. Rowland 
 Allen of Hartford. 
 
 I first remember Mr. Taylor as my school teacher. 
 He taught in what was known as the Bell School- 
 house near Thompsonville, Conn. It was called the 
 Bell Schoolhouse because it had a cupola and bell 
 about twice the size of a locomotive bell. The school- 
 house was of the old-fashioned kind, with desks on 
 three sides of the room and with benches in front 
 for the large scholars. In studying, they faced the 
 desks and wall, and turned, by throwing their feet 
 over the bench, when called to read or recite. In 
 front of these were rows of benches with backs for 
 smaller scholars, and still another row for the little 
 ones, bringing them near to a red-hot stove, while 
 those in the rear of the room were almost freezing 
 with the cold. After two years he had a select 
 school in Thompsonville. 
 
 My father played the violoncello in church and 
 Mr. Taylor the violin : he often came to our house 
 evenings to practice. He was always active in 
 church and Sabbath-school work, always pure and 
 
22 EXTRACTS OF LETTER 
 
 upright, a good deacon, a good teacher, a good 
 friend, and his example well worth following. 
 
 His tendencies were always of a literary char- 
 acter. He was very fond of flowers and botany; he 
 delighted in Goethe and Schiller, the art galleries 
 of Europe, the ruins of Rome, in Venice, Pisa, Switz- 
 erland, Simplon Pass, the Rhone glacier. How 
 many times I have been over these subjects with 
 him. 
 
 While in Paris he met a friend, a young man 
 from Hartford, dying. The proprietor of the hotel 
 did not like to have the young man there, but Mr. 
 Taylor made it all right with him and smoothed 
 matters over, and took care of his friend till he 
 died ; he kept his friends informed of his condition, 
 had the body embalmed and sent home, and, strange 
 to say, in mid ocean, relatives going to Paris to care 
 for the sick one met his body on its way to be 
 buried, but of course unknown to them. It was a 
 very hard experience for Mr. Taylor in his weak 
 state of health ; he, however, continued to improve 
 and finally came home well, located in New York 
 as secretary of the Elevated Railroad Company. 
 His record was always good from the first. 
 
EXTRACTS OF LETTER 23 
 
 EXTRACTS of a letter from Dr. William 
 Terry. 
 
 Ansonia, March 26, 1884. 
 My dear Friend : 
 
 I am glad to see that an esteemed 
 schoolmate is at the head of the Humane Society. 
 His name is in print very often in such connections. 
 Please express to President Rodney Dennis my re- 
 gards, if you think he would remember me. 
 
 I suppose there will be a history of Enfield pub- 
 lished some time. I do not know whether there is 
 any thing of that kind in course of preparation or 
 not. What I wish to say is, whether I live to see 
 it or not, I hope it will contain a worthy notice of 
 your uncle Roderick. I believe there is no one 
 living who can do justice to his mepiory but your- 
 self ; I hope therefore you will prepare a good pen 
 portrait of him, whatever contingencies may hap- 
 pen, that will go into the hands of the historian of 
 the town. 
 
24 EXTRACTS OF LETTER 
 
 Roderick Terry, merchant and banker, married 
 a daughter of Rev. John Taylor of Deerfield, Mass. 
 He was a man of wealth and great influence. His 
 son, John Taylor Terry of Hartford, was a partner 
 of Gov. Morgan of New York. 
 
^^hntm 
 
 AMONG the hills, with quiet skies, 
 A loved New England village lies, 
 And on its broad and shaded street. 
 Where elms stretch out their arms and meet 
 And form a canopy of green, 
 A line of pleasant homes is seen. 
 The gardens rich with fruit and flowers, 
 And rampant vines and rustic bowers. 
 The spacious barns for hay and grain, 
 And screen for kine from cold or rain, 
 Declare the thrift, reward of toil, 
 To lord and tiller of the soil. 
 The church and schoolhouse both impart 
 Their lessons to the mind and heart, 
 And lifting up from low pursuits. 
 Assist to gather nobler fruits. 
 Though industry was honored there, 
 A noble culture was not rare ; 
 A youth that quiet life might spurn, 
 3 (2S) 
 
26 EGLANTINE 
 
 But those remembered, winning ways, 
 Invite him kindly to return, 
 
 And spend the remnant of his days. 
 On this broad street, the village green, 
 There lived a youth of noble mien. 
 The love and pride of all the place, 
 Because he never would divSgrace 
 Himself by any action mean. 
 In his clear brow his heart was seen ; 
 He loved the sports of active life, 
 And, on the green, the youthful strife. 
 With line to wander with the brook. 
 Or, gun in hand, through every nook 
 Of wood or field to find his way. 
 Was pleasant sport for holiday. 
 But when the powers of life grew strong, 
 'Twas pleasant effort to prolong. 
 Like wild deer bounding, would not stop 
 Till he had gained the mountain top. 
 With hurried breath and throbbing heart. 
 And rushing blood through every part 
 Of his young frame, not yet depraved, 
 Not yet by weakening vice enslaved. 
 So exercise of human powers. 
 
EGLANTINE 27 
 
 It may be hard, it may be long, 
 But for the loss in Eden's bowers 
 
 Would be to us continual song. 
 He had no reverence for pride. 
 But loved to aid the weaker side, — 
 To feebleness and to a child 
 His hand, as mother's hand, was mild. 
 His voice was music to the ear, 
 Soft tones that sorrow loved to hear. 
 These healthful sports and boyish plays 
 Were golden in his youthful days, — 
 Of free young life he felt the joy, 
 And then he loved to be a boy. 
 But when the man began to show 
 
 Its workings in his growing soul. 
 And new fires then began to glow, 
 
 And he beheld a nobler goal. 
 He heard a prompting voice within. 
 
 Resistless pointing out a way 
 Where he must strive and hope to win. 
 
 And it was pleasure to obey. 
 One day Judge Howland's carriage stood 
 Before his door, as though he would 
 Assist some friend upon his way ; 
 
28 EGLANTINE 
 
 And many more were there to say 
 
 "Good-by," or press the hand and bless, 
 
 And strong good will express. 
 
 As Alfred these kind wishes heard, 
 
 He spoke to each a fitting word. 
 
 But one there was, with clear blue eyes 
 
 And thoughtful face, that sought disguise : 
 
 Their hands were joined, their glances met, 
 
 But drooping lids conceal the eye, 
 Revealing truth unspoken yet. 
 
 And faintly sound the words "good-by." 
 Upon the road, at length, a deep 
 Cold sadness seemed around to creep. 
 He thought of all now left behind, — 
 Of life-long friends and neighbors kind ; 
 Of wood and fields, familiar lots, 
 And rocks and dells and sunny spots ; 
 The stricken home where passed his youth ; 
 His father, honored for his truth ; 
 And he no more may lay his head 
 Where green turf marks his mother's bed. 
 " Annie, farewell, I dare not know 
 What time shall garner of joy or woe." 
 At last he said, " This must not be ; 
 
EGLANTINE 29 
 
 Over myself I will prevail. 
 The past is gone, and let it flee, 
 
 The struggling future let me hail." 
 Now, firm resolved, he strove to place 
 
 His thoughts upon his hopeful strife, 
 And for a time, by force, efface 
 
 The picture of his free young life. 
 'Twas hard, but yet, for many years 
 
 To be by highest wisdom taught. 
 With chance to measure with his peers 
 
 In intellect, was pleasant thought. 
 At once to work he curbed his will, 
 And found it pleasure to fulfill 
 A plan with future hope replete ; 
 And to his taste the work was sweet. 
 Not distant from the shady green, 
 Upon a hillside, dimly seen 
 Because of tree, and shrub, and vine. 
 That tower above, or intertwine, 
 Inviting by its simple taste, 
 A widow's quiet home is placed. 
 Ten years before her husband died 
 With little wealth ; she must provide 
 For all her wants, and for the child, 
 
30 EGLANTINE 
 
 The one — of tender years — so mild 
 And wise, she seemed an angel sent 
 To heal a heart with sorrow rent. 
 But she was daughter royal bred ; 
 
 To her, her mother was a queen ; 
 Yes, true of both, it might be said, 
 
 Each in the other could be seen. 
 The elder people watched her growth. 
 And recognized the worth of both. 
 The young, her pathway hover round, 
 But always spoke with gentle sound. 
 The years passed on, some sadly fled, 
 For friends they loved so well were dead ; 
 Some years were happy, too, for she 
 Was wise, and so did always see 
 In this our sphere of strange device 
 A world where once was paradise. 
 At times she taught the village school 
 Where children loved her gentle rule ; 
 Sometimes at home she loved to teach 
 Within the shadow of a beach, 
 When one or two were seeking there 
 A mother and a teacher's care. 
 
EGLANTINE 31 
 
 Four years of study having past, 
 Unstained and manly to the last, 
 He left the classic halls, content 
 With honors won and time well spent. 
 His father, lonely and depressed. 
 Sought other scenes for change and rest, 
 And lingered near his student son. 
 Whose work he felt had been well done. 
 The house and once familiar lands 
 Had fallen into other hands. 
 So Alfred, since that home no more 
 Was his, to visit it forbore. 
 And spent his long vacations, guest 
 Of friends and relatives far west. 
 But now a bound was past, and he. 
 With deepest yearnings, longed to see 
 Each well-known face, and hear 
 Old voices, now by time made dear. 
 Once more at home, came greetings kind. 
 With words of admiration strong, 
 And wonder at the change they find 
 In him, the boy away so long ; 
 While open house and friendly cheer 
 
32 EGLANTINE 
 
 Were on the lips of all, and old 
 And young express in words sincere, 
 
 Heartfelt good wishes, manifold, 
 But one there was he had, as yet, 
 Not seen, and hardly dared to let 
 His lips pronounce her name — a name 
 He spoke not, but which often came — 
 And welcome — when his secret soul 
 Would to itself, itself unroll. 
 Some pleasant words of greeting past. 
 Outspoken joy, that now at last. 
 The long departed homeward came. 
 And was, in truth, the very same. 
 Some things were said that had no sound. 
 
 In stronger words than tongue could frame. 
 But spoken to the soul profound. 
 
 And quick as furtive glances came, 
 Yet in his secret soul he thought, 
 
 " Not now my heart, not now, but wait. 
 The work of years must yet be wrought. 
 
 Be still, though thou art desolate." 
 And then they sat and talked — the three — 
 Of youthful life, and childhood free. 
 And what had passed in later years. 
 
EGLANTINE 
 
 Of good and ill, and hopes and fears, 
 And what was ripening in the stream 
 Of time, and the common theme 
 Of wrong, and slaves, and war, 
 And principles we should abhor. 
 And stars that beam with healing light 
 Uprising in the moral night. 
 Too soon the evening passed away : 
 The sweetest moments will not stay : 
 Of choicest gems there are but few : 
 Where dwell the beautiful and true ? 
 With promise of to-morrow's walk 
 
 About the hills that now invite 
 Them out, then to resume their talk 
 
 In some cool grove, he said good night. 
 
 The moon looked down with kindly smile. 
 Inviting him to walk awhile 
 Alone. There every shrub and tree 
 Seemed moved with life, and will, and glee. 
 And had a tale it sought to tell, 
 To hold him in a magic spell. 
 And all things, in this mystic light, 
 Grew large, like giants of the night. 
 
 33 
 
34 EGLANTINE 
 
 Alone — but he commiined with men 
 Who peopled all the streets again, 
 And talked, and laughed, and was a boy : 
 ' Thrice happy years of careless joy. 
 The sun shone brightly on the day 
 
 Selected. Softly breathed the air, 
 Fit time for fields and wooded way, 
 
 And merry voices, free from care. 
 A few friends met, and all agreed 
 
 The truly pleasant path to take 
 That, under grateful shade, would lead 
 
 Until they reached the hidden lake. 
 
 A crystal gem in setting green, 
 Unchanged as on earth's morning seen. 
 Where nature spreads unfettered arms 
 With no rude art to mar her charms. 
 An outer grove of oaks and pines, 
 Within were graceful shrubs and vines, 
 And down upon the water's edge 
 Creep brake, and rush, and flag, and sedge. 
 Soft sounds that from the thicket float 
 A merry life within denote. 
 The insects glitter in the light. 
 
EGLANTINE 
 
 Or softly hum, concealed from sight. 
 The clouds float on its mirror face 
 With softened tints and changing grace. 
 Reflected verdure seems more fair 
 Than real trees, in sunny air. 
 How smooth upon a summer day 
 It lies ! Then insects come and play. 
 Too near the surface, if they take 
 Their course, the bosom of the lake 
 Is ruffled by the darting pike, 
 Who lies concealed, prepared to strike. 
 Then circles widen more and more, 
 And chase each other to the shore. 
 If rude winds come too near her face, 
 
 A dark frown lowers, and a roar, 
 Increasing in its landward race. 
 
 Is uttered on the rock-bound shore. 
 But when the wooing zephyrs float, 
 
 Her cheek a softer color takes, 
 And on the shore a bubbling note 
 
 Like oft repeated kisses breaks. 
 An open space beneath a tree 
 There was, down by the tiny sea, 
 With charming view and bracing air, 
 
 35 
 
36 EGLANTINE 
 
 And by the brink they rested there 
 On nature's seats of grass and stones, 
 More restful far than golden thrones 
 When one is weary, but to-day 
 They rested only as from play. 
 The children — there were two — not long 
 Sat still, but, guided by the song, 
 Walked noiselessly, and hoped to meet 
 The singer with the voice so sweet. 
 And as they saw a dragon fly. 
 They gaze — half fear, half joy — a cry. 
 Surprised by its strange form and flight 
 Around the brooks, like flash of light. 
 They gathered flowers and garlands green, 
 And ran to tell what they had seen. 
 The others, in their quiet nook. 
 
 With constantly delighted eyes 
 Around the landscape look, 
 
 Made fairer by the softening skies. 
 In their exchange of passing thoughts 
 
 About things beautiful and true, 
 The topics came to them unsought, 
 
 From that fair world that round them grew. 
 The children brought a dragon fly, 
 
EGLANTINE 
 
 And said, " This thing- will sting the eye, — 
 
 The dreadful thing, and shut the ear, 
 
 I killed it for it came too near." 
 
 " I'm sorry," Alfred said, " you thought 
 
 To kill the great strange fly ; you ought, 
 
 I think, much rather to defend ; 
 
 He cannot hurt you if he would, 
 
 But, more than we think, does us good 
 
 By killing insects that annoy 
 
 Us much, whom we would fain destroy. 
 
 Once more its wondrous form behold. 
 
 Its wings of gauze, all marked with gold." 
 
 The child looked sadly on the form 
 
 Of nature's beauty, crushed and dead. 
 Herself most fair, — then, pure and warm, 
 
 A tear ran down, and low she said, 
 " I did not know, but thought the fly 
 
 Would do us harm. Poor pretty thing, 
 I'm sorry I did make you die, 
 
 Your body tore, and broke your wing." 
 But Annie knew the soothing art 
 And comforted the dear young heart, 
 And soon again their voices ring 
 At sight of some new pretty thing. 
 
 37 
 
38 EGLANTINE 
 
 And then she said, " I sometimes think, 
 If we knew more, we should not shrink 
 From insects, or from things that creep, 
 Or hide in holes, obscure and deep, 
 But find in many something good. 
 Perhaps a common brotherhood." 
 " No brotherhood for me," one said, 
 " With such as spin their hated thread, 
 Or sing that vilest song, though least. 
 Approaching on my blood to feast." 
 But why should we condemn a race 
 Because we know a few are base ? 
 No baser creatures walk the earth. 
 Than some who boast of human birth. 
 But Alfred said, " We cannot see 
 What mighty reasons there may be 
 For every little hated life, 
 In time's great, all-involving strife, 
 Or wavelet bearing joy or pain 
 Upon its darkly surging main, 
 But everything, however small, 
 A fragment of the common all. 
 By scales we cannot see, is weighed. 
 And for a useful purpose made." 
 
EGLANTINE 
 
 Yes, every evil that offends, 
 Is but a means to higher ends. 
 " Is poverty a means of good ? " 
 Asked one. " But sure it would 
 The saint and sinner both reveal, 
 Who love him, or would bite his heel." 
 They strolled around their little sea. 
 
 Upon the rocks, and in the grove. 
 And where the brook ran off with glee, 
 
 Beneath its tent of vines inwove. 
 And so the hours, that holy-day, 
 In pleasant words, soon sped away. 
 
 One morning Alfred walked alone 
 
 To think beside his mother's grave. 
 And live again the years gone by, 
 
 The slightest memory to save. 
 By many stones he paused to read 
 
 The names of those who slumber there, 
 And smoothed the turf, and pulled a weed 
 
 For some for whom none seemed to care. 
 Sad harvest death had hither brought, 
 He gazed around, and so he thought ; 
 Why should we feel a sense of dread 
 
 39 
 
40 EGLANTINE 
 
 In the still place where sleep the dead ? 
 
 The race of Adam, every one, 
 
 Though golden prizes may be won, 
 
 In secret, long for rest. But here. 
 
 Life's troubles all have past, nor fear, 
 
 Nor want, nor loss, nor heart unblest, 
 
 Have power to harm. How sweet their rest ! 
 
 The graves are green, the trees above. 
 
 Kind friends, stand guarding as from love, 
 
 The marble tells the tale, the sun 
 
 Looks loving on each silent one. 
 
 O, blessed rest ! when hearts shall not 
 
 Be grieved for what they are, or what 
 
 They cannot be, and shed hot tears 
 
 For many past and wasted years. 
 
 Both cold and damp may be their bed, 
 
 And hard the pillow for their head ; 
 
 The heavy earth above may seem 
 
 To press, as in some dreadful dream ; 
 
 The sculptured stone with name and date 
 
 Appears to bar the prison gate. 
 
 'Tis well : they hold but little worth, 
 
 Mere dust, returned to mother-earth. 
 
 Our friends could not with us abide, 
 
EGLANTINE 41 
 
 They laid their tattered robes aside 
 And said " g-ood-by," as if at night, 
 Withdrawing from our earthly sight. 
 The grave is but a portal, cold, 
 
 Through which they pass with new-found wing, 
 But once beyond, they will behold 
 
 The golden palace of the King. 
 Within this consecrated ground 
 
 We love to guard this cast-off clay. 
 And by the venerated mound 
 
 To think that thence they flew away. 
 No spirits linger in the grave ; 
 
 Their honored dust to us is dear ; 
 We train the willow boughs to wave ; 
 
 They passed away, they are not here. 
 
 'Twas pleasure for the strong young man 
 
 To walk alone out where began 
 
 The wilder scenes in higher hills, 
 
 By paths unknown ; and hear the shrill 
 
 And lonely cry of birds of prey, 
 
 And see the squirrel haste away 
 
 With nimble foot, but with his load 
 
 Upon his yielding, leafy road, 
 
42 EGLANTINE 
 
 And hear the thousand nameless tones 
 Of nature's voices, where low drones 
 The insect, and the hemlock, sad, 
 Accords with runnels, ever glad. 
 With all things that had life, he felt 
 A kinship — children all who dwelt 
 Together, each received its share 
 Of one — the same — great Father's care. 
 He loved to think the green leaves spread 
 By forests on each stately head, 
 Were banners, out in honor flung, 
 And summer long adoring swung ; 
 That flowers their faces turn above 
 To sing their never-ending love ; 
 That breathing odors on the air 
 Was nature's worship, grateful prayer. 
 Those noble princes of the wood. 
 
 Models of beauty and of might. 
 Reach upwards where they long have stood 
 
 To bathe their crowns in loving light. 
 A gentle breeze but adds more charms ; 
 They bow their heads, and wave their arms 
 With grace, like courtiers of a king. 
 And noiseless as an insect's wing. 
 
EGLANTINE 43 
 
 But when the winds a warfare wage, 
 Their branches quiver in their rage ; 
 They plunge head-foremost with a roar, 
 Seeming to grasp the one before. 
 Like men in pain they writhe and twist ; 
 As struggling giants they resist. 
 To watch this wild Titanic fight, 
 That cost no blood, was great delight. 
 Not grander is the deep, stirred sea. 
 
 With maddening roar and changing frowns 
 Than thou, when winds contend with thee, 
 
 O ocean of the forest crowns ! 
 
 The pleasant days he came to spend 
 
 At home, too soon had reached their end. 
 
 No time was wasted ; friends, not few. 
 
 Were met, and former friendships grew. 
 
 Sometimes he felt a wish to stay 
 
 And rest, and go no more away. 
 
 But he had formed a plan to see 
 
 The older world — perhaps to be 
 
 A student in some school renowned. 
 
 By which he might on broader ground 
 
 Of truth, more firmly place his feet. 
 
44 EGLANTINE 
 
 Equipped with sword and shield complete. 
 
 To-morrow, e'er the day shall dawn, 
 
 Perhaps for years he must be gone. 
 
 One heavy task remained, to say 
 
 Good-by to one he loves, but may 
 
 Not speak the word, though well he knew 
 
 That she was his in heaven. Too true, 
 
 Too true, perhaps, for years must pass. 
 
 And he go far away. Alas ! 
 
 The burdened future, who can tell ? 
 
 'Twere better he should leave her free. 
 
 The earnest words that hearts reveal. 
 
 Between the two had not been few. 
 Nor was there much he would conceal, 
 
 Yet some things not explained she knew ; 
 The eye and voice sometimes betray ; 
 
 And secrets we secure would hold, 
 They make as clear as summer day. 
 
 To those we would not have them told. 
 " The time is come, and I must go." 
 Some words were whispered, soft and low. 
 To be for all their years a charm, 
 And many stings of life disarm, — 
 
EGLANTINE 
 
 A music ever in the ear 
 Through life, that they beyond may hear. 
 Those words of magic none may tell ; 
 They ended with a faint " farewell." 
 
 The noble ship, to be his home 
 For many days, out where the foam 
 Was hissing on the dancing wave, 
 A gentle couch, or drifting grave, 
 Began to move. " Good-by " was said 
 From deck and shore, uncovered head 
 And waving hand still spoke, when word, 
 Amid the roar, could not be heard. 
 Then Alfred stood with eye enchained 
 Upon the friends that there remained, 
 Who fainter, dimmer, seen no more. 
 Were lost upon the smoky shore. 
 A few hours, and the island passed. 
 And fort, and bay, and lights, at last 
 The hardy pilot took his leave. 
 The steamer, free, began to cleave 
 The deep blue wave, again at home 
 Where wild sea birds through deserts roam, 
 And turning to one point unseen, 
 
 45 
 
46 EGLANTINE 
 
 Beyond wild wastes that intervene. 
 
 With ceaseless, tireless, endless strife, 
 
 It struggles like a thing of life. 
 
 The east, now hung with sombre clouds. 
 
 Perhaps a mystery enshrouds, 
 
 A widespread whirlwind may be there. 
 
 And soon the fires of heaven may glare, 
 
 But passed beyond the dismal veil. 
 
 The Old World glories men may hail. 
 
 The evening came, and Alfred sat 
 
 Alone, and watched the fading shore, 
 Now hardly seen, so low and flat 
 
 And thought, " perhaps my home no more," 
 A few hours past, and all was gone. 
 
 A sense of desolation came 
 Across his spirit, now withdrawn 
 
 From men, and life, and hope, and aim, 
 Though in a crowd : they home forgot, 
 It seemed, he saw them not. 
 Upon the sea was shapeless night, 
 But summer stars above were bright. 
 Those strange old groups he loved to trace. 
 Slow moving on with changeless pace. 
 And he was home again. 
 
EGLANTINE 47 
 
 Conversed with those he loved, and then 
 
 Some came much loved, but long at rest, 
 
 Away from earth, among the blest. 
 
 The fiery heart of Scorpio 
 
 Inclining to the realms below 
 
 Was not a pleasant thought, but high 
 
 And lordly in the central sky, 
 
 Well masked, upon the vault of fire. 
 
 Were seen the Cross, the Crown, and Lyre. 
 
 Awhile he sat in silent thought 
 
 Communing with his soul, but when 
 The three their charm had wrought, 
 
 He mingled with the world of men, 
 Some pleasant days, and words of cheer 
 From new-made friends, and sounds of fear 
 From timid ones, and rolling seas, 
 And white crests scattered in the breeze. 
 Discomforts men are loath to tell, 
 And some who say they like it well. 
 Resolves, if once they reach the shore, 
 To trust the ocean waves no more, 
 Are features of a life at sea. 
 We may predict, but cannot flee. 
 Among the friends he chanced to meet, 
 
48 EGLANTINE 
 
 Was one fair child, who had her seat 
 Beside his own. A cherished name 
 She had, and with her mother came 
 Away from home to spend a year 
 Or more abroad, in part for fear 
 Of dangers, imminent and grave, 
 From " unwise meddling " with the slave, 
 A beautiful and gentle child 
 
 Endowed with more than common grace. 
 As if an angel were beguiled 
 
 To live with our once nobler race. 
 Repeated walks and talks they had 
 
 Upon the deck. He felt the charm 
 Of childish beauty, brave and glad. 
 
 Before false pride had done its harm — 
 But no one knew what magic came 
 To little Annie with her name. 
 Mid-ocean, on a pleasant day. 
 The ship was speeding on her way, 
 As Alfred stood absorbed in thought, 
 The little girl, unseen, had sought, 
 Behind to climb the rail, to see 
 What strange things in the wave might be ; 
 A peril for the strongest arm, 
 
EGLANTINE 
 
 But innocence conceives no harm. 
 A sudden lurch the vessel gave, — 
 Those little hands, they cannot save, 
 But headlong-, with despairing cry. 
 
 Into the cruel deep she fell. 
 A splash is all the waves reply. 
 
 Ah ! who her shifting grace shall tell. 
 He sprang — he did not stop, to think, — 
 And both beneath the waters sink. 
 The moment they are lost to sight. 
 Time seemed to stop his onward flight. 
 The captain heard the scream, and knew 
 
 The plunge, and quick the signal gave 
 To stop the ship, and call the crew. 
 
 In hours of danger always brave. 
 The stoutest hearts grew pale from fear, 
 
 The mother seemed bereft of mind, 
 Without a word, without a tear. 
 
 Or power to move, bewildered, blind. 
 The rescuer was quite at home. 
 And feared not waters, waves, nor foam. 
 He sank not far below, but causfht 
 The child, who easily was brought 
 Again, up to the loving light. 
 
 49 
 
50 EGLANTINE 
 
 And if they drift not out of sight, 
 He does not fear they will be lost. 
 Then on they floated, billow-tossed, 
 Now sliding down the glassy wave, 
 
 Down where the ship was lost to sight, 
 Then rising from the hungry grave. 
 
 They glided up the other height, 
 And dashing through the foaming crest, 
 
 They shut their eyes, and hold their breath, 
 A fearful cradle from whose rest 
 
 The waking may be life or death. 
 The engines ceased their work. A boat 
 Was quickly lowered and in it float, 
 Five skillful, trusty, willing men. 
 One guides, four ply the oar as when 
 Men know a work is to be wrought 
 With no delay, with danger fraught, 
 Away they pull with measured oar. 
 While many hearts God's aid implore. 
 Below the wave and on the crest 
 They bravely pull, they never rest. 
 It was a race for life or death. 
 God help the swimmer's panting breath 
 Now far away but still in sight 
 
EGLANTINE 51 
 
 Of anxious watchers on the deck, 
 Whence signals guide the boat aright, 
 
 A little arm was round his neck. 
 But when the wheels were stopped, the ship 
 
 Rolled heavily from side to side. 
 Its high prow in the waters dip 
 
 Deep down, again to higher ride. 
 It slowly swings its head around. 
 
 As if to look upon the sea. 
 To learn if yet the lost were found, 
 
 And who the periled ones might be. 
 The tireless seamen reach the spot 
 They sought, with breathless haste, but not 
 A bit too soon, and with the saved 
 Now both on board, who death had braved. 
 Turned backward toward the ship again, 
 A hero and true-hearted men. 
 In safety by the ship once more, 
 Alfred his charge, up, proudly bore. 
 Her arms about his neck still fast 
 Since there in danger they were cast. 
 The mother's eyes to them were bound. 
 
 Her hands were clenched, her face was wild, 
 She knew no friend, and heard no sound 
 
 Until again she clasped her child. 
 
52 EGLANTINE 
 
 Though short that time of maddening fears 
 
 It seemed to her a thousand years. 
 
 From this there grew a friendship strong. 
 
 The mother's gratitude was long 
 
 As life. To her all words were weak. 
 
 The child would cling with changeless love 
 
 To that strong arm that bore above 
 
 The dismal waters, dark and cold, 
 
 Her life, drawn down towards depths untold. 
 
 Some confidential words began 
 
 Of home and friends, and long-laid plans. 
 
 And after years, that they should meet 
 
 Again, in their own homes, where sweet 
 
 Would be the memory of what 
 
 Had passed, they would not lose a jot. 
 
 Once Alfred said he had a friend, 
 
 Another Annie, he was sure 
 
 Some time to come, their love would blend, 
 
 And so through life unchanged endure. 
 Prophetic words — but well the veil 
 
 Was hung upon the years not passed, 
 That those things better in the trail 
 
 Of time might not their gloom forecast. 
 Arrived in port, they say " good-by." 
 
EGLANTINE 53 
 
 To sunny France the two will go. 
 He sought the sadder German sky. 
 
 " Good-by." " We soon shall meet " — below ? 
 
 To see the sights he came not, though 
 
 He had a strong desire to go 
 
 Where men had worked, from stage to stage. 
 
 The problems of the middle age, 
 
 In battles fought for right, in piles 
 
 Of masonry and vaulted aisles. 
 
 In spires, and domes, and tower-capped walls, 
 
 Old homes of Teutons and of Gauls, 
 
 And to their homes who once held sway 
 
 Where muddy Tiber wends its way. 
 
 Or where the Alpine icy head ^j. 
 
 Soars to the realms serene but dead ; 
 
 But he had gone with fixed intent 
 
 Of study, labor diligent. 
 
 And for a purpose, and would let 
 
 No pleasure cause him to forget, 
 
 Or turn him from that plan, long made, 
 
 By which he sought to gather aid 
 
 In the selected field of strife. 
 
 To be his battle-eround in life. 
 
54 EGLANTINE 
 
 The channel of old Rhine lay in his course, 
 And there he yielded to the force 
 Of fancy. Sweet it was to ride 
 All day upon the deck, and glide 
 Along beside the vineyards on the banks 
 In well-trained lines, or terraced ranks. 
 And watch the castles on the hill. 
 
 Long ruined — clear against the sky, 
 Now mouldering to dust, and still. 
 
 That void of life, neglected lie. 
 How sad they look ! hark, let them speak, 
 And tell some tale remembered long. 
 Of manliness, and beauty meek. 
 
 Of pride, rude cruelty, and wrong. 
 There is no sound unless the breeze 
 Soft whispers in its lazy ease, 
 Or winter winds go howling through 
 Its ruined walls, as if anew 
 To chase some monster's soul away 
 
 Who would return to wash the stain 
 Of blood from walls and pavements gray, 
 
 Bright crimson drops, that will remain. 
 As story says, still fresh and bright. 
 
 And glow forever in his sight. 
 
EGLANTINE 55 
 
 The modern cities on the way, 
 Alive with commerce, rich, and gay. 
 Were hardly seen, for on his mind 
 A dimness settled down, and blind 
 He seemed to be to what was near, — 
 Beyond the ocean it was clear. 
 Now on these olden times to brood 
 Was suited to his sadder mood. 
 Once at the journey's end, he broke 
 The spell, allowed no charm nor yoke. 
 Not many days then passed before 
 He gave his heart and time once more 
 To what he loved, there to be taught 
 By master minds, of modern thoughts. 
 In peace, for peace is in the heart, 
 
 Two guileless spirits, day and day. 
 Performed in life their little part. 
 
 In their neat cottage, far away, 
 For sweet wild roses, justly famed, 
 That Alfred, Eglantine had named. 
 The Maker of the world they felt. 
 Was good. This earth in which they dwelt. 
 Was beautiful, from blade of grass 
 Up through the ancient mountain mass, 
 
56 EGLANTINE 
 
 That rises blue into tlie sky, 
 And that His ear was ever nigh, 
 That all the dealings of His hand, 
 Though little we may understand, 
 
 Though bitter drug and surgeon's knife 
 He sends us, all along in life. 
 Are but the great Physician's art. 
 To cure some malady of heart. 
 
 From childhood Annie loved the flowers. 
 When grown mature, still happy hours 
 In converse with these friends were spent, 
 Sweet, thornless hours of blandishment. 
 Once passing through a showy mass 
 Of beautiful Parnassus grass, 
 She sat down by its verdant bed. 
 Admired the sisterhood, and said : 
 O lovely flower of summer days. 
 With pearly white and green marked rays. 
 
 And worthy of my highest praise. 
 Your form and bearing make it clear 
 
 That you are not a native here. 
 
 Was that a dewdrop, or a tear ? 
 But will you tell me why you came 
 
EGLANTINE 57 
 
 To leave Parnassus' heights of fame, 
 And seek our land of humbler name ? 
 
 My beauty, did you come alone, 
 And all the sisters that had grown 
 Up by your side — unkind — disown ? 
 
 Poor stranger ! now you cannot hear 
 The Muses singing, once so dear. 
 They do not stoop to see your tear ! 
 
 But longing for that ancient place, 
 Your eyes are fixed on vacant space. 
 Or turned to bright Apollo's face. 
 
 The summer passed, and autumn came, 
 
 With stores of fruit, and tints of flame. 
 
 Admonished by the chilling air. 
 
 Earth's humble children now prepare 
 
 For rest, and winter spreads above 
 
 Their dust, in wise protecting love, 
 
 A princely mantle, glistening white. 
 
 And holy as the morning light. 
 
 How sweet their dreamless rest ! When mild 
 
 The breeze that blows again, this child 
 
 Of Earth will feel its mother's hand, 
 
 And rise to beautify the land. 
 
 How sweet the world in summer's prime ! 
 
 4 
 
5 EGLANTINE 
 
 But winter is a harvest time 
 
 For thoughtful minds, for then they turn 
 
 Into their inner lives, and learn 
 
 To feed upon the stores of thought 
 
 Now garnered, from all ages brought. 
 
 To Eglantine did Alfred send 
 
 A store of books. Each was a friend 
 
 While long New England winter's reign, 
 
 Held fast the earth with icy chain. 
 
 The leprous blot upon the face 
 
 Of our fair land, changing her grace 
 
 To foul deformity, the scorn 
 
 Of the enlightened world, the thorn 
 
 That festered in the hearts of those 
 
 Who loved their brother man, and rose 
 
 Above the claims of caste, and pride and wealth, 
 
 Extending surely, as by stealth, 
 
 Directed by wise heads, who sought 
 
 To make a wrong not wrong, and thought, 
 
 By spreading it about the land. 
 
 To hide the nation's bloody hand. 
 
 Has caused the marshaling of foes. 
 
 Whose clash shall bring unnumbered woes. 
 
EGLANTINE 
 
 Deep-thinking men began to fear 
 
 The dreaded time was very near, 
 
 When " coward North " must hide its head, 
 
 Receive the lash, as bondsmen bred. 
 
 Or rouse up from their thoughts of peace, 
 
 To join in fierce and bloody strife, 
 Whose dreaded terrors would not cease. 
 
 Till earth should mourn her wasted life ; 
 And noble blood enrich the land, 
 
 Till maimed and broken walk the street, 
 And children with their mothers stand 
 
 By countless graves, with weary feet. 
 How strange that noble men and brave. 
 Could risk the choicest gifts God gave 
 To earth, since time began ! 
 The hope of long down-trodden man. 
 To make a tumbling cause more strong. 
 Whose spirit is a giant wrong ! 
 Perhaps, some king or potentate, 
 Some nobleman of high estate, 
 For human freedom may not care. 
 But burthened sufferers everywhere. 
 Observed its rising from afar. 
 And longing, watched the western star. 
 
 59 
 
6o EGLANTINE 
 
 Across the sea the murmurs float 
 Of gathering hosts, and bugle note. 
 
 The gentle thought, in this, our age 
 Of Christian love, men would not fight. 
 
 That kindness would extinguish rage, 
 And all would yield at last to right. 
 
 The student would not waste 
 His time in useless things, and chased 
 All wandering thoughts away. When those 
 Deep grumblings, ever madder, rose, 
 He knew their meaning, that dread 
 The strife would be, that many lead 
 From home with shouts and grand display 
 Would rest uncoffined, far away. 
 The fiery rain on Sumter fell ; 
 The call for men, all doubts dispell ; 
 A dreadful gloom hangs o'er the land, 
 Some fearing ask, with trembling hand, 
 " Will men come forward at the call. 
 Or are we slaves and cowards all ? " 
 They come — they come from east and west. 
 And braver men ne'er drew the sword. 
 
EGLANTINE ^^ 
 
 But not for glory's crown tliey press 
 To join the ranks, but they adored 
 
 Their native land, and strove to save 
 That heritage of hard-fought years. 
 
 When men were heroes, poor, but brave. 
 Who never counseled with their fears. 
 
 There was distress, discomfiture. 
 
 And doubt, but not despair, for sure 
 
 Is conscious right to win, at last. 
 
 Farewell to peace ! The die is cast. 
 
 " More men," the cry has crossed the sea. 
 
 And Alfred said, " I must not be 
 
 A witness of my country's fall, 
 A craven, heedless of her call, 
 Yes, I will go — the call obey, 
 I follow, God will show the way. 
 Our fathers sought to build a state 
 Of refuge cities, free and great, 
 The longing of all ages past, 
 A land of hope, at last — at last. 
 If one dark stain had not been there. 
 No home on earth were half as fair, 
 But if God lends to prayer his ear. 
 That hated spot will disappear. 
 
52 EGLANTINE 
 
 Yes, I will go, though war I hate, 
 And have no wish to make me great 
 By burning homes, and ruined fields, 
 
 By treading down a fallen foe, 
 By epaulette, or name that yields 
 
 Me but a tinsel, empty show. 
 I hate the vulgar life of camps, 
 
 And all the vices it begets, 
 That poison on the young soul stamps, 
 
 With years of sorrows and regrets, 
 
 dreadful sounds of death and pain. 
 Of mangled forms and dying cry ! 
 
 The wounded lying with the slain 
 
 The ghastly face, the aimless eye. 
 Yet O ! my country, at thy call, 
 
 1 come, and if God's will, to fall." 
 
 Not many weeks were gone when he 
 Had crossed again the stormy sea. 
 His father, while he was away. 
 Had passed from earth, tipon the day 
 The fiery storm on Sumter fell. 
 And if he slept in peace, 'twas well. 
 Escaping years of groans and sighs. 
 
EGLANTINE 
 
 And bitter, bloody sacrifice. 
 
 As he was now almost alone, 
 
 He sought the home of youth, well known. 
 
 The two were there to whom he owed 
 
 His life, yet in whose graves abode 
 
 But formless dust. The soul, God's breath, 
 
 Would rise to heaven, when freed by death, 
 
 To Him, a station, on a way 
 
 That turns not back, nor night, nor day. 
 
 Nor cycles measureless, when all 
 
 Is dark. No answer to our call. 
 
 But one there was, a guiding star, 
 
 Undimmed, though he might wander far. 
 
 And tarry long, from year to year, 
 
 But mild as love if he were near. 
 
 Far into night, he reached the place. 
 
 In early morning sleep had fled, 
 The hours seemed snail-like in their pace, 
 
 Then he arose and watched the red 
 And golden portals of the dawn. 
 
 Through which the sun came in to lift 
 The pall from woodland, hill, and lawn. 
 
 And bring to earth her priceless gift. 
 The sweet cool air floats gently by 
 
 63 
 
§4 EGLANTINE 
 
 Under a soft and cloudless sky, 
 
 And floods of mellow light are poured 
 
 Upon the grateful world restored 
 
 To life. The g^reen world thanks for niirht. 
 
 For dewy rest, and inorning light. 
 
 In loving prayer awake the flowers, 
 
 The ox, in stolid joy, devours 
 
 The fresh, dew-dripping herb, and long 
 
 Both wood and field have rung with song. 
 
 And man is grateful for his rest. 
 
 His sleep, and blessings manifest ; 
 
 The golden sun brings pledge of love. 
 
 And hope, and friendly care above. 
 
 And thou, my soul, should gladly sing, 
 
 He thought, and taught by new-born spring. 
 
 Should think the soul would rise from sleep, 
 
 We cannot tell how long, or deep. 
 
 But to a morn more sweet, whose light 
 
 Will be the Son, forever bright. 
 
 That for untiring eyes shall shine. 
 
 For in that realm of life divine. 
 
 No weary hands nor hearts unblest, 
 
 Are longing for the end of day. 
 For there can be no need of rest. 
 
 Where there can be no more decay. 
 
EGLANTINE 
 
 With trembling heart he stood once more 
 By Eglantine's inviting door ; 
 But greatest joy and fiercest pain 
 Were struggling in his tortured brain. 
 'Tis pleasure one we love to meet, 
 And " home again " is always sweet, 
 But he had come to say farewell 
 And in his hour of joy to tell 
 His firm resolve, his life to yield, 
 If need be, on the battlefield. 
 How often pleasure mates with pain, 
 And gladness flees from grief in vain. 
 
 The greetings past, they sought to know 
 
 About his journey, everywhere 
 By land or sea he chanced to go. 
 
 The old and new world they compare, 
 And talk of art, of serf and king. 
 Of spires and domes that heavenward spring, 
 Broad vineyards, castles, and the Rhine, 
 Of some well-known and honored shrine, 
 And quickly fled the hours away ; 
 But there would come another day. 
 
 65 
 
65 EGLANTINE 
 
 A week passed by, and when men met 
 To talk about the war, that yet 
 Had just begun, depressed with fear 
 Of dreadful loss, and danger near, 
 He sought with patriotic fire 
 To fill all hearts, and hope inspire 
 Against those men, our brothers in 
 The years gone by, our near of kin, 
 Who now in hate to arms appeal. 
 And trifle with the nation's weal. 
 There Alfred praised our noble land. 
 
 The brightest spot in all the world. 
 And hoped that freemen firm would stand. 
 
 Where stars and stripes should be unfurled. 
 Though his was not a boastful tongue. 
 
 Yet, aided by his speaking eye. 
 Its accents like a trumpet rung. 
 
 " Come, comrades, who will dare to die ! " 
 To many hearts the message went 
 Who knew he uttered what he meant. 
 And felt 'twere better march to death 
 Than draw at home a coward's breath. 
 Yes, sweet to die for those we love 
 In hope to meet again above. 
 
EGLANTINE 6/ 
 
 We cannot chain a happy day, 
 Cold-hearted time will speed away, — 
 Though neither yet had breathed the word, 
 Nor either had its music heard, 
 Yet, round two hearts a golden chain 
 Was drawn, forever to remain. 
 In heaven the tiny links are cast, 
 
 Immortal hands to earth convey. 
 With mystic lock the ends make fast. 
 
 And take the golden key away. 
 
 As yet he had not told his friend 
 His firm resolve, now to defend 
 His country ; give his arm and life. 
 If need be, in her bloody strife. 
 He knew it would deep sorrow cause, 
 But there must be no longer pause. 
 Ah ! now, above their loving heads, 
 A pall, forbidding fortune spreads. 
 But Annie listened to each word 
 Not as if something strange was heard, 
 For, knowing well his fearless heart. 
 She felt he would act well his part 
 In this sad war, and all would see 
 
58 EGLANTINE 
 
 Where duty called, there he would be. 
 She felt that this, indeed, was right, 
 And would not hinder if she might, 
 But in her human heart she said, 
 " Would that my life might go instead ! " 
 A moment — and it seemed a year — 
 
 She could not see, she could not speak, 
 Her eyes would shed no soothing tears. 
 
 The rose had faded from her cheek. 
 But as this shadow passed away 
 
 There came sweet words of love profound 
 Which through this life's remotest day 
 
 Will ever in her soul resound. 
 If any spirit chanced to hear 
 The words they spoke of love sincere, 
 And promises to last as long 
 As life, and hope, more strong 
 Than life and death, he kindly sped, 
 And uttered nought of all they said. 
 The deed is done. Two souls confessed 
 The bond that heaven before had blest, 
 And as they part that joyful night. 
 The world had never seemed so bright. 
 Nor life so sweet, nor heaven so near. 
 All doubt was gone, and passed was fear. 
 
EGLANTINE 69 
 
 A few short days were left, before 
 He mtist depart, and quick they wore 
 Away. It was not fame he sought. 
 Nor office, but a heart was brought 
 For sacrifice without a stain, 
 His country's honor to maintain. 
 And, as a common soldier, bade 
 To follow him all not afraid. 
 And many went, now safe and hale, 
 Who love to tell this martial tale. 
 But some dropped into honored graves. 
 And some now sleep beneath the waves. 
 To-morrow they must go. How sad 
 
 To say farewell when friends are more 
 Than friends, and loving hearts are glad, 
 
 And life ne'er seemed so sweet before. 
 Beneath the shady vines, sustained 
 
 By trellis of some rustic grace, 
 By Annie's busy fingers trained 
 
 In this sweet home, an honored place. 
 Two friends were sitting when the day 
 In kingly splendor passed away. 
 They did not see the golden door. 
 But thought, " perhaps, we meet no more." 
 
70 EGLANTINE 
 
 The deep emotions of the soul 
 
 May be so strong that, there, the whole 
 
 Resource of language we possess 
 
 Can not in words a type express. 
 
 'Tis better fast within to lock, 
 
 Than speak in words that only mock. 
 
 At length the soldier forced to yield : — • 
 
 " The time has come when we must part, 
 My duty calls me to the field. 
 
 My heart would hold me where thou art, 
 But duty is the voice of God, 
 And I will bow before his rod. 
 I hope that we shall meet again. 
 We cannot tell how soon, and then. 
 That work we have laid out for good 
 Of others, that with love we would 
 Perform, shall claim our years and all 
 Our powers, till Christ our king shall call. 
 But thou, my soul's delight, 
 I have no word for thee. As light 
 As down, they seem to fl.oat away 
 Upon the air. What I would say 
 Is in my soul, and you must read 
 It there. Most sweet it is, indeed, 
 
EGLANTINE 
 
 To think of our unspoken love 
 From childhood until now. The Dove 
 Of heaven did plant it here, and he, 
 We know, will never set it free. 
 While I am gone, you, next to God, 
 
 Will be the star that guides my feet. 
 If in disaster falls his rod, 
 
 Or victors' shout my ears shall greet, 
 If I return again our plans 
 You know, and we will do what man 
 May do, but if I am not one. 
 When all this mournful work is done, 
 To seek my home again, but yield 
 My spirit on the troubled field. 
 Then all I have is thine, then take 
 And use it, Annie, for my sake. 
 My spirit will not linger there. 
 But, free from climes and heir 
 Of Christ the Lord, on wings go 
 Up to that home he will bestow 
 On those he loves. I cannot tell 
 Where ransomed spirits first may dwell. 
 Our portion may be here, or far 
 Away upon some gleaming star, 
 
 71 
 
72 EGLANTINE 
 
 But if I may, I'll come to thee. 
 My earthly husk you will not see, 
 For that was left behind, as mere 
 Outgrown and useless earth. And near 
 Your side my place will be to aid 
 When unseen dangers lurk, persuade 
 To what is for your good, and be 
 A guarding shield you cannot see. 
 When sorrow weighs upon your soul 
 
 I'll look into your weeping eyes. 
 Will count the tear-drops as they roll. 
 
 And whisper comfort of the skies. 
 If this is but a baseless dream, 
 
 Yet, somewhere in God's boundless space — 
 I almost see its cheerful gleam — 
 
 There is for souls a gathering place, 
 The pleasure may be ours in store, 
 
 To Christ our dearest friends to bring, 
 I'll wait your coming by the shore. 
 
 And guide you upward to the King." 
 And then he ceased. A moment passed 
 That seemed eternity to last. 
 But Annie, crushed with burning grief, 
 In secret felt the firm belief 
 
EGLANTINE 
 
 In no return, and saw her fate, 
 In vain, to watch, and wait, and wait. 
 Her boundless sorrow made her brave 
 A moment, and she said : " To save 
 You from the Providence that leads 
 I cannot, though my weakness pleads, 
 Or that you should refuse to go 
 Where duty clearly calls, you know 
 I may not ask. But if I could 
 Exchange my life for yours, I would : 
 'Tis better far to go and die, 
 Than stay, to watch with tearful eye. 
 To watch, and watch, in sorrow dumb. 
 For one we fear will never come." 
 The few more words but mock the deep 
 Distress of these two friends, for weep 
 They cannot, now, but silent stand, 
 With eyes that see not, hand in hand. 
 A fiercer grief life may impart 
 
 Than in the dewy eye appears. 
 More deeply buried in the heart. 
 
 Than spring the fountain of our tears. 
 But when again, ah ! who can tell ? 
 A kiss, and then a faint farewell. 
 5 
 
 n 
 
74 EGLANTINE 
 
 Then for a time he walked like one 
 
 With reason gone, with wish to shun 
 
 The sight of men, he cared not where. 
 
 The kindly breathing of the air 
 
 Upon his brow brought some relief. 
 
 The stars recalled his old belief 
 
 In God, as one who watched, and would 
 
 Chastise us only for our good, 
 
 And then he dropped upon his knees 
 
 And prayed, and God was in the breeze, 
 
 In twinkling stars, in rock and tree. 
 
 And walking with him seemed to be ; 
 
 Low at His feet he bowed, and poured 
 
 The burden of his soul, adored 
 
 And felt that in that temple rude 
 
 Had come the spirit's plenitude. 
 
 But when he rose, though love was there, 
 
 His fear and dread and doubts were gone, 
 And ready now to do and dare 
 
 He left for work before the dawn. 
 
 The mournful days have now begun 
 
 At Eglantine, onward to run 
 
 Their cheerless course, ah ! who can tell 
 
 How lonof ? She does not know — 'tis well. 
 
EGLANTINE 
 
 A flood of tears at last relieved 
 
 The earthly form, the soul still grieved. 
 
 She sought a comfort from the source 
 
 Whence weary hearts along the course 
 
 Of ages past had drawn their strength 
 
 To suffer, and to rise, at length. 
 
 Into the realms of peace ; but those 
 
 Who know her well, through that repose. 
 
 With gentle words, and busy hand, 
 
 Could buried sorrow understand. 
 
 A stranger, seeing might have thought 
 
 In that clear brow does hope appear. 
 There was indeed a hope — it sought 
 
 Fruition in another sphere. 
 A few young men, one early dawn. 
 Well known to each as boys, were gone 
 To join a regiment, that might 
 Be moving ere another night, 
 They knew not where. They had no fear, 
 But life was sweet, and friends were dear. 
 They felt their country's right to claim 
 Their lives, and to escape in shame, — 
 The nation's honor gone — all known 
 As cowards, scorned, and meekly prone 
 
 75 
 
'j^ EGLANTINE 
 
 To masters who our work despise, 
 
 Who our best gift would sacrifice 
 
 But to confirm a chief of crimes, 
 
 The darkest spot in modern times. 
 
 Was worse than death. Their hope was strong 
 
 That heaven would blast the power of wrong. 
 
 They all were brave as men may be, — 
 
 But one had heard beyond the sea. 
 
 Upon an eminence he took 
 
 Of boyhood's home a parting look, 
 
 A world of feeling sought relief, 
 
 He did not scorn to wipe a tear. 
 That drop came from no vulgar grief. 
 
 Nor had regret a taint of fear. 
 
 They were assigned to form a part 
 
 Of that great army at the heart 
 
 Of our broad land, at first to .save 
 
 The capital, and then to brave 
 
 The threatening foe, and join, at last. 
 
 In struggles they could not forecast. 
 
 Ambition for a soldier's fame 
 
 Brought him not there. But as he came 
 
 In manly strength, when marched along 
 
EGLANTINE 
 
 The army, fifty thousand strong, 
 With music, spreading far and wide, 
 He was not void of martial pride. 
 The drill with arms or on the field. 
 To him a healthful pleasure yield. 
 He felt the force of wit, — could aid 
 In youthful sports with zest ; degrade 
 Himself he would not, not for jeer, 
 Nor gain, nor all united sneer. 
 In the rude concourse of the camp 
 Was much to pain ; but some the stamp 
 Of honor bore upon the brow ; 
 And even there they could avow 
 True principles, and show a grace 
 Refreshing in that desert place. 
 Since duty brought him here, he bore 
 
 These ills without complaint, and sought 
 Not office, ate the food and wore 
 
 The garb of privates, shunning naught 
 That discipline required. A man, 
 
 A soldier, vigilant and brave. 
 Who feared not service in the van, — 
 
 Was just to general, or slave. 
 
 77 
 
78 EGLANTINE 
 
 This army, made of noble blood, 
 
 The pride of homes, rolled like a flood 
 
 Along Potomac's threatened banks, 
 
 Untried (but brave) unequaled ranks. 
 
 And as the months wore on they gained 
 
 In discipline, and wisely trained 
 
 Became an army such as eyes 
 
 Have rarely seen, a sacrifice. 
 
 But not for fame, brave men who fought 
 
 For principle and right, and thought 
 
 Their cause was just, and that defeat 
 
 Would human progress bar, and cheat 
 
 The world of centuries of gain 
 
 Our sires acquired, with toil and pain. 
 
 At length came struggles with the foe. 
 And marching up and down, and show 
 Of stratagem, and rumbling sound. 
 Dread, fiery storms, that strewed the ground 
 With victims, bleeding, broken, dead ; 
 When dry fields drank oblations red. 
 Brave deeds were done ; amid the roar 
 
 Of thundering cannon could be heard 
 The victors' shout, or rush before 
 
 Our stronger foe, like frightened bird. 
 
EGLANTINE yg 
 
 The reaper's harvest was the same ; 
 
 He cared not whence his booty came ; 
 
 The horse and rider are laid low 
 
 With guns, and swords, and wheels. The foe 
 
 And friend no more at war, the coarse 
 
 And brutal torn by one dread force, 
 
 In heaps with youths of noble brow 
 
 And silken locks, together bow. 
 
 Near some with staring, sightless eyes, 
 
 A wounded soldier bleeding lies, 
 
 Uncared, for painful hours, must w^ait, 
 
 Because the number maimed is great. 
 
 With some life slowly ebbs away, 
 
 As runs the crimson, vital stream. 
 They think of home, but any ray 
 
 Of hope of life has ceased to gleam. 
 'Tw^as here that Alfred's loving heart 
 Was wont to go, there to impart 
 Some comfort to the stricken men. 
 Where there was hope, to aid, but when 
 The wound was mortal, raised the head 
 And listened to the words he said, 
 Perhaps a message to a friend. 
 Then near his dulling ear would bend, 
 
8o 
 
 EGLANTINE 
 
 And whisper words of promised love, 
 In the great heart that rules above. 
 
 One day, among the wounded brought 
 Into the hospital, he sought 
 To aid, was one who wore the dress 
 Of those who caused the war. Not less 
 He tried his periled life to save. 
 Although he seemed a soldier brave, 
 His manly features clearly show 
 
 The signs of gentleness and truth, 
 And Alfred thought, if not my foe, 
 
 I would have loved this rebel youth. 
 As kindred souls draw each to each. 
 And mingle hearts in honest speech. 
 So these two men a common ground. 
 Beyond the present struggle, found. 
 Exchanged — the rebel marched away ; 
 Both hoped to meet another day. 
 Rebuked for this " unwise " display 
 Of friendship for a man in gray. 
 By one who wore a sword, could prate. 
 With nothing else to make him great. 
 Our soldier made him no reply, 
 
EGLANTINE 
 
 Though pity sorrowed in his eye. 
 
 Ah ! poor and little shoulder-straps. 
 
 An officer by chance, perhaps. 
 
 The man to whom you rudely spoke, 
 
 There towers above you like an oak, 
 
 In nobleness, and all that can 
 
 Exalt and glorify a man. 
 
 In all the ages time shall fly, 
 
 You never will advance so high, 
 
 But that he can look down, and find 
 
 You slowly moving far behind. 
 
 Now, after combats fierce and long, 
 With both assailants skilled and strong:, 
 And victory for both in turn. 
 When no one could the end discern, 
 At once the battlefield is changed. 
 For on free soil marauders ranged. 
 The greatest captain of the foe, 
 
 And, of their host, its flower, admired, 
 One day went plundering, to and fro. 
 
 And gathering spoil so much desired. 
 The Union army heard the cry 
 For help, they march ; they almost fly. 
 
82 EGLANTINE 
 
 And tramping steeds, and rumbling car, 
 And measured tread, are heard afar. 
 Through Maryland was marching then 
 A hundred thousand Union men. 
 The two great hosts are coming near, — 
 Above the hills they soon will peer, — 
 On Gettysburg's surrounding heights, 
 In order, each again unites 
 His scattered corps, in battle line, 
 That ruling range and strength combine. 
 Two hundred thousand men, all skilled 
 In war, and brave, with ardor thrilled, 
 With all the modern aids in war. 
 Await the coming morn to pour 
 Swift death on each opposing head, 
 And change green earth to gory red. 
 
 July began with fighting days, 
 Decisive in that dreadful strife. 
 
 When soldiers earned their country's praise 
 And thousands mourned for wasted life. 
 
 The first — men fought along the line, 
 
 Perhaps, more clearly to divine 
 
 The plans and courage of the foe. 
 
EGLANTINE 3^ 
 
 Than for their final overthrow. 
 
 But they were brave on that first day, 
 
 And many fought their lives away : 
 
 When night, at last, to truce constrained, 
 
 The rebels had some vantage gained. 
 
 But on the second — Lee had placed 
 His army on the hills — a curve 
 
 Five miles in length, whose front embraced. 
 In part, his foe, now firm of nerve. 
 
 Upon the Cemetery Hill, — 
 
 A wedge-shaped, rough, and rocky heio-ht 
 
 That by great industry and skill 
 
 Was wisely strengthened in the night. 
 The Union forces were prepared 
 For any change the rebels dared 
 To make. Two mighty hosts, all brave. 
 And ably led, who will behave 
 Like heroes in the hour of need. 
 With Southern Lee, and Northern Meade, 
 A mile-wide valley lies between 
 With planted fields and meadows green. 
 Some battles fierce were fought that day. 
 No words can that sharp fight portray 
 For Little Round Top Hill, or storm 
 
84 EGLANTINE 
 
 Along the lines where men perform 
 
 Most valiant deeds, with fearless foes. 
 
 A dreadful day, for at its close, 
 
 Down through that valley, fresh with spring, 
 
 And life, and hope, had passed the king 
 
 Of terrors, and there lay quite dead. 
 
 Or broken, on the ground, now red 
 
 With flowing blood, still warm, a host 
 
 Of forty thousand men, whose boast 
 
 Would be, that each was right. 
 
 Yes, brothers, struggling in a fight. 
 
 Cruel as death, while only friends 
 
 They should have been. So man contends — 
 
 Would bravely fight — and nobly die — 
 
 He thought for truth — but for a lie. 
 
 Upon the second day Alfred 
 
 Was made a prisoner, and led 
 
 Into the rebel camp. A ball 
 
 Had pierced him, but he did not fall. 
 
 And thought the wound was slight. A few 
 
 Hours later came a change, he knew. 
 
 For he had often watched by those 
 
 Who died of wounds, he soon would close 
 
EGLANTINE 85 
 
 His eyes to earth, — he thought to rest 
 In endless peace — forever blest. 
 How quickly sped his burning thought 
 
 Across his life's completed web. 
 A child, a youth, a student, brought 
 
 Now down to its enfeebled ebb. 
 But when he thought of Eglantine, 
 
 A dimness gathered in his eye, 
 " May God stretch out His arm divine 
 
 And keep thee now that I shall die." 
 Then slowly passed away the night, 
 And cheerless came the morning light. 
 A dreary night, of dreams and pain, 
 Of waiting for release in vain. 
 Removed from guard, as one who bore 
 The signs of death — they could no more, 
 Because the number there was great 
 Of those who needed care. His fate 
 No more was in the hand of man. 
 And life was but a wasting span. 
 By morning light a rebel paSvSed 
 And knew his face, though overcast 
 By coming death. Down by his side 
 He kneeled, and, gently speaking, tried 
 To make him understand who spoke. 
 
g5 EGLANTINE 
 
 And then the mournful silence broke 
 With these sad words, " O noble friend, 
 I grieve to see thee near thy end ; 
 I fondly hoped, when war was past, 
 To weave a friendship that would last 
 All time. Now, friend in my distress, 
 
 You die alone, killed by my friends. 
 O dreadful war, and pitiless. 
 
 Whose cost all measurement transcends ! 
 How can I aid you now at last ? 
 All but my honor I will cast 
 Before thy feet. Once more awake ! 
 Have you no last request to make ? " 
 A bugle note was blown, he knew 
 The signal, and must go. "Adieu, 
 My friend. A fierce attack is planned 
 The enemy cannot withstand. 
 And desperate it soon will be, 
 On it shall turn the victory. 
 If I survive, we meet to-night, 
 But if I fall, in world more bright." 
 He laid that hand, still warm but weak, 
 
 Down by his side, and went away, 
 Our soldier, though he could not speak, 
 
 Had heard, as motionless he lay. 
 
EGLANTINE 
 
 The forenoon of July the third 
 Had passed, no crash of war was heard, 
 But there was busy work in each 
 Great camp : with Lee, a plan to reach 
 By one all-centering storm, the height 
 Where sat his foe ; with Meade, by might 
 And skill, to ward off the attack, 
 And hurl the brave assailants back. 
 A silence that had made the soul 
 Grow sick, because that soon would roll 
 A storm, than cyclone rage more wild, 
 Till noon the watching hills beguiled. 
 Ah ! brave men doomed to die to-day, 
 
 Awake from love's long cherished dreams. 
 Your greeting will be far away, 
 
 You float upon diverging streams. 
 A hundred iron throats at last 
 Pour forth a stream of fire, and cast 
 Hugh missiles, howling o'er the vale. 
 Where tortured spirits seem to wail. 
 Some plunge into the earth or dash 
 Against the rocks with fearful crash. 
 And scatter fragments wide around 
 Upon that desecrated ground. 
 
 87 
 
5 EGLANTINE 
 
 And some will reach the spot where men 
 
 In ranks stand firm, and then, 
 
 The once fair form is marred and torn. 
 
 And dashed aside as if in scorn, 
 
 And horse, and arms, and men are strewed 
 
 Upon the ground, with blood imbrued. 
 
 The sad earth trembles at the roar 
 
 And mourning clouds the doom deplore. 
 
 At once the Union ranks return 
 
 An equal storm of iron hail. 
 Each would the other's prowess spurn. 
 
 And neither host from fear will quail. 
 O Gettysburg ! where fought the strong. 
 How fierce that strife when, two hours long, 
 Two hundred cannons poured their fire 
 Across thy vales, with ruin dire ! 
 Whose thunder with amazement fills 
 The dwellers of the trembling hills. 
 
 Then like a dreaded lava stream 
 
 The lines of infantry appear, 
 Their bright arms in the sunshine gleam, 
 
 They march like men who do not fear. 
 Extending miles across the plains 
 
 With right, and left, and a reserve, 
 
EGLANTINE 89 
 
 They feel they came not forth in vain 
 
 And will their country's praise deserve. 
 Well trained is every marching man, 
 And gallant Pickett leads the van. 
 Then on they march with measured tread, 
 Unflinching nerve, and banners spread, 
 With dauntless hearts and iron will, 
 Up toward the cemetery hill. 
 Upon that most important height, 
 By breastworks half concealed from sight 
 The Unionists admire the dash. 
 But silent wait the coming clash. 
 They feel that on this fated day 
 Sweet hope will bloom, or fade away. 
 They have no fear, they came to fight 
 For crushed, threatened human right, 
 And if they fail, at last, believe 
 Oppressed humanity will grieve. 
 With silence that suppresses breath 
 They balance in the scale of death. 
 
 Down from the Union guns there came 
 A storm of fire, and shot, and shell, 
 
 A fearful shock, a deadly aim. 
 
 But on they came, — they bore it well. 
 
QO EGLANTINE 
 
 When near enough to see the eye 
 
 The Union soldiers take their place, 
 And twenty thousand minies fly 
 
 Forth buzzing on their fatal race. 
 Though thousands fall, and one line seems 
 To melt away, undaunted streams 
 Of fearless men replace the dead, 
 And onward march with measured tread. 
 Up, up the hill they onward pass 
 By very force of moving mass ; 
 
 Some scale the heights — a banner raise — 
 As victors shout, and claim the day. 
 
 Exposed, then burst a fearful blaze 
 Upon their flank, they drop away. 
 The veterans charge ; the work is done ; 
 The country saved ; the battle won ! 
 
 While living men were there in strife 
 And wasting streams of crimson life, 
 The dying soldier on the ground 
 Revived awhile, could hear the sound. 
 And hoped to live to know the end ; 
 
 Some last words on a letter wrote ; 
 And thought, perhaps, some human friend. 
 
 Would send it to his home remote. 
 
EGLANTINE gi 
 
 But death was near. Stretched on the ground 
 With bed of grass, no warlike sound 
 Can reach him now, but in his thought 
 There came a crowd of friends, who brought 
 The flowers he loved, to deck his bed, 
 And downy pillow for his head, 
 Sweet voices fell upon his ears. 
 The much-loved tones of early years, 
 But one there was who joined the past 
 And present, on whose face he cast 
 His dying gaze. When she was gone, 
 There came a ray of that bright dawn. 
 Where blooms an everlasting spring. 
 Where sin has ceased, and Christ is King. 
 He caught a glimpse of what no tongue 
 
 Can tell, he reached the highest goal 
 Of life ; God's temple open flung. 
 
 Eternal glories filled his soul ! 
 
 Among the last to leave the field 
 Was that kind enemy, who kneeled 
 Beside the prisoner, and laid 
 His hand upon his brow, and bade 
 Him speak ; but it was cold, and death 
 
g2 EGLANTINE 
 
 Had chilled liis pulse, and stopped his breath. 
 
 The letter and a picture still 
 
 In his dead hand, he took. " I will," 
 
 He said, " thy message send." He wound 
 
 Him in a soldier's cloak, and found 
 
 A grave and laid him there, at rest, 
 
 An unmarked grave — forever blest. 
 
 The friend he left at Eglantine 
 Had studied every camp and line 
 Of march, and trembled when she knew 
 A battle raged, and faintly drew 
 Her breath till letters came to tell 
 The news of his escape, alive and well. 
 But those were painful days. The pride 
 Of many thousand homes had died, 
 And many were in peril, who 
 The mothers, wives, and lovers knew 
 Might perish any hour. Not those 
 Alone are brave who life expose 
 Upon the field, but brave as men 
 Are women left at home, and when 
 The dear ones die, they suffer too, 
 A longer death, but yet as true. 
 
EGLANTINE 
 
 From time to time had letters come 
 
 Indited in a soldier's tent ; 
 A few, no doubt, were lost. And some 
 
 To him with holy words were sent. 
 The last he wrote in June, in haste, 
 While marching- north, with pencil traced, 
 But soon the stirring tale was told 
 Of Gettysburg, and young and old 
 Were glad and proud of that great day. 
 They smile and shout, as well they may, 
 For equal, on their chosen field. 
 Our strongest foe was forced to yield. 
 The consequences may be great. 
 Perhaps here hung the nation's fate. 
 Though multitudes to hope incline, 
 There came no word for Eglantine. 
 Her friend she knew was in the fight 
 And bravely fought. The second night 
 His comrades saw him not. " Not dead. 
 But prisoner, no doubt," they said. 
 Then she must live in sad suspense 
 And try to trust in Providence. 
 Long weeks and lagging months passed by. 
 And some achieved a deathless fame. 
 
 93 
 
Q4 EGLANTINE 
 
 The world heard not her smothered cry, 
 
 For from the dead no message came. 
 O hope ! dear gift by pity lent 
 To hearts with speechless sorrow rent ! 
 A veil to hide, awhile, the deep 
 Abyss of our distress, and keep 
 Us still in life, until the power to feel, 
 By over strain — it may not heal — 
 Is withered — as by autumn frost 
 Untimely flowers — and dead and lost. 
 Kind friends would gladly comfort give. 
 But to this spirit sensitive 
 The words they spoke gave no relief ; 
 The quenchless fountains of her grief 
 They could not reach. Not she alone 
 Had lost ; but one continual moan 
 From morn to morn, without one ray 
 Of hope — that cannot -pass away. 
 From many thousand homes will rise, 
 As burning incense to the skies, 
 Because their loved ones, in the prime 
 
 Of youth and manly beauty rare, 
 Were rudely snatched away, and time 
 Cannot the priceless loss repair. 
 
EGLANTINE 95 
 
 But natures formed with keenest sense 
 
 For beauty feel more strong offense 
 
 At ugliness, and so the heart 
 
 With finest cords will feel the smart, 
 
 When torn, and suffer fiercest pain, 
 
 Though common souls might not complain. 
 
 How very faint it now might be, 
 There was a hope of life, that he, 
 Delivered from his prison cell, 
 Would come again, alive and well. 
 Therefore, for those she daily met 
 There was a cheerful air, a debt 
 Now due, she thought, to living friends, 
 And love with duty daily blends 
 In works to aid the worthy poor. 
 
 With bearing dignified and kind ; 
 And any stricken one was sure 
 
 In her a sympathizing friend to find. 
 
 October came with milder rays. 
 
 With fruits, and grain, and shorter days. 
 
 In every grove some princely tree, 
 
 As for a parting jubilee, 
 
 Had donned his gold and crimson vest ; 
 
g6 EGLANTINE 
 
 A rival of the glowing west. 
 Much Annie loved the gorgeous sight, 
 The countless tints, the mellow light. 
 On hill and dale around the cot 
 Where God had cast her quiet lot. 
 A noble maple, hale and sound, 
 Stood by the door, in glory crowned. 
 Once, resting on a garden seat 
 
 A leaf of matchless beauty came 
 Alone, and fell beside her feet. 
 
 And glowed in tints of gold and flame. 
 She took the faultless thing, and said, 
 " Come gentle messenger and tell 
 
 Me, were you hither kindly sped 
 With message from some prison cell ? 
 Whose pencil dipped in heavenly hues 
 Did touch thy face that speaks ? and whose 
 Soft fingers brought thee from thy seat 
 And sisterhood down to my feet ? 
 What message dost thou bring ? alas ! 
 I can not hear thy words, they pass 
 Beyond luy earthly sense, I know 
 That nature sometimes speaks in low 
 And soundless voice. And this frail leaf. 
 
EGLANTINE 
 
 By fleeting life, and glory brief, 
 Can talk, though voice is gone and breath : 
 Of passing, changing, fading, death." 
 Though fancy moved the words she said 
 Her soul responded, — " He is dead." 
 
 It was a common thing to meet 
 
 A man on crutches on the street, 
 
 Whose honors, and whose wounds were pay 
 
 For faithful march and bloody day ; 
 
 And some mean souls, who dared not go 
 
 Had now no favors to bestow ; 
 
 But not a few were happy made 
 
 By gentle voice and proffered aid. 
 
 Then slowly passed the year away 
 
 In battles lost and battles won. 
 There was no gleam of coming day 
 
 When this sad work would all be done. 
 The contest was with heroes now, 
 
 And liberty must win the day ; 
 The foe, though brave, must break or bow, 
 
 Come what will come, end when it may. 
 It was the grasp when both defy, 
 
 When one will win and one must die. 
 
 97 
 
q8 eglantine 
 
 The nation walked in blood and tears 
 
 Four long to be remembered years, 
 
 And then the Great Rebellion fell, 
 
 A monstrous cheat ! They struggled well. 
 
 But for a cause the world will hate, 
 
 And say it well deserved its fate. 
 
 The shout of victory was heard 
 
 Throughout the land, and peace, sweet word, 
 
 Now long unused, but ever dear. 
 
 Fell on the country's grateful ear. 
 
 Then came the warriors back again, 
 Who yet survived, heroic men, 
 With banners that they bore away. 
 And honored every fighting day. 
 Triumphantly received at last, 
 With shouts, and guns, and trumpet blast. 
 They all have come and passed along. 
 The sick, the maimed, the well and strong, 
 But untold thousands came not then, — 
 
 In far-off graves their rest will be, 
 In battle-field or prison pen, 
 
 Or ooze in bottom of the sea. 
 The fate of some no one can tell. 
 
EGLANTINE 
 
 99 
 
 Where now they lie, or where they fell. 
 No more shall gladden longing eyes, 
 Till they who sleep in graves shall rise. 
 
 What Annie feared she knew was true ; 
 And to her friend she bade adieu 
 Till death. That thought with crushing weight 
 Revealed her future desolate. 
 Not able longer to control 
 The fiery tumult of her soul. 
 She said : " Alas ! my friend, the best 
 Of men, of every grace possessed. 
 And heart that glowed with love to man, 
 And hope all centered in a plan 
 For human weal, through worshiped name 
 Of Christ, who did not war for fame, 
 Condemned to perish like a slave 
 Of sense, or coward, though as brave. 
 And hale, and tireless as the best, 
 Cast off unknown, as if in jest. 
 No friend was there, nor help to save, 
 Nor parting words, perhaps no grave. 
 O God ! why dost Thou bruise me so ! 
 Have I not served Thee, loved to trust, 
 
lOO EGLANTINE 
 
 And praise, and do Thy will ? And lo, 
 
 Thy foot hath ground me into dust ! 
 My heart is weary. Maker, who 
 Dost rule the world, Oh, take me too ! 
 Then bowing down with stifled cries 
 The scalding fountain of her eyes 
 Burst forth, and there her boundless grief 
 In these kind tears found some relief. 
 In fancy Alfred came, and stood, 
 And looked, as he had said he would. 
 At length her murmurs came to mind, 
 Her outburst, calling God unkind. 
 Then she upon her knees confessed 
 And strove to curb her soul's unrest. 
 With head bowed down, and covered face, 
 
 Communed with God and with her soul, 
 And rose not from that humble place, 
 
 Till reason had resumed control. 
 " O Son of God," she said, " I come 
 And at Thy feet will take the crumb 
 That falls to me. Forgive my word. 
 Great was my sorrow when I erred. 
 I know Thou dost chastise for good, 
 
 Our wayward spirits to control. 
 
EGLANTINE loi 
 
 And heal, as kind physician would, 
 
 Some hidden malady of soul. 
 But I am human yet, and weak, 
 
 I did not think my secret heart 
 Had in it depths that could so speak. 
 
 Ah, do not from my soul depart ! 
 Henceforward I will not complain 
 About my lot, but will remain 
 In peace, whatever may befall 
 Me here, and wait Thy call." 
 
 Like all devout in spirit, when 
 
 Pressed down with trouble, it was then 
 
 That -God seemed present everywhere ; 
 
 Benevolence was in the care 
 
 Of nature. All its forms declare 
 
 His matchless skill, and power, and wear 
 
 The garb of beauty. She could hear 
 
 Him speaking by the spirit's ear. 
 
 The mother and the daughter well 
 
 Could understand each other now. 
 Their lives, at last, were parallel, 
 
 And to one sorrow both must bow, — 
 A noble parent, noble child, 
 
102 EGLANTINE 
 
 One hope, one destiny. Exiled 
 From home, indeed, but sure at last 
 Of home and friends, when life is past. 
 They only know each other well 
 Who have the same sad tale to tell. 
 Then came these words, forgotten long, 
 Perhaps, some half-remembered song : 
 Not long, O sad one, must you wait. 
 The speed of time is very great ; 
 Seek yet some woe to mitigate. 
 You think " of kindred few remain. 
 And human glories all are vain," 
 But you might ease some heart in pain. 
 " Few loved ones now are left behind." 
 Oh, yes, the lame, the halt, and blind 
 Are waiting some wise guide to find. 
 You say " the world is full of guile," 
 And " would go home," but wait awhile. 
 You may some sad heart help to smile. 
 In the great sea of human life, 
 In minds untaught, with God at strife, 
 When thoughtlessness and vice are rife, 
 Are many gems of stainless ray. 
 That washed and polished, might display 
 More quenchless beams than king of day. 
 
EGLANTINE 
 
 Then seek not rest, it is not night, 
 But gather, gather, wash them white. 
 And cause in heaven a new delight. 
 
 The friendly foeman who received 
 
 The letter from the dead, believed, 
 
 When war should cease, he might the tale 
 
 Relate to those who now bewail 
 
 Their loss, and bear the message he 
 
 Had finished, as his soul, set free 
 
 From prison house of human clay. 
 
 Had plumed its wings and sped away. 
 
 Among the few choice things that war 
 
 Allowed, this shared a place. And for 
 
 A way to send it home he sought. 
 
 But none was found ; meanwhile was fought 
 
 A battle, and he might have died 
 
 But that a ball was turned aside. 
 
 The wound was deep, but life remained ; 
 The message had been torn and stained. 
 While in the hospital he sent. 
 With other things, this packet torn 
 Down to his southern home. It went 
 Astray, until, all worn, one night. 
 
 103 
 
I04 EGLANTINE 
 
 Like drifting wood before the blast, 
 It reached him when the war was past. 
 But Edgar — childhood's common name - 
 Had told the story, and the name, 
 Described his manly form and face, 
 And spirit's cheerful, winning grace. 
 But from what State he came he knew 
 Not, the lost package was the clew ; 
 When he received it the address 
 Was torn, that bullet pitiless 
 With blood had blotted out the name 
 And place. A note in writing fine. 
 Had seemed to come from Eglantine. 
 His was addressed, as near friends do. 
 To " Annie." All gave not the clew. 
 The picture of a thoughtful face, 
 The cruel blood did not deface. 
 The sister thoughtful with the name. 
 
 At length burst forth, " 'Tis surely he. 
 Yes, Alfred, yes the very same. 
 
 Who saved me sinking in the sea. 
 He spoke of ' Annie,' some near friend. 
 To whom this letter he would send." 
 Again did Edgar tell them how 
 
EGLANTINE 
 
 He looked and spoke, his form, his brow. 
 The mother said, " As good as brave. 
 He risked his life your own to save." 
 No pains were spared some trace to gain 
 Of the lost friend, but all in vain. 
 
 The first midsummer from that time 
 They sought the cooler northern clime, 
 Began to ask for Eglantine each place 
 They traveled through, but yet no trace 
 Was found. One day upon a street 
 With arching elms, they chanced to meet 
 A lady who, the daughter thought. 
 Was like the picture that she brought 
 And treasured all their journey round ; 
 True guide, for now the sought was found. 
 In most respectful words they sought 
 
 An interview, and with unfeigned 
 Emotions, told the tale, and brought 
 
 The long-lost packet, torn and stained. 
 He never told her of that brave 
 Adventure in the sea to save 
 The drowning child. She had not known 
 How good he was, and with a moan 
 
 7 
 
 105 
 
I06 EGLANTINE 
 
 Betrayed the effort to control 
 The crushing burthen of her soul. 
 The strangers for a time withdrew. 
 In hours of great distress they knew 
 The stricken spirit, helpless grown, 
 Would shed its bitter tears alone. 
 The torn and bloody gift she gazed 
 
 Upon, with staring, tearless eyes ; 
 The bloody spots like balefires blazed 
 
 And shone on Alfred as he dies. 
 Her trembling hands the sheet unfold ; 
 She reads the hopeful words that told 
 The story of two anxious weeks. 
 Then passed some days of which he speaks 
 Not. At the end with pencil traced, 
 In broken lines, in part defaced, 
 As consciousness was lost or gained. 
 He tried to write of love unfeigned, 
 And hinted of some glimpses bright, 
 
 He was permitted then to see. 
 Of what he had no power to write. 
 
 Or words to tell, what they might be. 
 The last words it was hard to tell. 
 They seemed to be, she thought, " Farewell. 
 
EGLANTINE -^^q^j 
 
 The painful mystery was now 
 
 Revealed. One course remained : to bow 
 
 Submission, while we here sojourn, 
 
 And wait in hope some time to learn. 
 
 What He who chasteneth the son 
 
 He loves, has yet in store. But none 
 
 The less does nature's burning stream 
 
 Of pearly drops a solace seem 
 
 To give, whom trodden into dust, 
 
 Though we may feel that God is just, 
 
 No bitterness of heart was there. 
 
 But hours of thought, and tears, and prayer, 
 
 And resolutions for the years 
 
 To come. No dread, no hate, no fears, 
 
 " The road by which this letter came 
 
 Was long," she thought, " it wandered years. 
 Was torn, and almost lost its name, 
 
 And now in sorry plight appears. 
 He passed away two years ago, 
 
 Years made of sad and hopeless hours. 
 How far away his flight, I know 
 
 Not, but he fled with new-born powers. 
 O Alfred ! are you near me now 
 
 As once you promised if you might ? 
 
I08 EGLANTINE 
 
 And do you hear my sacred vow 
 
 That to you dead, again I plight ? 
 I sometime fancy that you stand, 
 
 With pity glowing, by my side, 
 And feel the guidance of your hand 
 
 As when in life, but glorified. 
 Ah, no ; that surely cannot be, 
 
 'Tis but a fiction of the brain, 
 My feeble vision cannot see 
 
 The secrets of that upper reign ; 
 But where is now your home, my friend ? 
 
 Still here upon this earth ? or far 
 Away ? or do you upward tend 
 
 On tireless wings from star to star ? 
 And will you ever haste from me, 
 
 Through all the cycles that shall roll, 
 And onward, onward from me flee. 
 
 To reach the Highest as your goal ? 
 I shall not tarry long — return 
 
 And wait, until He set me free ; 
 My life will be a short sojourn, 
 
 A point in endless jubilee." 
 
 The strangers often come. There grew 
 A friendship, part from what each knew, 
 
EGLANTINE 109 
 
 And more, for qualities of heart, 
 For goodness never spoiled by art. 
 They walked or rode about the hills 
 And vales and groves, with tinkling rills ; 
 When all the daily tasks were done, 
 They watched the royal setting sun. 
 As evening hung its veil around 
 The hills beneath the trees ; they found 
 A pleasure in exchange of thought, 
 Recalled the lessons life had taught, 
 The war that had just reached its end, 
 So strange, so sad, to foe and friend ; 
 Of fickle fortune, that displays 
 A laurel crown for youth, but lays. 
 Broad spread, a rustling heritage 
 Of withered leaves, for helpless age. 
 Some there in silence doubting stand 
 
 Because they cannot lift the veil. 
 Yet Annie saw a lifting hand, 
 
 A palm through which had pierced a nail. 
 Dear friends, she said, I do not grope 
 My way in darkness, but in hope, 
 Walk onward in the firm belief 
 That God rules all, from fading leaf 
 
tlO EGLANTINE 
 
 To sovereign man. He seeks our weal, 
 And our afflictions are to heal 
 Some soul diseased. So now I wait 
 In peace, though life seem desolate, 
 There is no chance. One purpose runs 
 In grains of sand or blazing suns. 
 
 Cool autumn days and milder lights 
 
 The strangers home again invite ; 
 
 But Annie stayed at Eglantine, 
 
 For her a much-loved holy shrine 
 
 To be the pupil of the one 
 
 Whose name she bore. There had begun 
 
 A friendship, lasting, not misplaced, 
 
 From common qualities and taste, 
 
 And story of a common friend 
 
 In whom their love and friendship blend. 
 
 Then Annie of the South, to save 
 
 Confusion there, was known as May ; 
 
 Familiar name her father gave, 
 
 Unused since he had passed away. 
 One evening in a quiet place, 
 May gazed on Annie's thoughtful face. 
 And said : " 'Tis strange that he 
 Who plunged into the dreadful sea, 
 
EGLANTINE m 
 
 To hold me up, so soon should die." 
 
 Then something glistened in her eye, 
 
 " That was a fearful time for you," 
 
 Said Annie, who the dear child drew 
 
 More near her heart. " Oh, yes, how cold 
 
 The water was, that could not bear 
 
 Me up, when swiftly in the sea 
 
 I sank far down, it seemed to me. 
 
 A dreadful sound was in may ears. 
 
 And minutes then were long as years. 
 
 I thought I should then surely drown, 
 
 And sink forever down and down ; 
 
 Then something caught me, weak with fright, 
 
 And drew me upward to the light. 
 
 And gently spoke. The voice I knew 
 
 Though waters roared, and wild winds blew. 
 
 And thus we seemed to float away 
 
 Half lost in breakers and in spray. 
 
 Upon the great waves foaming crest. 
 
 Or sliding down. There was no rest. 
 
 He told me God could give us aid 
 
 Though all alone upon the sea. 
 I heard his low voice when he prayed 
 
 For strength for him and help for me. 
 
112 EGLANTINE 
 
 Since, often in my dreams I sink 
 Beneath the wave, and think 
 He comes to lift me out. You will 
 Not wonder that I love him still ! " 
 Then there was silence for awhile, 
 And mingled tears. Devoid of guile. 
 Out from her childless head, had May 
 Her story told. Far deeper lay 
 A burden on the soul mature. 
 She cannot loose, but must endure ; 
 But May with spirit, pure and bright, 
 Became her every day delight. 
 A few more children, living near 
 Came daily in — they all were dear. 
 She used the latest skill to train 
 The mind, but better loved to gain 
 An entrance to the heart, unfold 
 Its noblest powers, and wisely mould 
 Them into what is good and true : 
 And happily their moments flew. 
 
 The story now had all been told. 
 
 The loving friend, the soldier brave, 
 With talents rare and manifold 
 
 Was resting in a far-off grave ; 
 
EGLANTINE nj 
 
 And Annie felt her doom for aye 
 
 Was fixed upon that fatal day. 
 
 " What shall I do these coming years — 
 
 It may be long — in which appears 
 
 For me no goal ? " She pondered well 
 
 In humble mood, did not rebel, 
 
 Was not with God in strife, 
 
 But felt the emptiness of life. 
 
 The word divine was now more dear 
 
 To her, its dark things seemed to clear 
 
 Away, it was a boundless, priceless store 
 
 Of truth, increasing evermore. 
 
 And when her heart went up in prayer 
 
 She felt that God himself was there, 
 
 A being holy, just, and true, 
 
 But yet the God of love. The blue. 
 
 Clear sky of heaven was his, and so 
 
 Were birds, and flowers, and brooks that flow 
 
 Along the vales, their life renew, 
 
 And every child of beauty woo. 
 
 Then came a gladsome, hopeful peace, 
 
 That from eternal fountains rose ; 
 The earth cannot its flow decrease, 
 
 Nor break its deep and sure repose. 
 
114 EGLANTINE 
 
 From him now lost she seemed to turn 
 
 Resigned. The world could not discern 
 
 That in her thought, though far away, 
 
 They walked together day by day. 
 
 The face that had been sad for years 
 
 Began to smile. The shadow cleared 
 
 Away. She never seemed so fair. 
 
 And all who knew her everywhere, 
 
 Were glad to see the change. She took 
 
 A part in village life. Her look 
 
 Of kindness brought the children near, 
 
 Who lent an ever-willing ear, 
 
 And youth and gray-haired, thoughtful men 
 
 Were glad to welcome her again ; 
 
 To aid in childish sports was no 
 
 Disgrace, she thought, no vain employ, 
 She loved to hear the overflow, 
 
 The gleeful shout of youthful joy. 
 But those who knew her well before 
 Those evil days had come with sore 
 Affliction for our broadspread land, 
 Could something deeper understand. 
 They saw beneath that smile a shade 
 That on her drooping eyelids weighed, 
 
EGLANTINE 115 
 
 In every joyous loving word 
 
 A deep, sad note was plainly heard. 
 
 Could they more deeply read, they might 
 
 Have learned her kindly mood was quite 
 
 Unselfish ; sympathy and love 
 
 For human kind bore her above 
 
 Our common aims. So humbled pride 
 
 And blasted hope were sanctified. 
 
 She loved to make the stricken glad, 
 
 Encourage every fainting heart. 
 To save the tempted, and the bad 
 
 Induce to act a nobler part. 
 The reverend pastor found her face 
 Increased his power. There all could trace 
 The truths he meant in words to teach. 
 Clear lessons, in a voiceless speech. 
 
 The dear young girls, her daily care — 
 By her example drawn — must share 
 In some of those fine traits, and grew 
 More like her every day. But, though 
 A holy, spotless life was taught. 
 She never had a wish, or thought 
 To make their dail^ lives more sad. 
 She rather tried to make them glad. 
 
1 1 6 EGLANTINE 
 
 True holiness was not in mood, 
 But in the life, and heart renewed. 
 So saints might be as blithe as birds 
 Of June, and yet be saints. Not words 
 But moving spring. All things of earth 
 Save man sing praises from their birth. 
 Her tasks for head and heart combine, 
 And work was light at Eglantine. 
 
 Two years — alas ! how quick they fly, 
 
 With all their load of dust or gold. 
 They may come back to testify 
 
 In some great court the judge may hold. 
 Since May had come two happy years ! 
 A summer day as long appears. 
 And when the time to leave drew near, 
 Each never seemed to each so dear 
 Before, and many hours were spent 
 In words soul-born and eloquent. 
 And confidence by one yet young 
 Who to the wiser sister clung : 
 Advice from one who knew full well 
 How time might break the fastest spell. 
 May laid her plans with youthful eyes ; 
 The other knew the world's disguise. 
 
EGLANTINE 
 
 A few more days, and then " farewell," 
 Oh, bitter word, how like a knell ! 
 
 When autumn came with cooler air. 
 
 And leaves began to die and fall, 
 The reaper came to gather there. 
 
 And Annie's mother heard the call. 
 No love nor care could now defend 
 Her first, her last, and truest friend. 
 Now she was left alone. " Oh, why- 
 Should I remain ? But I will try 
 In trust to wait, my treasures all 
 Are safely stored, I wait my call." 
 A married cousin came to live 
 In their lone house, and was to give 
 A home to her, should she incline 
 To tarry still in Eglantine. 
 Henceforth it was her happiness 
 To kindle hope, and ease distress. 
 What Alfred left by will to her 
 She had not used. " He would prefer," 
 She thought, " to have it spent for good 
 Of God's own poor : " for them she would 
 Be almoner, and when she brought 
 Her aid to some poor soul she taught 
 
 117 
 
Il8 EGLANTINE 
 
 The lesson of that boundless love, 
 That brought the Saviour from above ; 
 That He was ready to receive 
 The vilest one who would believe. 
 There were some ladies, poor and old, 
 
 Quite desolate, to whom she went 
 And read, and some sweet story told, 
 
 Replete with joy, but reverent. 
 By some slight act of kindness done. 
 These poor old hearts were quickly won. 
 So for a time, a smile they wear ; 
 They felt an angel had been there. 
 The children on the green would leave 
 Their sports and run to her, receive 
 Her pleasant word with beaming eyes, 
 And hope she would some play devise. 
 In Christian circles, she would bear 
 A cheerful face, and her full share 
 Of entertainment give ; she had 
 No wish to lead, would only add 
 Her thoughts, but they were always true 
 And kind, without a sting, and drew 
 All eyes and ears and held them chained. 
 By melody of love unfeigned. 
 
EGLANTINE 1 19 
 
 She seemed a pilgrim from some shore 
 
 Where angels live, to whose sweet tongue, 
 Though kindness once, ours is no more 
 
 Than dialect, quite rude and unsung. 
 But Annie loved to " do His will," 
 And therefore she was wise. The skill 
 To understand God's word and way 
 Is given to those who will obey. 
 One day in spring, an oriole 
 Alone piped sadly to console 
 Himself in loneliness. His bright. 
 Gay coat, like golden light, 
 Betrayed his constant aimless way 
 Upon the treetops' yielding spray. 
 Then Annie murmured, " Art thou come 
 
 My friend, my bird of lifelong choice ? 
 Your loneliness is burdensome, 
 
 But you will sing with gayer voice. 
 Have you not brought some news for me ? 
 
 In gardens where no summer ends, 
 While sailing far o'er land and sea, 
 
 Have you not found my long-lost friends ? 
 Your bright wings glow like tongues of fire, 
 
 Perhaps you came from yonder sun. 
 
I20 
 
 EGLANTINE 
 
 Are they now soaring high, and higher ? 
 
 Have you no word, not one, not one ? 
 Alas ! my fiery oriole. 
 
 You do not hear my call, but I 
 One day, a sin-delivered soul, 
 
 On brighter wings, shall upward fly." 
 When five years more had passed away, 
 In leafy June, at break of day. 
 From watching by the dying bed 
 Of one who carefully had fled 
 From her, in health, with fevered brain. 
 Had Annie hardly strength to gain 
 Her door, for she had passed a night 
 Of terror, falling like a blight 
 Upon her loving soul. Her strength 
 Was gone, and she was sick at length. 
 A woman strongly vilified, 
 
 Suspected of a crime — a man 
 She loved fell strangely sick and died, 
 
 Who loved her not — the story ran, — 
 Was drawing near to death without 
 One hope of heaven. Her heart, still stout 
 In unbelief, refused to hear 
 The message, that her end was near, 
 
EGLANTINE 121 
 
 But tortured by some unknown thought, 
 She writhed in agony, and naught 
 Would hear of sin, or death, or God, 
 But on life's fearful border trod 
 In darkness, lost without a guide. 
 A loving angel stood beside 
 Her bed, and talked of Christ, and prayed, 
 iVnd through the dreary darkness stayed, 
 And tried with gentle words to gain 
 Her confidence. " You talk in vain," 
 She said ; with glowing, sunken eyes 
 Gazed round, and strove in vain to rise : 
 Then with a hollow voice she cried. 
 In part confessed her crime, and died. 
 
 The watcher suffered by that shock. 
 
 And fever raged in her brain. 
 The humble cot awaits her knock, 
 
 And music of her voice in vain. 
 Some days pass by — no change for good — 
 'Tis silent in that neighborhood. 
 A multitude have offered aid, 
 Some flowers brought, some by her stayed. 
 One day the doctor watched a long. 
 Long time, and thought, " We may prolong 
 
122 EGLANTINE 
 
 But cannot save." As he retired 
 An anxious friend by looks enquired. 
 " A few more days," he faintly said, 
 With husky voice and bowing head. 
 The sick one read his anxious face, 
 
 Remembered what she oft had seen, 
 And knew that in a narrow space 
 
 Of time, would drop that dreaded screen 
 That hides the spirit land. " I wait 
 Thy bidding, Lord, before the gate," 
 She said. Some felt a hope when May, 
 Expected, came, that very day. 
 It was a joy to see this friend 
 Once more, now at the end 
 Of life. The younger, almost dumb 
 Because affliction thus had come 
 Upon them, mingled words and tears ; 
 One look confirmed her strongest fears, 
 But Annie, calm and beautiful, 
 
 Received her with a happy smile. 
 Her speaking eyes, so wonderful, 
 
 Revealed the heart that knew no guile. 
 The words of tender greeting o'er 
 While yet their hands were clasped : " Before 
 
EGLANTINE 
 
 Another Sabbath sun," she said, 
 " I shall be gone. I do not dread 
 The change, but willingly await 
 God's call. Yet earth I do not hate, 
 'Twas made for paradise, till sin 
 And crime, disease and death came in. 
 I seem to journey homeward led, 
 
 My kindred all have gone before ; 
 I linger when the rest are fled, 
 
 With new-made friends, just at the door. 
 Not many years to come, both they 
 And we who live shall join for aye 
 In one great band, the battle won, 
 Beneath the e3^e of God the Son. 
 Some hours of confidence were spent. 
 And May learned wisdom almost sent 
 From heaven, and laid the treasure deep 
 Enshrined within her heart to keep. 
 And told her hopes, and not the least, — 
 
 To see her at the South some day, 
 A guest at her own marriage feast. 
 
 When some kind acts she would repay. 
 She read aloud the holy book 
 And Annie seemed almost to look 
 
 123 
 
124 EGLANTINE 
 
 Into the depths where human eye 
 Yet fails the secrets to descry. 
 The friends of all her early years 
 Drawn in by sympathy and fears 
 For what, to her they may not tell, 
 Believe, but do not say, farewell. 
 
 'Tis July fourth, the nation shout 
 
 Their joy for victory and peace ! 
 But this departing soul, devout 
 
 And hopeful, waits for her release 
 In accents low, restrained, and sad, 
 " The land to-day," she said, " is glad! 
 Ten years from Gettysburg have passed, 
 And now, my friend, I come at last." 
 Then step by step her vital powers 
 Were yielding with the passing hours. 
 " Farewell, dear friends, I thank you all, 
 
 And wish I could my peace impart 
 To each. I hear the Father's call, 
 
 But still may hold you in my heart." 
 Those friends to speak or move forbear ; 
 
 May holds her almost nerveless hand. 
 And hears sweet words of love and prayer 
 
 At last she could not understand, 
 
EGLANTINE 125 
 
 Her lips have ceased to move. Her eyes 
 
 A moment with strange brightness glow. 
 What did she see in air or skies ? 
 
 Not till we follow shall we know. 
 *Twas then the spirit took its flight, 
 Forever freed from death and night. 
 A smile, the pain could not efface, 
 Still lingered on that faultless face. 
 The waiting friends in silence bow 
 
 Expecting the returning breath, 
 Of one they never loved as now, 
 
 So true in life, so fair in death. 
 Soon night her sable mantles spread 
 Upon the hills. With softer tread. 
 And thoughtful mien, men walked the street, 
 And almost whisper when they meet. 
 They look upon the ground, and speak 
 Not much, for now all words are weak ; 
 But all are sad, for young and old, 
 
 The rich or poor, the low or high, 
 Of some kind action could have told 
 
 Concealed from every other eye. 
 That gave them courage to pursue 
 Their upward course with heaven in view. 
 
J 26 EGLANTINE 
 
 Now years have passed, but to the mound 
 Where sleeps that dust, the sacred ground 
 Is worn by passing feet. Sweet flowers 
 Are always there, by passing hours 
 They droop and fade, but so they should, 
 For so depart the great and good. 
 
 The sermon of a life without 
 
 A stain is matchless. Men may doubt 
 
 The preacher's word, refuse to hear, 
 
 But loving kindness they revere. 
 
 Thus did the now departed preach, 
 
 From week to week in faultless speech; 
 
 The vilest could not take offense. 
 
 And none denied its eloquence. 
 
 Some hardened men would turn and look. 
 
 As though an angel wandered by, 
 And but for her, the sacred book 
 
 They would have thought a priestly lie. 
 
 The seeds of Christian virtue sown 
 By her pure words and life, have grown 
 To trees with fruit, and year by year 
 Increasing evermore, they rear 
 
EGLANTINE 127 
 
 And wave their heads in many lands, 
 Supporting weary hearts and hands, 
 And making beautiful and straight 
 The way, that leads unto the gate 
 Of heaven. 
 
The Legend of the Serious Club 
 
 Compiled from a very Ancient Manuscript, Composed 
 
 BY AN Unknown Author Who Lived at 
 
 AN Uncertain Period 
 
 EDITED BY 
 
 IGNOTUS NEMO 
 
 Ibartfort, /B>a^, 1886 
 
Begenb of ti}C ^mone Cfu6* 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 Some time ago, not earlier than 1870, part of a sin- 
 giilar manuscript fell into my hands. It was written 
 in a somewhat antique and careless style of penman- 
 ship, not easily deciphered. As it was a fragment, not 
 much attention was given to it until a few weeks ago, 
 when most of the remaining part was found — unfor- 
 tunately in a fragmentary and abused condition. 
 Having the whole, it seemed worthy of more consid- 
 eration, perhaps ; on my part it was a mere curiosity 
 to know what might be the subject. The task of ex- 
 amination was not a light one, but the labor was re- 
 warded by finding that it was a kind of doggerel his- 
 tory of a c/if^, probably of very ancient times. In its 
 details, however, there was some slight, very slight, 
 resemblance to the work of this club, and for that 
 reason, and, perhaps, for the pleasure one feels in res- 
 cuing a work of antiquity from destruction, it will be 
 presented to you at this time. 
 
 The labor of transcribing was very great, and, in 
 some instances, on account of the injuries it had sus- 
 tained in being kicked around all that time, it was 
 necessary to supply some lost words, but in all cases 
 with what evidently was the meaning of the original 
 text. 
 
132 
 
 LEGEND OF THE SERIOUS CLUB 
 
 Who the author was, or where or when he lived, 
 does not appear upon the manuscript. The internal 
 evidence, to be drawn from an examination and com- 
 parison of the words, will be left to some future 
 editor. With this explanation, most of this produc- 
 tion — all, except those portions that were mutilated 
 beyond recovery — will now be presented to you. 
 
^egenb of t^t ^mom €fu6* 
 
 One summer morn, while yet the air 
 
 Was fresh from nature's dewy rest, 
 And yet the sun concealed its glare 
 
 Behind the dawn's own golden rest ; 
 While sleep, kind nurse for weary hours, 
 
 By chemic arts, or magic skill, 
 Restored in man his wasted powers. 
 
 And gave him strength to work and will, — 
 There came a sound of running feet, 
 And words of those who gladly greet 
 A friend they hoped to see — some one 
 Important for a scheme begun. 
 Not many yet their work pursue, 
 Nor walk along the avenue ; 
 But those who did, before the door 
 Of some fair homes, a score or more 
 Of baskets, boxes closely bound, 
 For unknown uses would have found ; 
 If they had guessed, they might have thought 
 Some instruments had there been brought. 
 
134 LEGEND OF THE SERIOUS CLUB 
 
 To work those problems of the age 
 
 That mighty minds to-day engage : 
 
 Which would be right ; these men might meet 
 
 The question what the world shall eat. 
 
 Not long, before a ponderous car 
 
 Came rumbling up the silent street, 
 They heard its thunder from afar, 
 
 And saw its horses, proud and fleet. 
 They had no precious time to waste ; 
 
 Within the caverns of that ship 
 The instruments and stores were placed. 
 
 As men for stormy seas equip. 
 There, high, on velvet cushions placed, - — 
 Upon whose brows, severe, were traced 
 The marks of thought, and sober care. 
 Reclined the brave, the wise, the fair. 
 And when the last had found his place. 
 The driver trimmed the reins with grace. 
 And said strange words the coursers knew. 
 Who, then aroused, impatient grew ; 
 With nervous step and fiery eye, 
 They panted with the winds to fly. 
 With solemn mien and eye intent. 
 That dignity to honor lent, 
 
LEGEND OF THE SERIOUS CLUB 135 
 
 With no world-winning thoughts or arts. 
 The sober company departs. 
 Their goal, the west — they look not back, 
 Of strength and will there was no lack. 
 
 DEPARTURE. 
 
 Then swifter and swifter the coursers are flying, 
 The chariot rolls like a ship on the billows ; 
 
 The rumbling of wheels, and the echoes replying, 
 Are rousing the sleepers, still fast to their pillows. 
 
 Before they can open their eyes to discover 
 What singular tumults around them are sounding, 
 
 What dangers, unlookt for, about them may hover, 
 The steel-covered feet in the distance are bound- 
 ing. 
 
 The fresh, bracing air of the sweet summer morning 
 
 Is a balm on the cheeks that come out to its 
 
 greeting, 
 
 The pearls of sweet dew all the fields are adorning. 
 
 The wild singers choose the young dawn for their 
 
 meeting.. 
 
 The morn has the light once in Paradise shining, 
 A new life is through all our arteries flowing ; 
 
136 LEGEND OF THE SERIOUS CLUB 
 
 The charms of the body and spirit, combining 
 With health's gift of beauty, are on the cheeks 
 glowing. 
 
 The serious company, lost in its thinking, 
 Awoke from its dream to this vision of glory, 
 
 All nature, delighted, is thankfully drinking 
 From fountains unequaled in dream or in story. 
 
 JOURNEY. 
 
 The stored-up vigor of the four 
 
 Good steeds, at length subdued, no more 
 
 They dash along, and those who rode — 
 
 Most dignified — a gentler mode 
 
 Enjoyed. The green world, spread around 
 
 Where all things beautiful abound, 
 
 Was balm for tired eyes, a sweet 
 
 And pleasant medicine, replete 
 
 With healing power, for hearts distressed. 
 
 For weary heads, and souls unblest — 
 
 Words freely came, as wild birds sing. 
 
 Kind words, because they all were friends, 
 While wit, with jokes that had no sting, 
 
 A keenness to the pleasure lends. 
 The farmer, with his scythe and hoe, 
 
 Was busy in his fields. The strong 
 
LEGEND OF THE SERIOUS CLUB 137 
 
 And patient ox, straight to and fro, ^ 
 
 There dragged the lazy plough along. 
 The young green crops marked out the field 
 In squares and stripes. The meadows yield 
 A grateful feast for sheep or cows, 
 Who oft stand thinking, 'neath the boughs, 
 Of some far-spreading, noble tree, 
 As happy as a cow could be. 
 When by some home, retired and lone. 
 They passed, a wistful face, unknown, 
 Would peep around the house, or through 
 A space a curtain, hung askew, 
 Had left, a place that eyes might use — 
 Let no kind heart the grace refuse. 
 Sometimes appeared a youthful face, 
 But oftener the eye could trace 
 The wrinkle lines of care and age 
 So soon our common heritage. 
 This mountain way had sudden curves 
 
 And steep ascents — a stony road — 
 Requiring strength of limb and nerve 
 
 To drag the half-diminished load. 
 Along the margin of a wood, 
 
 Half-lost among the stubborn reeds 
 9 
 
138 LEGEND OF THE SERIOUS CLUB 
 
 And water-loving brotherhood, 
 
 A runnel hastens to the meads 
 Below. So sweet its song, so clear 
 Its wave, men love to linger near. 
 To cool the tongue, and bathe the hand. 
 And think this might be fairy land. 
 What joy to be a bird, and dwell 
 By wood and stream, in some wild dell ! 
 
 Then up they journey toward the sky. 
 Yet further from the smiling plains, 
 
 And far away can cast the eye 
 
 Where beauty all the summer reigns ; 
 
 But rest not, for our souls aspire 
 
 To something greater, nobler, higher. 
 
 Still upward, upward, on they go. 
 
 Some walk for love of exercise. 
 With halting, careless step, and slow, 
 
 And gained new lease of life. The eyes 
 Were pleased ; they had no thought of care 
 Their lungs were filled with mountain air. 
 
 Far toward the east each eye could trace, 
 Across the tideless sea of green, 
 
LEGEND OF THE SERIOUS CLUB 139 
 
 By well-known signs, a cherished place, 
 
 Though hidden by the leafy screen ; 
 Where treasures lie of price untold, 
 More choice than lands, or gems, or gold. 
 
 They pass the ancient, royal oak. 
 That spreads its faultless branches wide, 
 
 Where green palms dews from heaven invoke, 
 Whose roots the whirlwinds can abide. 
 
 It lonely stands — its glory o'er — 
 
 The sacred Druid comes no more. 
 
 They shouted at the lake's first gleams, 
 
 A crystal bowl with emerald rim : 
 The sun sends down his thirsty beams 
 
 And drinks, yet even with the brim 
 Returns the theft, and makes redress 
 With showers from heaven, and soft caress. 
 
 At length the lofty height was gained ; 
 
 So pleasant was that mountain way, 
 They almost wish a part remained, 
 
 But on that mild and sunny day. 
 Upon this summit, wild and free, 
 Now sounds their hour of Jubilee. 
 
I40 LEGEND OF THE SERIOUS CLUB 
 
 THE BANQUET. 
 
 That vulgar thing, the appetite, 
 
 Began to play its pranks. In spite 
 
 Of all that there delights the eye, 
 
 It would be king, and no reply 
 
 Availed ; so on the portico, 
 
 Through which an errant breeze might flow. 
 
 The work began. All offer aid. 
 
 Upon the boards a cloth was laid, 
 
 More white and clean than driven snow. 
 
 The baskets seemed to overflow 
 
 With good things for the feast. 
 
 From sunny climes, from south and east. 
 
 Well-chosen viands, fresh and young, 
 
 That seemed to melt upon the tongue. 
 
 With fish and fowl of tender years. 
 
 And fruit from far off hemispheres. 
 
 From Greece and Spain, though far away, 
 
 Came presents for this holiday. 
 
 'Twas worth a long day's journey here 
 
 To look upon the banquet spread. 
 While some, admiring, waited near, 
 
 Some others thought time slowly sped. 
 The spoils of berries much adored. 
 
 From Mocha's far off burning plains, 
 
LEGEND OF THE SERIOUS CLUB 
 
 When out of silver vases poured, 
 
 Breathed fragrance worthy ancient fanes. 
 Not many minutes passed away 
 
 Unused when each had found a seat. 
 Indeed, brave men were there that day, 
 
 Prepared a well-cooked foe to meet. 
 How they would face the leaden fire 
 
 We surely cannot tell, but when 
 With knives and forks the foes expire. 
 
 There are no braver fighting men. 
 Great deeds of valor there were wrought. 
 
 And piles of obstacles removed, 
 While questions of profoundest thought, 
 
 By faultless tests, dismissed or proved. 
 It was a day of honest hearts. 
 
 In which old friendships to renew 
 With cakes and jellies, fruits and tarts, 
 
 And justice, they were prompt to do. 
 A stranger might have heard the clear 
 
 And kindly laughter ringing out 
 Upon the hills, and some more near 
 
 Anon sweet words, almost devout. 
 And so the swift-winged hours all past. 
 The thought of former meetings cast 
 
 141 
 
142 LEGEND OF THE SERIOUS CLUB 
 
 A shadow, or a golden glow, 
 
 As memory brought the long ago. 
 
 By turns they spoke of other times. 
 
 While some were sad like minster's chimes ; 
 
 The most were joyous, as in spring 
 
 The red-breasts are, who come and sing. 
 
 Of all the kindly words they said, 
 
 But these remain, the rest have fled. 
 
 With tone and manner suiting well, 
 
 Each one, in turn, a picture drew 
 Of something that the club befell, 
 
 And each the hidden meaning knew. 
 
 AJAX. 
 
 Men felt that heroes all were dead 
 When Homer bowed his weary head. 
 And, since there was no bard to sing, 
 
 No second Troy was built to fall. 
 With no prophetic harp to ring. 
 
 The moderns shrank to pigmies all. 
 Now, cease thy babblings, foolish seer ; 
 Ajax, the mighty, still is here ! 
 
 One sunny day, in years gone by, 
 The banquet o'er, for sport they try 
 
LEGEND OF THE SERIOUS CLUB 
 
 Their strength and skill upon the nine ; 
 
 And then one seized the ball, 
 With eye unerring marked the line 
 
 In which a blow should fall, 
 And easily, as if at play, 
 He sent it singing on its way. 
 
 The pins were scattered everywhere ; 
 But one went westward through the air, 
 Far swifter than an arrow's flight, 
 
 It shrieked, and whizzed, and whirled, 
 With speed almost preventing sight, 
 
 Above the hills, perhaps the world. 
 Men heard, and, looking, thought of doom 
 On many hearts sat rayless gloom. 
 
 The air resists its onward course, 
 But vainly, with such pent-up force 
 It soon became a ball of fire, 
 
 And glowed as seen afar. 
 Still rising, ever higher, higher, 
 
 In heaven a blazing star. 
 If in the moon they see its flame, 
 The learned will wonder whence it came. 
 
 143 
 
144 LEGEND OF THE SERIOUS CLUB 
 
 After a timely discussion, another related this 
 legend : 
 
 MERLIN. 
 
 Merlin, an old-time magician, 
 
 Lonely is roaming about, 
 Playing his pranks on the people, 
 
 Leading a mischievous rout. 
 
 One night the company gathered, 
 
 No one had failed to be there, 
 No one was sick or in trouble. 
 
 No one was fettered with care. 
 
 All made their humorous speeches. 
 Moved by their fullness of glee, 
 
 No one there thought of the morrow, 
 Jolly as mortals could be. 
 
 Appetites never were better. 
 
 Luxuries always the best, 
 Something for every palate. 
 
 Nothing ajt first to molest. 
 
 Some, as the evening was passing, 
 
 Felt a sensation quite strange. 
 Sounds in the ear all unmeaning, 
 
 Achings with pinchings exchange. 
 
LEGEND OF THE SERIOUS CLUB 145 
 
 And in the air there was mischief, 
 
 Almost an imp could be seen, 
 Sometimes the gaslight would flicker — 
 
 What could the mystery mean ? 
 
 Be careful, tread lightly, ye thoughtless ! 
 
 Something is sure to take place, 
 Legions of elfins are near us. 
 
 Rogues of a mischievous race ! 
 
 So it turned out in the morning. 
 
 Something the hostess had lost. 
 Who was the elf who has done it ? 
 
 Catch him at whatever cost. 
 
 Only we whisper the story, 
 
 Strange as a night with two moons — 
 The pattern of morals and manners 
 
 Has pockets well loaded with spoons. 
 
 Then others followed, in their turn, with some 
 short tale of former times. 
 
 THE CHESTNUT TREE. 
 
 The solemn club went out one day — 
 The world all know — in grand array, 
 To see the hills and far away. 
 
146 LEGEND OF THE SERIOUS CLUB 
 
 Intent to gain what good might be, 
 In chestnut burrs, besides to see 
 The autumn-tinted maple tree. 
 
 To bring the nuts back home again. 
 They took great sacks, just four and ten, 
 With tools to work like earnest men. 
 
 The moon was mild, the sun was bright, 
 Glad-hearted all, they surely might 
 Expect another day's delight. 
 
 Then eastward on the hills they rode, 
 By pleasant homes, where peace abode, 
 A quite contented, jolly load. 
 
 They reach a grove that seemed to say. 
 Here chestnuts grow, and any day 
 A man might take a load away. 
 
 Conducted by the man of will. 
 
 They searched, and searched, around the hill, 
 
 The leader calling loud and shrill. 
 
 For he was sure at last to win. 
 
 At length some doubting thoughts begin, — 
 
 " Come, follow ! follow ! " — what a din. 
 
LEGEND OF THE SERIOUS CLUB 147 
 
 At last he cried, " Come here, come here ! " 
 And there the long-sought nuts appear 
 Upon the ground — and loud they cheer. 
 
 Some one looked up, and, strange to see. 
 The chestnuts found — how could it be ? — 
 Were found beneath an old oak tree. 
 
 They haste away. Some thought the guide 
 
 A bit of Aaron's rod did hide ; 
 
 Some only speak their thoughts aside. 
 
 'Twas soon forgot, the goal was gained. 
 The stores consumed, the goblet drained, 
 But something yet is unexplained. 
 
 TROWELS. 
 Some scientists have sought to find 
 
 The reason why this company 
 To solemn thoughts are so inclined, 
 
 In this sad day of jollity, 
 When all the world with giddy hearts 
 Are ever playing childish parts. 
 
 They search in vain, and look surprised — 
 Quite easy — but they had no right 
 
148 LEGEND OF THE SERIOUS CLUB 
 
 To know. The truth to them disguised, 
 To us is clear. They may gain light. 
 But, now no peeping spy is near. 
 We may explain, and have no fear. 
 
 One day to dig all were intent. 
 
 Perhaps for gold, or gems, or flowers ; 
 
 But with a will to work, unbent. 
 They sought the hills and woody bowers ; 
 
 A friend in court, the time to save. 
 
 To each a tiny trowel gave. 
 
 Alas, poor things ! the roses yield 
 
 Sweet life, and flowers with fairy eyes 
 
 Fall down to die, in grove and field, 
 And watch no more the tearful skies. 
 
 Why should we tJms the smiles requite 
 
 Of those dear children of the light ? 
 
 While coming home the truth came out ! 
 
 They were entangled in a net. 
 The trowels had been borne about, 
 
 And seen by everyone they met ! 
 By which 'tis claimed they have been won 
 To the ancient craft of Solomon. 
 
LEGEND OF THE SERIOUS CLUB 
 
 The dreaded secret they must keep. 
 
 They stand in fear, and that is why 
 A lonely place they always seek. 
 
 With solemn face and drooping eye, 
 They speak not, laugh not, seldom smile, 
 And musing weary hours beguile. 
 
 MOTHER GOOSE. 
 Long years ago it was, one night. 
 
 When Mother Goose a welcome gave 
 To her young brood, then gay and bright. 
 
 And all seemed happy, fair, or brave. 
 Those goslings were of any troop, 
 
 Not clad in any foppish style. 
 But neatly dressed, a varied group, 
 
 All more than fair with winning smile. 
 
 But then, no doubt, they all were young ; 
 
 The naughty world they had not seen. 
 May not have heard the flattering tongue ; 
 
 All beautiful, with brow serene. 
 They might have hissed some now and then, 
 
 For that the royal goslings do ; 
 But nowhere else, 'mongst birds or men, 
 
 A choicer brood man ever knew. 
 
 149 
 
I50 LEGEND OF THE SERIOUS CLUB 
 
 To Mother Goose each gosling comes 
 
 With sideling step, and honk, honk, honk ! 
 She gave kind words and sugar plums, 
 
 They answer gave with honk, honk, honk ! 
 And when they all in silence stand 
 
 She said, " My dear ones, let me tell 
 A secret," and at her command 
 
 They sat them down, and listened well. 
 
 " Though man," she said, " now rules on earth. 
 
 He only rules by borrowed force. 
 With heart and reason little worth. 
 
 His tastes are vulgar, low, and coarse ; 
 And, like a worm, he burrows deep 
 
 In cellars, vaults, and mouldy towers, 
 Intent his earthly gold to keep, 
 
 A servant watching weary hours. 
 
 " But we on crystal waters glide. 
 
 Or on the sweet and balmy air. 
 Among the clouds we may abide, 
 
 And spend our sunny summers there. 
 Men, gazing downward, live below. 
 
 And turn again to common earth. 
 And that is all of them we know — 
 
 A dismal death, a useless birth. 
 
LEGEND OF THE SERIOUS CLUB 151 
 
 " He seeks the world in chains to bind, 
 
 But as an eyeless snail he creeps, 
 And leaves a track of death behind, 
 
 And all that live in trouble keeps. 
 He rules ; but not because of gtrength, 
 
 'Tis some strange gift of fate unknown ; 
 But he will find his place at length, 
 
 And trodden earth shall cease to mourn. 
 
 " But we who live upon our wings 
 
 Shall shake away all earthy mould, 
 And, soaring up to nobler things. 
 
 Will live for aye, and not grow old." 
 The goslings took the story in, 
 
 And freed their wings with honk, honk, honk ! 
 It seemed their flight would now begin. 
 
 They bade good-by, with honk, honk, honk ! 
 
 CAVERN. 
 
 Upon a noble quest one day 
 The cohort journeyed to the hills, 
 
 Upon a slowly rising way, 
 
 Not fearing wind, nor heat, nor chills. 
 
 The car with fiery color glowed. 
 An omen dread. The staring eyes 
 
152 
 
 LEGEND OF THE SERIOUS CLUB 
 
 Of dwellers on that mountain road 
 Betrayed their wonder and surprise. 
 
 Some chose upon the top to ride, 
 
 But paid for their exalted seat 
 In scratches, fright, and wounded pride, 
 
 And torn, disordered curls. The grace 
 Of new-bought silken hats was^ marred 
 
 By scrapings rude, and oft they seize 
 Or loose. 'Tis said some cheeks were scarred 
 
 By ill-bred boughs of thoughtless trees. 
 
 They sought the ancient robber tower. 
 
 Secure 'mid battlements, with moss 
 O'ergrown, the home of crime and power, 
 
 On dizzy heights, where hate might toss 
 His victim helpless down to doom. 
 
 There was that dungeon in the hills. 
 An endless, rayless, dismal tomb. 
 
 The thought of which our life's blood chills. 
 
 Among the few in these last times, 
 They dared the hated depth to tread : 
 
 The haunting ghost of ancient crimes. 
 With fleshless form and eyeless head. 
 
LEGEND OF THE SERIOUS CLUB 153 
 
 Might bid them stand ; but they will know 
 
 The secrets of that horrid den, 
 Whose walls have echoed groans of woe, 
 
 The dread of demons and of men. 
 
 The rings still rusting in the walls. 
 
 Where men, fast bound, shed unseen tears, 
 Told solemn tales. In these dark halls 
 
 But dropping water marks the years. 
 Alas ! how deep, repentant sighs. 
 
 And hollow wails, and hopeless groans. 
 And wild, despairing, ceaseless cries 
 
 Have risen to those earless stones ! 
 
 With spirits saddened by the place. 
 
 They hastened to the brighter day, 
 The sight of loving nature's face 
 
 Drove all the dungeon's gloom away. 
 The world was fair, and life was sweet. 
 
 And God was good, and friends were near ; 
 The hidden thorn we sometimes meet. 
 
 But roses bloom throughout the year. 
 
 Note. — At this point there was an interruption of 
 the narrative. Many leaves were gone, while others 
 were so torn that their meaning could only be conjec- 
 
 10 
 
154 
 
 LEGEND OF THE SERIOUS CLUB 
 
 tured. Occasionally there would be one or two lines 
 complete, followed by a break. 
 
 It was easy to see that many things of great inter- 
 est were referred to; for instance, about great literary 
 gatherings, where the sublime productions of old 
 authors were acted or read; about glimpses of sum- 
 mer seas, and, strangest of all, on one occasion the 
 Serious Club were engaged in some mystic movement, 
 it was said, reminding one of the Virginia reel. Of 
 course, it was a misapprehension. 
 
 The largest fragment seemed to be an episode upon 
 a beautiful lake. A mountain rose on one side so 
 abruptly that there was only room for a road between 
 them. On the water's edge was spread a sumptuous 
 feast, under a magnificent colonnade, whose pediment 
 rested upon Grecian pillars, the whole festooned and 
 frescoed in a marvelous style, while yachts, shallops, 
 and gondolas floated bird-like upon its silver surface. 
 
 One of the members of the company, apparently 
 the musical man, having strolled along the lake, at- 
 tracted by some musical sounds, seems to have fallen 
 under the power of an enchantment. In that state 
 he listened to rapturous music, that continued to 
 sound in his ears a long time. 
 
 On his return he was continually singing the fol- 
 lowing song, which he brought back to us from fairy 
 land : — 
 
LEGEND OE THE SERIOUS CLUB j^^ 
 
 SONG OF THE PENSIVE POLLYWOG. 
 A pollywog swam with a wriggling tail, 
 More swiftly than speed of the lazy snail, 
 About in the warm and the land-locked pool, 
 With never the thought of a tutor or school. 
 
 The mud-covered bottom and wet, reedy shore 
 He once had examined, but knew nothing more ; 
 He felt a strange yearning down, down in his soul 
 For something more noble, beyond his control. 
 
 His grandsire the bull-frog, with dignified mien, 
 Contentedly sat in his arbor of green, 
 A model of greatness he seemed to be there, 
 So stately in form, and in color so fair. 
 
 The sun seemed to glow in his great crystal eyes, 
 As he sat looking up to the measureless skies ; 
 And flies, the sweet morsel the king-frogs love, 
 Were constantly corning from somewhere above. 
 
 The soul of the pollywog fainted within, 
 Comparing himself with his noble kin. 
 " Alas ! what am I but a colorless lump, 
 I wiggle my tail, but I never can jump." 
 
156 LEGEND OF THE SERIOUS CLUB 
 
 And as he looked up with his sorrowful eyes 
 A hideous serpent his parent descries, 
 And slowly behind glides the horrible foe — 
 His grandsire could jump, but he does not know. 
 
 The bullfrog is singing there down by the shore 
 The very same song that he sang us before. 
 When night is at hand, p-r-r-r-og, p-r-r-r-oog ; 
 When men are asleep, p-r-r-r-oog, p-r-r-r-oog. 
 
 A spring and a splash, and the fight is o'er, 
 The bullfrog will sing his sad anthem no more. 
 The polly wog thought what a blessing to be 
 A mere bit of jelly, and live in the sea. 
 
 AFTER DINNER. 
 
 'Tis time to change the fruitful theme. 
 
 A world of pleasant things remain 
 Unsaid. As in a cherished dream, 
 
 Sweet thoughts seek utterance in vain. 
 Within our homes what pleasant hours. 
 How many rides for fair wild flowers 
 To woody hills and summer sea. 
 With jingling bells, like winds to flee. 
 Now let us sit and think. A long 
 Procession comes with flower and song. 
 
LEGEND OF THE SERIOUS CLUB 157 
 
 But thornless roses all. No word 
 Discordant all these years was heard. 
 Remembrance will be sweet when years 
 Shall bring their shadows and their fears. 
 A gentle hand has spared us all 
 A long, long time. No sting, no fall. 
 But this will not be always so. 
 Some one will be the first to go. 
 Peace ! this is not a pleasant thought. 
 
 And then they rose, and strolled around 
 Upon the hill. Perchance they caught 
 
 Some fitful breeze. Some on the ground 
 Or rude-built seats, or rocks grown gray, 
 
 Sat down in little knots of two or three, 
 To chat the one last hour away. 
 
 Beneath some kind, protecting tree. 
 Some neared the cliff, where once, 'tis said, 
 
 The fleeing Indian maiden, brave. 
 Leaped down, for she in vain had fled, 
 
 And gave her life, her life to save. 
 Some climbed the tower, and drank delight 
 
 In gazing on the world below, 
 And felt how sad that coming night 
 
 Should spread o'er all the garb of woe. 
 
158 LEGEND OF THE SERIOUS CLUB 
 
 The sun was isinking in the west, 
 
 But one who still would linger there, 
 
 As in the Paradise of rest, 
 
 Thus talked with spirits of the air. 
 
 REFLECTIONS ON THE TOWER. 
 Fair, exceeding fair, the picture 
 
 Stretched before admiring eyes — 
 Gentle hills and broad-spread meadows, 
 
 Rising gently toward the skies. 
 
 There the lake lies, calm and restful. 
 While the sunbeams softly shimmer ; 
 
 From the hardly noticed wavelet 
 Soon will cease the fading glimmer. 
 
 Known are fields and groves and meadows 
 
 By the varied tints of green. 
 And the lakes and running rivers 
 
 By their far-off reaching sheen. 
 
 Villages and quiet hamlets, 
 Where the weary might retire, 
 
 Half-concealed, but yet detected 
 By the heaven-directed spire. 
 
LEGEND OF THE SERIOUS CLUB 
 
 Dearest far the well-known city, 
 Cherished, ever-welcome home, 
 
 Lifts to guide her children thither. 
 High in air the glittering dome. 
 
 Yonder, guarded by the maples, 
 See that house with pleasant lawn, 
 
 Care and taste and perfect order 
 Speak of life's attractive dawn. 
 
 That one has an air neglected ; 
 
 Life is not quite what it seemed, 
 Shadows have begun to gather, 
 
 Vanished much that youth had dreamed. 
 
 See that other — Lord, have pity ! 
 
 If a noble spirit, bound 
 With the lazy and degraded. 
 
 There her mortal lot has found. 
 
 Now behold an empty cottage, 
 
 Door ajar, and windows gone. 
 Rotten floors, and desolation, 
 
 Hope and life had both withdrawn. 
 
 159 
 
l6o LEGEND OF THE SERIOUS CLUB 
 
 Saddest of the world's sad pictures ; 
 
 Think what might have happened there, 
 Happy home and childish laughter, 
 
 Anxious years and grinding care, — 
 
 Broken hearts and hopeless future ; 
 
 Parent with a reckless son ; 
 Grief that must be borne in silence, 
 
 Cure for which the world has none. 
 
 Sad, sad life of burning sorrow. 
 Toil and fainting without hope ; 
 
 Waiting, longing for the shadows 
 
 Of the life through which they grope. 
 
 But we came not here to sorrow, 
 Drive all gloomy thoughts away : 
 
 Some delights of long-lost Eden 
 May be met on earth to-day ! 
 
 Turn our faces westward, eastward, 
 
 Scanning nature's tapestry ; 
 Objects growing smaller, fainter. 
 
 Disappear in mystery. 
 
LEGEND OF THE SERIOUS CLUB y6\ 
 
 Countless homes, beyond our vision, 
 
 Dot the outspread, fairy land, 
 Round whose altar-flame and hearthstone 
 
 Happy groups, adoring, stand, 
 
 Thirsting for a life more noble. 
 
 Prizing treasures of the mind, 
 Jewels of the heart and spirit, 
 
 And ecstatic pleasures find. 
 
 Do the spirits seek the mountains. 
 
 That the blast upon our race 
 May be hidden from the vision 
 
 By the dimming veil of space ? 
 
 Is it Paradise around us. 
 
 Or the dungeons of the lost ? 
 Are you happy, unseen being. 
 
 Or forever homeless tossed ? 
 
 Do I hear a rustling garment, 
 
 Or a footstep's gentle fall ? 
 Something passes with the sunbeam. 
 
 Hear, O spirit, hear my call ! 
 
1 62 LEGEND OF THE SERIOUS CLUB 
 
 In the midst of foolish dreaming 
 Came the consciousness to mind — 
 
 He must find his waiting comrades, 
 Or be left by them behind. 
 
 THE DESCENT. 
 
 All are now ready, and downward they go, 
 
 Down from the mountaintop's charming retreat. 
 
 Every glad face had a health-telling glow — 
 Merry words ring out with humor replete. 
 
 Horses now rested and eager to race. 
 
 Drivers ambitious and proud of each span, 
 
 Started for home with undignified pace. 
 
 Onward, and onward, and downward they ran. 
 
 Under the branches of wide-spreading trees, 
 Old oaks, and chestnuts, and evergreen pines, 
 
 Covered with thickets, excluding the breeze. 
 
 Through whose dense verdure the sun dimly 
 shines. 
 
 The partridge, affrighted, is sounding his drum ; 
 
 Whippoorwills, tauntingly, call from afar ; 
 Shadows still longer and longer become. 
 
 Far in the east has arisen a star. 
 
LEGEND OF THE SERIOUS CLUB 163 
 
 Much had been hoped for, much was enjoyed, 
 Nothing was wearisome, no one was sad. 
 
 Hours of pure happiness, peace unalloyed, 
 
 Hours when the soul was unfettered and glad. 
 
 Days may be beautiful, banquets like kings, — 
 Though in the gardens of pleasure we roam. 
 
 Fly through the world with a spirit's bright wings. 
 Still the heart longingly turns to its home. 
 
 FINIS. 
 
 The solemn club are home once more. 
 
 They know twelve hours were spent in play. 
 Without increase of earthly store — 
 
 A truly merry holiday. 
 
 But they had breathed a purer air. 
 
 Their blood now flows with quickened life, 
 
 Their spirits freed from blasting care, 
 Were gladdened for a longer strife. 
 
 The faintness of the day before, 
 
 A score of fancied aches and ills. 
 With dread of evils at the door, 
 
 Were left unheeded on the hills. 
 
1 64 LEGEND OF THE SERIOUS CLUB 
 
 Some hours were added to the past, 
 But months to time that is to come, 
 
 And memories that years will last 
 When sickly age is burthensome. 
 
t^i (poni. 
 
 There was a valley in the hills, 
 
 Low-lying, dark, and wild, 
 Obscured by lofty pines and firs. 
 
 Through whose thick boughs had smiled 
 No sun for years, and rarely seen 
 
 Was nature's winged child. 
 
 A noisy stream came dashing down 
 
 In curves so short, that seen 
 Above, was often lost behind 
 
 The forest's stately screen, 
 And gleamed far off like tiny lakes 
 
 With borders evergreen. 
 
 Who finds a joy in solitude, 
 
 Loves nature's sterner face. 
 May beauty in its pebbly bed 
 
 Through summer crystal trace, 
 Or music hear when winter floods, 
 
 Down whirling, madly race. 
 
1 66 THE POND 
 
 In sight, two boys had lived, ere yet 
 
 The last wild deer had fled ; 
 While one was gentle, earnest, wise. 
 
 The other, selfish, led 
 A life of idleness that bore 
 
 Its fruit when youth had sped. 
 
 The nobler, working spirit found 
 
 Success and lightly bore 
 Away the palm and walked erect ; 
 
 The other, idle, wore 
 No crown, while envy drops of gall 
 
 Distilled yet more and more. 
 
 At length, when both were men, 'twas hard 
 
 His bitterness to hide. 
 Because the fairest of the hills 
 
 Would be his rival's bride : 
 And in his soul he made a vow 
 
 That hatred gratified. 
 
 He did not scorn the common world ; 
 
 To some, was more than kind. 
 Had manly qualities of heart, 
 
 Was not a whit behind 
 His peers in grace of form and speech, 
 
 And native powers of mind. 
 
THE POND 167 
 
 His hatred was to one alone, 
 
 But it had festered long : — 
 Unjust — yet since he was a boy 
 
 Each year it grew more strong. 
 So jealousy will urge its slaves, 
 
 More fierce, convinced of wrong. 
 
 Deep-rooted in his secret soul 
 
 Lay this unholy vow, 
 " Though it might cost the work of years, 
 
 His enemy should bow 
 Beneath his scorn, and he would blanch 
 
 The glory of his brow." 
 
 And so he watched from spring to spring. 
 
 And many snares were set. 
 He would have sung with joy to see 
 
 Him tangled in his net. 
 Alas ! how was the innocent 
 
 By unknown foes beset. 
 
 Some papers fell into his hand 
 
 One day, which, if not found. 
 Would make a beggar of the man 
 
 He hated. Quickly wound 
 The smoke in graceful curls — and winds 
 
 The ashes scattered round. 
 
1 68 THE POND 
 
 He saw his rival leave the house 
 
 That overlooked the plain, 
 For all was lost — both fields and home. 
 
 All search had been in vain, 
 And to the cottage near the vale 
 
 He moved, but bore no stain. 
 
 The evil-minded man enjoyed 
 
 Their fall awhile, and fed 
 His hate on memories of the past, 
 
 But he upon his bed 
 Was not at rest, for stainless peace 
 
 That giveth sleep had fled. 
 
 And then, to drive unpleasant thoughts 
 
 Away, he journeyed far 
 From home, and came not back for years. 
 
 But there arose no star 
 For him, no God was in his heaven — 
 
 Death would no gate unbar. 
 
 But peace made bright the humbler home, 
 
 And industry received 
 The honored crown of competence. 
 
 By unknown hand they were aggrieved, 
 But never who their enemy 
 
 Miofht be had once conceived. 
 
THE POND 169 
 
 In the sweet home was growing up 
 
 A child of beauty rare, 
 So gentle in his daily mood 
 
 He seemed an angel there 
 To aid them all the woes of life 
 
 In thankfulness to bear. 
 
 One day the wanderer returned, 
 
 Increased in vulgar gold, 
 But cherishing his former hate. 
 
 His victims to behold 
 More near, he watched within a grove 
 
 Of hemlocks, dark and old, — 
 
 Beyond the gateway to the dell. 
 
 Where now is seen a wall 
 Of some old dam, or ruined house, 
 
 Down past which waters fall. 
 And foaming leap against the rocks 
 
 With never-ceasing call. 
 
 He felt a pleasure — grim indeed — 
 
 And laughed as might a fiend. 
 Intent to see and not be known. 
 
 With broad-spread branches screened. 
 Behind a tree, thief -like, he stood. 
 
 And, listening, forward leaned. 
 
70 THE POND 
 
 But in the yard a young boy played, 
 
 Caressed by loving air. 
 A watch-dog, huge and curly black. 
 
 Appeared his sports to share. 
 And watched with never-tiring eye 
 
 And more than human care. 
 
 At length they walked across the bridge. 
 
 The little hand was fast 
 And almost buried in the curls 
 
 Of his great friend, who cast 
 An anxious look around and seemed 
 
 To think some foe had passed. 
 
 And it was so, for when he saw 
 
 The stranger well he knew 
 The dark-browed man could be no friend. 
 
 His low growl louder grew, 
 And from his eye the darting fire 
 
 Showed love and instinct true. 
 
 But little Robbie, fearless, said, 
 
 " Stop, Leo, do not scold 
 The poor man, who, perhaps, is tired." 
 
 And then, with fearless air. 
 Reached out his hand to give the flowers 
 
 He had been gathering there. 
 
THE POND 171 
 
 And said, in childish way, " Come home 
 
 A little while and rest ; 
 Mamma will give you something good 
 
 To eat." Then Leo prest 
 Between the two ; he did not like 
 
 The unknown, frowning guest. 
 
 The stranger looked upon that face, 
 
 With beauty rarely seen. 
 And through his great, blue, speaking eyes 
 
 He saw his heart, yet clean 
 In native beauty, king unstained, 
 
 In childlike love serene. 
 
 An older Robert looked at him 
 
 Out of each guileless eye, 
 And other features, pictured ones, 
 
 He knew in years gone by. 
 He did not speak, nor move, but wished 
 
 It were a dream, a lie. 
 
 Then Leo urged the child away : 
 He feared the man's strange look, 
 
 And, safely back, he sat and watched. 
 Not once his post forsook, 
 
 But was a tireless, sleepless guard 
 All night beside the brook. 
 
172 THE POND 
 
 The stranger saw but that small face — 
 
 It burned into his soul, 
 He seemed an angel from the skies, 
 
 With glowing aureole. 
 He thought, if angels walk this earth, 
 
 Let darkness on me roll ! 
 
 For then there is a God above, 
 
 And I'm a fiend accursed. 
 He fled. A strange and fiery storm 
 
 Seemed on his head to burst. 
 And no sweet stream was flowing there 
 
 To quench his raging thirst. 
 
 He thought not where he went, nor cared. 
 Nor where the path might be, 
 
 Nor that the sun was sinking low. 
 Obscuring bush and tree. 
 
 One impulse drove him madly on, 
 One instinct, strong — to flee. 
 
 And then, for it was long ago. 
 
 Primeval forests, dense, 
 Reached through the vale and far away. 
 
 In wild magnificence. 
 And few might thread their crooked paths • 
 
 Lone nature's residence. 
 
THE POND 173 
 
 The woods he did not fear ; a boy- 
 He sought the wild game there. 
 
 At length he realized how dark 
 It was. Uncertain where 
 
 The path might be, he stopped, and turned 
 About, with bootless stare. 
 
 No guiding star was in the sky- 
 To point out whence he came, 
 
 And, in the darkness lost, the woods. 
 In voiceless words, proclaim 
 
 That he must in their temple wait 
 The sun's relighted flame. 
 
 This consciousness, at last, awhile, 
 
 Recalled to calmer thought. 
 And he sat down upon the trunk 
 
 Of some dead tree, once caught 
 By a resistless storm and hurled 
 
 Below with ruin fraught. 
 
 It was a dreary place to spend 
 
 The night. The clouded sky 
 Denied all hope from rising moon. 
 
 The great pines towering, huge. 
 Dark shadows on the lighter green 
 
 Soon faded from the eye. 
 
174 THE POND 
 
 There came a sound like running streams, 
 But faint, — a welcome sound. 
 
 " A hope at last." He vainly trod 
 The unseen, tangled ground, 
 
 But no kind stream to be his guide 
 In that dark search was found. 
 
 'Twas but the rising evening air 
 
 Intoning nature's hymn 
 Among the needles of the pines 
 
 And then it grew more dim. 
 And darkness held him helpless bound 
 
 In its embraces, grim. 
 
 An owl, as if in mockery, 
 
 Called from a distant tree ; 
 So silent then was that lone place 
 
 That its coarse voice would be, 
 In those long points of soundless time, 
 
 A pleasant melody. 
 
 The silence of the wood became 
 
 A torture. Then the air 
 Was still, and nature's many tongues 
 
 Spoke not. In fragrance rare 
 The petals burst ; he seemed to hear 
 
 The dew descending there. 
 
THE POND 175 
 
 Then in this blackest silence came 
 
 A fearful wail, as some 
 Lost soul might make when doomed 
 
 Alone, all time to come, 
 In dismal wastes to wear away 
 
 Existence burdensome. 
 
 " Spirit accurst," he said, " I love 
 
 You not ; come not to me. 
 I will not answer to your call, 
 
 Nor turn your glare to see. 
 Though fastened by a thousand snares, 
 
 I live, and I will flee." 
 
 No prisoner ever felt a chain 
 
 More strong, — he could not fly. 
 But in the tireless, fiery grasp 
 
 Of his keen mental eye 
 He saw himself, and conscience came 
 
 Sharp-tongued to testify. 
 
 Long years of jealous, causeless hate, 
 
 With plans to tread his foe 
 Into the dust. The paper lost, 
 
 And its consuming glow 
 That robbed a rival of his home, 
 
 A vengeance sure, but slow ; 
 
176 
 
 THE POND 
 
 A wish — the tongue would shame to speak - 
 
 Had failed, for Leo came, 
 A faithful guard he could not bribe. 
 
 He bowed his head in shame, 
 And God, whom he would never own, 
 
 Seemed calling him by name. 
 
 How slowly dragged the hours away ! 
 
 The moments grew to years, 
 Yet there was nothing in the morn 
 
 For him but hopeless fears. 
 On every side some goblin lost 
 
 His hated visage rears. 
 
 'Twas midnight, and the woods were still — 
 When all save him seemed dead. 
 
 And then there came a rhythmic sound, 
 A velvet-footed tread, 
 
 A rest, a step more light — it comes 
 To him by instinct led. 
 
 He knew the sound ; a chilling sweat 
 Was on his brow. He strained 
 
 His eyes in vain to pierce the veil. 
 But darkness, starless, reigned. 
 
 The step came near — the vantage ground 
 The unseen foe had gained. 
 
THE POND 177 
 
 And then two fiery eyeballs glowed 
 
 With paralyzing light, 
 Like kindling bale-fires, signs of doom, 
 
 A terror in the night. 
 He had no power to move, was dead, 
 
 All save the power of sight. 
 
 But then he cried out in despair, 
 
 A cry so full of deep 
 Unmeasured agony, the woods 
 
 Were wakened from their sleep. 
 The night birds screamed, the small beasts strove 
 
 In darker holes to creep. 
 
 The dreaded creature, then so near, 
 
 From this unearthly sound 
 In fright drew back and fled. His steps, 
 
 With strong and cat-like bound, 
 Among the dry and fallen brush 
 
 Crashing far off resound. 
 
 In that strong cry went up a call, — 
 
 The first for many a year, — 
 To God, and then he sank in wild 
 
 Bewilderment and fear. 
 Believing dreaded death, in more 
 
 Than dreaded form, was near. 
 
1^8 THE POND 
 
 'Tis said that men profoundly sleep 
 Who know the coming day 
 
 Will be their last. So, on the ground, 
 Of hope without a ray. 
 
 He slept. Then all his life in dreams 
 Came back in dread array. 
 
 Unwelcome memories came up. 
 He fain would then forget 
 
 Unhappy, friendless, bitter years. 
 With tangled snares beset, 
 
 A history in which he seemed 
 In shame to reap regret. 
 
 Among the throng he saw a face — 
 The world has none more fair — 
 
 The first and only one he loved. 
 Who blest with loving care 
 
 His childhood's early years, and then 
 Was gone, he knew not where. 
 
 She laid her hand upon his brow 
 Without a word of blame. 
 
 " My boy, because you called on God 
 But once," she said, '' I came. 
 
 Still call — call tireless, day and night, 
 Until He speaks your name." 
 
THE POND 
 
 And then she faded from his sight. 
 
 Again there rose a cry, 
 Sweet music to the listening woods, 
 
 First name our lips can try, 
 Whose love is only less than God's, 
 
 Whose heritage, the sky. 
 
 He feared no more the solitude. 
 
 Beneath his head the moss 
 Was downy. In his heart there shone 
 
 A ray of love across 
 The dead sea of his life, where late 
 
 But rayless waves did toss. 
 
 The golden dawn at last shone through 
 The trees with mellow light — 
 
 A fairy temple, fresh with dew. 
 With his returning sight 
 
 He knew the way, but pondered long 
 Upon the solemn night. 
 
 And ere he left the place, a vow 
 Was made with bowing head. 
 
 Of full return where he had wronged. 
 With heart relieved, he sped 
 
 Away, emerging from the woods 
 When dawn was glowing red. 
 
 179 
 
l8o THE POND 
 
 In toil the years passed by, at first 
 
 Not prosperous in gold ; 
 But then he learned to search for truth 
 
 In fountains pure and old, 
 And longed to feel that guilt, at last. 
 
 Was from his conscience rolled. 
 
 The day the sum was gained to pay 
 
 The debt of vanished hate 
 Brought news of Robbie's orphanage. 
 
 " Too late — alas ! — too late." 
 But yet, he could repay the son, 
 
 Now lone and desolate. 
 
 The home his buried rival lost, 
 He bought. An aunt then came 
 
 To guide the house and bear the rule — 
 A well-beloved dame. 
 
 And Robbie then, and Leo, true, 
 His honored guests became. 
 
 The guardian dog at first would watch 
 With seeming puzzled brain, 
 
 With well-marked signs of discontent 
 And doubt, and would remain 
 
 A tireless sentinel. His host's 
 Caresses were in vain. 
 
THE POND i8i 
 
 A few years passed in peace. The youth 
 
 Did not forget his dead. 
 He never could. Nor did he know 
 
 The man who clothed and fed 
 Him thus was once his father's foe, 
 
 Implacable and dread. 
 
 But he for years had ceased to hate, 
 
 His heart had felt the fire 
 That glowed around the crucible 
 
 And donned its white attire. 
 Mankind was then a brotherhood, 
 
 And God a trusted sire. 
 
 One day the dark-winged angel called. 
 
 He knew his end was nigh, 
 And to his revered pastor told, 
 
 With penitence and eye 
 Bedewed with tears, the burning truth. 
 
 And then content could die. 
 
 The secret was profoundly kept 
 
 For many years. The son 
 By will possessed the heritage 
 
 His father lost, and won 
 A place among the great, and slept 
 
 In peace — his work well done. 
 
QYli0ceffaneou0 (poema* 
 
[1S77-] 
 
 Down by the sea those pleasant nights, 
 As gentle waves caressed the shore, 
 
 We watched the passing ships and lights, 
 While silver moonbeams danced before. 
 
 We traced the glittering groups on high. 
 As they rose upward from the sea, 
 
 To waltz around the northern sky, 
 Or swiftly westward seemed to flee. 
 
 We spoke of many pleasant things, 
 Of countries, arts, and heroes true, 
 
 And gladly would have taken wings. 
 This wondrous world of God to view. 
 
 We talked of friends of other years. 
 Our eyes again might never see. 
 
 And wished, up 'mid the circling spheres, 
 To learn what star their home might be. 
 
1 86 ON THE BEACH AT FALMOUTH 
 
 We could not see the gathering crowd 
 That marched up on the other shore, 
 
 Nor did they strike their harps so loud 
 Its spirit tones came floating o'er. 
 
 A hand in wondrous beauty made 
 
 Then beckoned to us through the veil. 
 
 As if to offer gracious aid, 
 
 But through its palms had pierced a nail. 
 
 Dear friend, we need not now deplore 
 
 Those faultless hours that then were passed, 
 
 Only we grieve to say " no more " 
 
 Of pleasant things that are "the last." 
 
(Reaching ;^owarb* 
 
 [1878.J 
 
 Sister Amelia ! long vacant thy place, 
 
 Friend of my boyhood, my mother's first-born, 
 
 Now can I look on thy meek, thoughtful face, 
 Call back the virtues thy life did adorn. 
 
 Allen, my brother ! the lamb of our fold, 
 Better, far better, than I who remain, 
 
 Faultless ; poor clay could thy spirit not hold, 
 Earth could thy purified soul not retain. 
 
 Brother and sister, 'tis long, long ago, 
 Sadly we laid you to sleep the last sleep, 
 
 Great was the grief, but, as those who well know. 
 Safely the angels their loved ones will keep. 
 
 Long was the journey before you did meet 
 In those sweet fields the delight of the soul. 
 
 Yet have you learned on the same golden street, 
 Father is seekino; the same chosen oroal. 
 
1 88 REACHING FORWARD 
 
 Yet do you know of the three still below, 
 Under the cloud of the sin-darkened sky, 
 
 Doubting and fearing, but striving to go 
 Blameless, wherever our pathway may lie. 
 
 Long is the way from the dread inky stream 
 All must pursue to the bright jasper walls. 
 
 Where heavenly glows, unspeakable gleam, 
 God's holy light, on the sanctified halls. 
 
 Can you not linger awhile by the shore. 
 Waiting for those still in strife to appear ? 
 
 Or will the love of the Son evermore 
 
 Quench all the sin-tainted love we feel here ? 
 
 Wings like the angels have borne you away, 
 Twenty long years with the speed of the light ; 
 
 Chilled by the damps of the earth, we delay ; 
 Have you forever gone up from our sight ? 
 
 We by the years are much changed as they roll. 
 Time on our faces and hair sets its seal, 
 
 Sorrow and sin add new scars to the soul, 
 Know us you will not, in sorrow we feel. 
 
REACHING FORWARD jgg 
 
 Yet will we hope, though I cannot explain, 
 
 There we shall meet — yes, not distant the hour — 
 
 Nought can our souls from our full bliss detain, 
 Joy will increase as the soul gains in power. 
 
lX>^xepmn^e of ^prtn^* 
 
 The winter is over, 
 
 The ice bond is broken, 
 And soon will the clover 
 
 Of summer give token. 
 Now " whispers " most lightly 
 
 The child of the morning, 
 That, smiling most brightly. 
 
 The hills are adorning. 
 Now hear what they tell us. 
 
 With voices so airy. 
 And lips to make jealous 
 
 The queenliest fairy : 
 
 Come away, brother ! 
 Come away, sister ! 
 Out of the darkness 
 Into the sunlight ! 
 All things show beauty. 
 Air is most balmy, 
 Showers refreshing. 
 Nothing to trouble, 
 
WHISPERINGS OF SPRING 
 
 Everywhere pleasure. 
 Dance with the fairies, 
 Talk with the sunshine, 
 Thank with bright colors. 
 Pray with sweet odors, 
 Dear, mighty Maker, 
 Life is most blissful. 
 
 We mortals shall waken 
 
 From death's wintry slumber, 
 And some will be taken 
 
 To joys without number ; 
 The soul's last great morning 
 
 In gardens of pleasure. 
 Heaven's flowers adorning, 
 
 In bliss without measure. 
 There Christ will the sun be, 
 
 All eyes on Him center. 
 Out sin will in haste flee — 
 
 Oh ! who there may enter ! 
 
 191 
 
(^ (Wlounfain (^rooR. 
 
 Under the leaves on the hill 
 
 Gathered young drops from the sky 
 Joined in a loving embrace, 
 
 Sank down they could not tell why. 
 
 More drops and more in the dark, 
 Join and move on in the race ; 
 
 Grow to a tiny clear rill, 
 Ever increasing its pace. 
 
 Creeping among the rude stones, 
 Turning aside for each root, 
 
 Stirs not a grain of the sand 
 Under its delicate foot. 
 
 Sweet, gentle murmurs are there, 
 Soft as the flight of the dew, 
 
 Heard by the sly little elves 
 Hiding down out of our view. 
 
A MOUNTAIN BROOK 
 
 Gathering strength with each step, 
 Grown from the incoming rills ; 
 
 Marks with dark verdure its path, 
 Skirting the foot of the hills. 
 
 Now, in the bright world of light. 
 Softly, strange, marvelous tales — 
 
 Secrets of earth and of air — 
 Tells to the listening vales. 
 
 Merrily over the stones. 
 Under the mossy green banks, 
 
 Gracefully wanders along, 
 Chanting continual thanks. 
 
 Lifelike, it leaps from the rocks. 
 Waving a banner of foam ; 
 
 Silent, it flows through the pools, 
 Clear as the heavenly dome. 
 
 Willow leaves kiss its smooth cheek. 
 Silent sleep lily and rush. 
 
 Into its mirror-like face 
 Roses look over and blush. 
 
 193 
 
194 
 
 A MOUNTAIN BROOK 
 
 Faster it dashes along, 
 
 Lashing, impatient, its shore, 
 Moving the stones in its bed, 
 
 Louder and louder its roar. 
 
 But is it chanting a dirge. 
 Sad that the journey is done, 
 
 Or is it music of joy, 
 
 Springing from victory won ? 
 
 Child of the wondering clouds, 
 Restless forever must flee — 
 
 Joyfully shouts, as it hides 
 In the mysterious sea. 
 
C^e (Ribe in t^c ^unboirn^ 
 
 Up somewhere in the Granite State, 
 
 Among health-giving- hills, 
 Where city guests are pleased to wait 
 
 The cure of many ills — 
 The host an ancient coach had found, 
 
 That sixty years had run, 
 Though old in style, it yet was sound, 
 
 For well the work was done. 
 
 Four youthful girls — a blameless load — 
 
 Possession of it claimed. 
 And gayly in the " Sundown " rode, 
 
 For so the coach they named. 
 As room in front but two could find. 
 
 To gain the seats they lack. 
 The other two were placed behind, 
 
 Thus sittinof back to back. 
 
196 THE RIDE IN THE SUNDOWN 
 
 And so they rode the hills along, 
 
 By lake or shady way, 
 Waking the wild woods with their song, 
 
 A merry, laughing play. 
 The bright flowers by the road they seek 
 
 Around their hats to twine ; 
 Then nature's bloom, and youthful cheek. 
 
 And flowing hair combine. 
 
 As they drew near a well-known place — 
 
 A name in ancient song ^ 
 Out rushed the old, with anxious face, 
 
 Out rushed of young a throng ; 
 For such a sight was new to see, 
 
 Rare such a sound to hear, 
 They knew not what the cause might be, 
 
 Whether to mock or cheer. 
 
 While some a rudeness in it found, 
 
 " Riding in such a way," 
 Yet most, with gentler, kinder minds. 
 
 Had nothing ill to say. 
 An old man, faint by walking long, 
 
 Stops, leaning, when he hears 
 The accents of that pleasant song. 
 
 That strangely met his ears. 
 
THE RIDE IN THE SUNDOWN 
 
 And when he saw the " Sundown " old, 
 
 That like his own did seem, 
 Then sixty years were backward rolled, 
 
 And youth returned in dream. 
 " In such a coach as this," he sighed, 
 
 " I rode my wedding day, 
 And she who sat then by my side 
 
 Seems with me here to-day. 
 
 " Ah ! how the thoughts of joys or tears 
 
 Rush burning through my brain ! 
 Yes, what I did twice twenty years 
 
 I see with joy or pain. 
 How pleasant were those acts of grace ! 
 
 How did we all rejoice ! 
 Quite clear can I behold each face. 
 
 And hear each well-known voice." 
 
 A transient dream the old man had, 
 
 A dream of joy untold. 
 And scores of years, some glad or sad, 
 
 A moment's space did hold. 
 The distance in the view was bright, 
 
 Later came cause to grieve. 
 And, though most sweet by morning light, 
 
 'Twas very drear at eve. 
 
 197 
 
1^8 A RIDE IN THE SUNDOWN 
 
 Since forty years his own loved ones 
 
 Had slept beneath the sod, 
 Neighbors and friends, father and sons. 
 
 Were gathered back to God. 
 All houses changed by fashion's will, 
 
 Save one with timbers stout, 
 That stands alone beyond the hill, 
 
 With doors and windows out. 
 
 Old man — coach — house — all out of time ; 
 
 Three wrecks, helmless and low, 
 Last relics of his manhood's prime 
 
 Of sixty years ago. 
 In prayer he bowed his snowy head — 
 
 The words we do not know. 
 Save one short line of all he said, 
 
 " O Father, let me go ! " 
 
 How sweet the springtime of our years, 
 
 Birds, flowers, and summer cloud ! 
 Yet winter sheds but icy tears. 
 
 Spreading her snowy shroud ! 
 The " Sundown " homeward back was drawn, 
 
 Its youthful load to leave ; 
 They saw of life the rosy dawn. 
 
 The old man saw the eve. 
 
^^out for t^c (^cktane. 
 
 [Written for Battle-flag Day, but timely in connection with 
 Buckingham Day.] 
 
 A day that we long shall remember with pride, 
 But not for the shouts of the gathering tide ; 
 No, not for the tokens of joy on the street, 
 Nor brilliant array of the soldiers we meet, 
 
 Nor presence of some who are honored and great, 
 Nor music, nor banners, nor palace of state ; 
 But pride for the men who were noble and brave. 
 Who periled their lives home and country to save. 
 
 With dignified step, and with serious face, 
 Where outlines of sadness we easily trace, 
 They marched with the banners by victory sealed, 
 But thought of the years of the camp and the field. 
 
 To them were familiar the rifleball's sound. 
 
 The roaring of cannon, the blood-reeking ground, 
 
 The bayonet charge and the cavalry dash, 
 
 And death-bearing shell with its murderous crash. 
 
200 SHOUT FOR THE VETERANS 
 
 They saw their companions fall down by their side, 
 Where bleeding and broken and mangled they 
 
 died ; 
 Some breathed in the rice swamp the poisonous 
 
 breath, 
 Some languished in prisons as grievous as death ; 
 
 Or if some the wearisome hospital leave, 
 
 They carry a crutch or a dangling sleeve. 
 
 Some, down on their knees 'mid the heaps of the 
 
 dead, 
 Have held for a moment a dying man's head, — 
 
 Directed his thoughts to the Saviour above, 
 And heard for his friends the last message of love. 
 When still was his heart and exhausted his breath, 
 They laid him down there in the garner of death. 
 
 Then mourn for the hero, devoted and brave. 
 Who sleeps far away in a rude, nameless grave ! 
 We never may know where his ashes did fall, 
 But angels will watch them and gather them all. 
 
 Yes, shout for the veterans who pass us to-day ! 
 Your banners and arches and garlands display, 
 Burst forth in a strain of the loftiest song. 
 For thousands of heroes are passing along ! 
 
Z^i Otrvofe. 
 
 When spring brings warmer sun and showers, 
 And apple trees display their flowers, 
 
 And leaves their plumes unroll ; 
 When bees begin their merry hum, 
 We know a welcome guest has come, 
 
 The princely oriole. 
 
 He comes among us quite alone ; 
 I hear him now in solemn tone, 
 
 Companionless — bereaved. 
 His anxious call and tender note 
 Down from the groves with odors float — 
 
 The strain of one aggrieved. 
 
 Last winter, roaming far away. 
 He lived a life of ceaseless play, 
 
 And danced with aimless feet. 
 His broad domain of groves and fields, 
 Choice tropic fruits unstinted yields — 
 
 He labors but to eat. 
 
202 THE ORIOLE 
 
 He, changing like the summer gales, 
 Roved through the Andes' sheltered vales, 
 
 Or, if he choose, might go 
 Where never-conquered nature reigns. 
 In vast and verdure-loaded plains, 
 
 Where sea-like rivers flow. 
 
 By spring he hates his gourmand ways. 
 And thinks of pleasant summer days, 
 
 Of northern homes and skies ; 
 Then, over seas and islands fair. 
 And broadspread lands to cooler air. 
 
 And young bird-home, he flies. 
 
 Here, lonely, knows not what to do. 
 But sings " t'schippee t'schippee too too 
 
 A tuf a tea kerry." 
 But others come of plainer dress, 
 Of humbler song, presumption less. 
 
 And two birds now are happy. 
 
 Then joyfully they work and sing. 
 And fly around on fiery wing 
 
 For strings, and lint, and hair. 
 By well-tied cords a plan they trace, 
 Then weave, and sew, and plait with grace. 
 
 High swinging in the air. 
 
THE ORIOLE 
 
 The winds will toss their nests in vain ; 
 The leaves protect from sun and rain ; 
 
 The fields afford good cheer. 
 They watch, and eat, and rest, and play. 
 Enjoying every passing day, 
 
 Till four small heads appear. 
 
 Then busy are the fiery pair ; 
 
 They guard their nest with tender care 
 
 Against foes plotting ill ; 
 And dart about the fields and trees, 
 Their tiny, luckless prey to seize, 
 
 Those four small mouths to fill. 
 
 A few days more their wings have grown, 
 And all away, unseen, have flown, 
 
 To travel wide and long. 
 They wander over hills and fields, 
 They, greedy, take what nature yields — 
 
 But ended is their song. 
 
 A careless, fickle runaway — 
 To aid his mate he will not stay, 
 
 Nor guard his birdlings four ; 
 The love that urged his solemn song. 
 And made him watchful, gentle, strong, 
 
 Controls his heart no more. 
 
 203 
 
204 ^^^ ORIOLE 
 
 But over hills and over vales, 
 Upon the balmy air he sails, 
 
 Made welcome everywhere ; 
 And from his store along the way 
 He gathers food from day to day, 
 
 Not knowing want nor care. 
 
 But nothing long his flight detains 
 From southern fruitful hills and plains, 
 
 And honey-bearing flowers. 
 There feasting every passing day, 
 He lives the gayest of the gay, 
 
 Through all our winter hours. 
 
 Proud " fiery sylph," return in haste ! 
 Come ! then will flowers adorn the waste 
 
 Long wet with winter's tears. 
 We miss the flashing of your gold, 
 And those strange notes so sad and bold. 
 
 Dear sounds of bygone years ! 
 
A maiden watched a frail sea weed, 
 Now in, now outward borne, 
 
 From fastenings of its rock-home freed. 
 By constant rolling worn. 
 
 'Twas landward by a mild surf brought, 
 That kissed the shore with glee ; 
 
 Then hastened back, as if it sought 
 Its mother's arms — the sea. 
 
 The frail weed seemed to have a will. 
 
 An aim to reach the shore ; 
 But after hours it floated still. 
 
 No nearer than before. 
 
 The watcher grieved in this to find 
 
 Of life a parallel. 
 When we are borne resistless, blind, 
 
 But whither none can tell. 
 
 But if our goal we cannot reach. 
 
 And on an unknown shore 
 We rush, break on a sunless beach. 
 
 To roll back evermore, 
 
2o6 THE SEA WEED 
 
 Yet sure there is a hand unseen, 
 
 Kind, infinite in power ; 
 And naught so great, nor yet so mean. 
 
 But feels it every hour. 
 
 No sorrow, pain, nor hopeless strife, 
 No failure, grief, nor groan, 
 
 No bitter pang of spirit life, 
 But all to Him is known. 
 
 The surf may dash, the storm appall, 
 Our flesh the rocks may rend, 
 
 And we to unknown depths may fall, 
 Yet wait — God is our friend. 
 
(^u^umn* 
 
 The oTove was clad in robes of green, 
 To greet its guests, the seasons fair ; 
 
 No nobler garb the eye hath seen, 
 Nor fairer plumes dance in the air. 
 
 Both spring and summer smiling came 
 To tarry with their grateful host ; 
 
 The garments still remained the same, 
 Of forest, tree, and field the boast. 
 
 But autumn comes — and what a change ! 
 
 The modest green aside is laid, 
 Then lo ! a transformation strange, 
 
 That fancy never could have made. 
 
 No eastern prince, with all his store 
 Of robes of silk, and cloth of gold, 
 
 Though yet he had the kohinoor, 
 Could splendor such as this unfold. 
 
 Only less brilliant than the glow, 
 That charms the beauty-loving eye, 
 
 When light does into pictures grow. 
 On canvas of the evening sky. 
 
2o8 A UTUMN 
 
 The grove, perhaps, is using art, 
 Puts on its fairest robes and smile, 
 
 Imploring autumn not to part. 
 But linger with us yet awhile. 
 
 But no ; those tints of peerless grace 
 Are not of youth, the healthful bloom, 
 
 But hectic flush, where we may trace 
 The dreadful sign of coming doom. 
 
The apple tree gave shadow, 
 
 The old gray rock a seat, 
 While lake and sun and hillside 
 
 With smiles each other greet. 
 
 The village was below us — 
 Monadnock, stern and cold ; 
 
 Blue hills outlined the landscape, 
 Delightful to behold. 
 
 The clear, blue sky seemed loving ; 
 
 Things distant hovered near ; 
 Refreshing was the zephyr's 
 
 Soft whisper in the ear. 
 
 Not many words were spoken ; 
 
 They had so little power, 
 They could not paint the landscape. 
 
 Nor longing of the hour. 
 
2IO THE APPLE TREE 
 
 The words we spoke were holy — 
 From God we would not hide - 
 
 We leave them in His keeping, 
 His judgment we abide. 
 
 The grudging hours go swiftly, 
 And from the belfry call, 
 
 Time, shorter than a rose leaf, 
 Might measure by its fall. 
 
 As man)^ dark forebodings. 
 Their shadows cast before, 
 
 I seemed to hear the " Raven's " 
 Prophetic " Never more." 
 
 In frequent pilgrim visits 
 To greet the rock and tree, 
 
 I saw no more the mountain. 
 Nor hill, nor summer sea. 
 
 The heart can winnow treasures 
 Out of the chaff of life, 
 
 And keep them safe and shining 
 Through all our days of strife. 
 
THE APPLE TREE 211 
 
 With every weary footstep, 
 
 Along life's thorny ways, 
 Is found a heavenly pleasure 
 
 In thoughts of other days. 
 
 In future joy or sorrow, 
 
 My eyes within I'll cast. 
 To taste again my treasures 
 
 Of friendship in the past. 
 
 On magic wings I'll take thee, 
 
 Though oceans roll between. 
 To spend one blessed moment 
 
 Upon that hillside green. 
 
@tt?ap from ^omt. 
 
 It may be honor, power, and wealth 
 
 Beyond our hope upon us fall, 
 But by the altar of our soul 
 
 We hear a voice, " Can this be all ? " 
 
 In pleasure's fullest, sweetest hours, 
 Possessing all things to us dear. 
 
 Unwelcome comes a sense of loss : 
 We thirst for springs that flow not here. 
 
 The purest, holiest souls grow sad, 
 Though faith be strong, and fortune kind, 
 
 For with their hope, their joy, their peace, 
 There is a good they cannot find. 
 
 What is it — can it not be found ? 
 
 No, not on earth, for here we roam 
 As strangers, moving day by day 
 
 Without remembrance of our home : 
 
 But faint, vague feelings yet remain 
 Of something good beyond compare, 
 
 Of dreams we cannot now recall. 
 Of tints of evening lost in air. 
 
A WA V FROM HOME 2 1 3 
 
 Our souls were planned for nobler lives, 
 
 For residence in Eden's bowers, 
 For converse with our maker, God ; 
 
 For friendship with the heavenly powers. 
 
 With reason that unclogged might grasp 
 
 Creation's secret, now concealed ; 
 Endowed with powers to comprehend 
 
 Things dark, not yet to us revealed. 
 
 The soul in its unmeasured store 
 
 Has uses, purposes, and powers 
 Not exercised, to us unknown : — 
 
 We grope our way where darkness lowers. 
 
 As, born behind its prison bars. 
 The bird a plaint in sadness sings, 
 
 For something it has never felt, 
 The unknown uses of his wings. 
 
 So long astray in fetters bound. 
 
 On shoreless, starless waters tost. 
 Our souls are hungry for the wealth 
 
 Our father in the garden lost. 
 
JULY 22, 1880. — RAIN. 
 From leaden skies the constant rain 
 
 Pours on the roof and drooping trees, 
 At first a joy — but now a pain, 
 
 A tiresome sound of dreary seas. 
 
 Invited by this gloomy night, 
 Old, painful hours unbidden come, 
 
 The pleasant things are out of sight, 
 And every voice of joy is dumb. 
 
 The blasted hopes, the wounded pride, 
 The icy sweat, the endless night, 
 
 The grief we could to none confide, 
 The days whose noontide had no light. 
 
 Far back we see ourselves in tears, 
 
 By stagnate pools, with thorns at strife. 
 
 In ashes lay the dreams of years, 
 O cheating hope ! How sad is life ! 
 
CHANGING MOODS 215 
 
 JULY 23, 1880. — SUNSHINE. 
 The morning comes with cloudless skies, 
 
 Each leaf is clothed in fresher hues, 
 The drooping- flowers again arise, 
 And nature every charm renews. 
 
 The heart itself then changed appears, 
 Can joyful, golden hours perceive ; 
 
 Unnumbered all the vanished years, — 
 More bright the dawn for clouded eve. 
 
 O joyful days with friends well tried ! 
 
 Fresh blooming fields, bright skies above ! 
 O childhood's sports, and manhood's pride. 
 
 And hearts that loved as we did love ! 
 
 We think of hope on outspread wings. 
 And gathered sheaves of nameless price ; 
 
 The grateful soul delighted sings, 
 And earth is almost paradise. 
 
When winter visits us, we say 
 Alas ! the dismal season comes ; 
 It chills our blood, our sense benumbs, 
 
 And drives the pleasant world away ; 
 
 The enemy of leaves and flowers, 
 Of singing bird and humming bee, 
 Of babbling brook and summer sea. 
 
 Alas ! those dull, unhappy hours. 
 
 Not so — but winter is a friend. 
 
 All living things must have their rest, 
 A priceless boon for souls distressed. 
 
 Ever awake — a dreadful end. 
 
 The leaves, in tints of holiday, 
 
 Drop down to sleep, by autumn freed, 
 And by them falls the wondrous seed, 
 
 To wait for summer's quickening ray. 
 
217 
 
 WINTER 
 
 A million buds have taken form 
 On tree and plant of every kin, 
 While summer's magic webs, within, 
 
 Repose secure from cold and storm. 
 
 By fingers more than fairy rolled, 
 There, sleeping all the winter hours. 
 Are leaves and trees and fruits and flowers, 
 
 A thousand years cannot unfold. 
 
 The trees are silent as in sleep. 
 And leafless all save evergreens. 
 But they, poor things, love solemn scenes, 
 
 And in the graveyard vigils keep. 
 
 When every child of beauty sleeps, 
 
 Then thoughtful winter comes and spreads 
 A snowy mantle on their beds, 
 
 And watch like loving mother keep. 
 
 14 
 
(Uof (^fe of (parabiee IXfcie ^et 
 
 N , June 19, 1882. 
 
 A wild and rock-walled tiny dell 
 
 Lies hidden in the hills, 
 Where mingling treetops cast a spell ; 
 
 Where gather crystal rills. 
 
 The dark, piled rocks seem headlong cast 
 
 By Titan's hand of old ; 
 Thick, hanging mosses, clinging fast, 
 
 Thrive in its waters cold. 
 
 The stream leaps down with noisy tread. 
 By jagged rocks compressed, 
 
 Or gently on its pebbly bed 
 Expands in glassy rest. 
 
 A ceaseless song — perhaps of thanks, 
 
 Is noisy near my feet, 
 But muffled underneath the banks. 
 
 And far off faint, but sweet. 
 
NOT ALL OF PARADISE WAS LOST 
 
 Eolian harps are in the spray, 
 A wild bird adds his note, 
 
 While half-heard songs from far away- 
 Through God's great temple float. 
 
 Familiar forms approaching seem, 
 Some smile with earthly love. 
 
 But more with dazzling beauty beam. 
 From holy realms above. 
 
 The unseen power divine is here. 
 In rock and stream and tree ; 
 
 My soul has felt his presence near, — 
 I bow with bended knee. 
 
 219 
 
@6a Qtof. 
 
 Deep-rooted in its ancient place, 
 Down where no human eye can trace, 
 The mountain rests its changeless base. 
 
 Upon its sides are cities fair, 
 
 Dear homes embowered with thoughtful care, 
 
 And smiling fields, and balmy air. 
 
 But on its summit, hoary, proud. 
 Now hangs an all-concealing cloud, 
 That hides its features like a shroud. 
 
 God's foot-print on the world appears ; 
 His track is in the rolling years ; 
 But into night his head he rears. 
 
 No mortal eye hath seen his face. 
 Or found his secret resting place ; 
 The thrones of wisdom, power, and grace. 
 
 He tells not where his stores are laid ; 
 
 He has no need of creature aid ; 
 
 He, only, knows why men were made ; 
 
ASK NOT 221 
 
 Reveals not why his works were done, 
 
 Nor reason gives to any one, 
 
 He counsels for his acts with none. 
 
 But ask him why in early age 
 
 The famine, storm, and flood should rage, 
 
 And men in bloody strife engage ; 
 
 What mean those cities ruined, dead, 
 On every hill and valley spread, 
 Where innocence in vain hath bled. 
 
 Behold, coarse wickedness and pride 
 With heel upon the saint, who cried 
 In vain for help, and pleading died ! 
 
 Ah, why this life of torturing fears. 
 This burning stream of bitter tears, 
 Unceasing all the finished years ! 
 
 Ask not — he will not tell you why, 
 Although he hears your bitter cry, 
 And his Almighty arm is nigh ; 
 
 Though his great heart of perfect love 
 All depth exceeds — all height, above — 
 And is more gentle than a dove. 
 
222 
 
 ASK NOT 
 
 Ask not — till in that heavenly place, 
 Before his throne, transformed by grace, 
 You gaze upon his unveiled face. 
 
(n-— . 
 
 As the evening gathered shadows 
 On a mount alone I strolled, 
 
 And to gain a wider landscape 
 Climbed a block of granite old. 
 
 Barren rocks were all around me ; 
 
 Hillsides slept in soft repose ; 
 Farther on the mountain masses 
 
 Billow over billow rose. 
 
 Over all, a new world opened 
 Up far away towards the west 
 
 Dimly showing hills and valleys, 
 Like some fancied vale of rest. 
 
 Floods of mellow light were streaming, 
 Silver, purple, tints of blue ; 
 
 I could almost see the cities 
 And the robes of heavenly hue. 
 
224 
 
 N 
 
 Walk there groups of sinless spirits 
 Where no longer there is night ? 
 
 Of the Lamb enthroned in glory, 
 Do I now behold the light. 
 
 " And the Lamb is the light thereof!' 
 
 — Rev. xxi: 23. 
 
 Oh, to see the dear departed ! 
 
 Close not yet, O glorious door ! 
 Let me catch a strain of music 
 
 Out of hearts that grieve no more. 
 
 Here, my treasures turn to ashes, 
 Or evade my outstretched hand. 
 
 Call me, lend me wings, O spirit. 
 Bear me to the sinless land ! 
 
 Harken ! has some loving angel 
 Left the presence of the King ? 
 
 Are the sounds so softly floating 
 Murmurs of a spirit's wing ? 
 
 No — the winds blow rough and chilling 
 Round these rocks, so bald and dead ; 
 
 Cold and silent is the mansion 
 Where I first must lay my head. 
 
As late I walked along Broadway 
 When all was noiseless, dim, and lone, 
 Asleep upon a threshold stone, 
 
 A dark-eyed boy unpillowed lay. 
 
 His harp, companion, only friend, 
 Was resting silent by his side, 
 And, like a watch, in love and pride. 
 
 Seemed o'er the sleeping youth to bend. 
 
 In years, still hardly more than child, 
 His face once bright, with outline fair, 
 Had now the marks of want and care ; — 
 
 But in his lonely sleep he smiled. 
 
 With weary feet and weary hands. 
 He slept forgetful of his wrongs, 
 His hunger, toil, his heartless songs, 
 
 And tyrant master's hard demands. 
 
226 IVEARV HANDS AND WEARY FEET 
 
 All day he played and sang in vain, 
 
 And bore abuse from thoughtless pride ; 
 Not much was earned, though long he tried, 
 
 The sum required he could not gain. 
 
 Despairing, hungry, and forlorn, 
 He sank upon his cheerless bed ; 
 Upon the cold stone dropped his head. 
 
 And thought no more of gibes and scorn. 
 
 Perhaps he dreamed of some bright land. 
 Beyond the hills, beyond the sea, 
 Where grow the vine and olive tree. 
 
 Whose skies are clear, and breezes bland : 
 
 Perhaps of childhood's early hours, 
 Of brother, sister, happy years, 
 A father's care, a mother's tears. 
 
 Of summer birds, and fragrant flowers. 
 
 O loving sleep, retain him long ! 
 
 Poor stolen and ill-treated boy. 
 
 Beloved by none, bereft of joy, 
 The victim of a hiding wrong. 
 
WEARY HANDS AND WEARY FEET 227 
 
 And ye upon whom God hath smiled, 
 And showered his blessings every day, 
 Be gentle when you turn away, 
 
 And think, what if he were your child ! 
 
 You do not like his music — well — 
 It may be harsh or rude in art, 
 But, yet, it comes forth from a heart 
 
 More sad than words can tell. 
 
 No friends, no home, no loving hand. 
 Compelled to sing, and chased by fears ; 
 At last his eyes refuse their tears ; 
 
 And so he wanders through the land. 
 
 Embrace him long, kind, gentle sleep. 
 And whisper dreams of heavenly love, 
 Show visions of the world above. 
 
 Where spirits o'er him vigils keep. 
 
A beam of light has left its home, 
 A gem in winter's glittering dome, 
 
 And sped in trackless flight ; 
 And twice seven rolling years have flown. 
 Across the vast and dark unknown. 
 
 Ere it could meet our sight. 
 
 O beam of light, what brought you here, 
 Upon our dimly shining sphere. 
 
 Entombed and dead to lie ? 
 How many years of flight were past 
 Before its feeble taper cast 
 
 A glimmer on the sky ? 
 
 What things were seen, as on you sped 
 Across the void, so cold and dead ? 
 
 In nature's working place 
 Were new worlds only now begun ? 
 Or saw you those whose race was run — 
 
 Dead, drifting on in space ? 
 
BEYOND THE DARKNESS 
 
 Are groups of worlds around your star, 
 Unseen by us because so far, 
 
 Submissive to its bond ? 
 And has this sea of stars no shore ? 
 Might light dart outward overmore, 
 
 And still stars shine beyond ? 
 
 And could you in your timeless race 
 Behold those cords pervading space, 
 
 More soft than twilight gleam, 
 Yet firmly binding world to sun. 
 And sun to groups, and all to one. 
 
 The God who rules supreme? 
 
 Do spirits in their longing flight 
 Above this world of death and might, 
 
 Shine brighter as they go ? 
 Was hope impressed on every face ? 
 Was every eye alive with grace ? 
 
 Or were there signs of woe ? 
 
 With all your visits can you tell 
 The place where happy spirits dwell, 
 
 Called heaven by us who die ? 
 And does it lie beyond your star. 
 Where light to reach a world so far 
 
 A hundred years must fly ? 
 
 229 
 
230 
 
 BEYOND THE DARKNESS 
 
 Are beings pure in other spheres ? 
 Or do they shed repentant tears, 
 
 And pray, and hope, and die ? 
 And have they heard the kingly tale 
 Of crown of thorns, of sphere, of nail, 
 
 And last expiring cry ? 
 
 No answer comes — But yet one day 
 My shell will burst, and I away 
 
 Will fly with speed of thought 
 To seek the spheres away from earth ; 
 Then, that small world, my place of birth, 
 
 Will dwindle into naught ; 
 
 My new-born powers will, learning, reach 
 The many tongues of nature's speech, 
 
 And songs in unknown keys, 
 The waves of light will answer then, 
 And tell the tale of worlds, and men, 
 
 Of years, of rocks, and seas. 
 
 And I shall be as pure as light. 
 Claiming in many worlds a right, — 
 
 My Father's realm and seat. 
 My soul will with that joy be fed 
 It seeks in vain among the dead — 
 
 The world of weary feet. 
 
BEYOND THE DARKNESS 23 1 
 
 I there shall wondrous works behold, 
 And talk with them who then were old 
 
 Before a star did shine. 
 Yes, through the Son's unmeasured grace, 
 I may behold the Father's face, — 
 
 May see the One Divine. 
 
(mof^et. 
 
 Softly stole the evening shadows 
 On my lonely, saddened thoughts, 
 
 As I pondered on old friendships, 
 And the losses time had wrought. 
 
 One there came, the first that loved me, 
 With the face my childhood knew. 
 
 Pained by all my little troubles, 
 No one seemed to me so true. 
 
 In her smile was all my heaven ; 
 
 In her arms my holy rest ; 
 Her own sorrows were forgotten 
 
 In the wish to make me blest. 
 
 I can hear the words she uttered 
 
 As I came with tired feet. 
 Told my little tale of sorrow — 
 
 Oh, those tones so passing sweet. 
 
MOTHER 233 
 
 Many thoughts come back to grieve me 
 
 For your unrequited care : 
 Mother, in the world of spirits, 
 
 Is it all forgotten there ? 
 
 Came a vision of my manhood. 
 
 With its blanks, and pain, and strife, 
 
 With the fickle aid of fortune, 
 And the cheating goal of life. 
 
 She was sadder, but yet wiser. 
 
 Having learned from friends to part ; 
 
 As she laid away her loved ones, 
 
 Two worlds seemed to claim her heart. 
 
 Marks of passing time were graven 
 
 On her face, to me so fair. 
 And its lines, now yearly deepening, 
 
 Told the story of her care. 
 
 Told a story — I could read it. 
 
 It was faithfulness and truth ; 
 But her love was deeper, stronger. 
 
 Than the burning flame of youth. 
 
 15 
 
234 
 
 MOTHER 
 
 Then there came the years of shadow, 
 Years of waiting for the dawn ; 
 
 When she seemed alone to tarry, 
 For the friends of youth had gone. 
 
 One bright day she closed her eyelids, 
 Leaving love for us to keep ; 
 
 And because her work was ended 
 Softly passed away in sleep. 
 
 Then at last the farewell visit, 
 As descending from the sky. 
 
 Form and face of matchless beauty 
 Such as only dwells on high. 
 
 While was wiped away a dimness. 
 Is it shame to hide the truth ? 
 
 She had changed, was wiser, older, 
 And I saw myself a youth. 
 
 If my haste then made me thoughtless, 
 
 Careless, petulant, or rude. 
 Or I showed a heart unmanly, 
 
 How her eyes my steps pursued ! 
 
MOTHER 
 
 235 
 
 Chiding, only for my profit, 
 Grieving, that I was not good, 
 
 Loved, in spite of my unkindness, 
 Loved me as no other could. 
 
 Watched through all my days of illness, 
 Suffered while I was in pain. 
 
 Ah ! I see those angel features, 
 Time will try to hide in vain. 
 
 Not the fair cheek of the maiden. 
 
 In her early untried years. 
 But my own, long-loving mother, 
 
 As she was, again appears. 
 
 Every line and every wrinkle. 
 
 Every sign of weary strife. 
 But they all were changed to beauty 
 
 Glowing with celestial life. 
 
 Gently with her hand she beckoned, 
 
 Spoke in tones of holy love, 
 " Turn your longing from the earthly 
 
 To the gatherings above." 
 
236 MOTHER 
 
 Slowly rose the parting figure, 
 Fading from my mental eye, 
 
 But the love that sweetly soothed me 
 Lives forever in the sky. 
 
The young, at the dawn of our drama of strife, 
 Are happy as birds on the gay-colored wing ; 
 
 They think of the pleasures abounding in life. 
 And, full of bright promises, joyfully sing. 
 
 Too soon will the truth to their vision unfold, 
 That life is a journey of sorrow and tears, 
 
 The heart would not suffer the world to behold. 
 But longs for relief ere the end of our years. 
 
 The face may grow old, and snow cover the head, 
 But the soul feels the sting, though we utter no 
 cry ; 
 
 The pain that is felt when the last hope has fled 
 Dulls not with the dullness of ear or of eye. 
 
 Before us some carry a joy-beaming face, 
 But many by sorrowing glances betray 
 
 How wearily onward their pathway they trace — - 
 How vain is life's hope, and how painful the way. 
 
238 MUST LIFE BE SAD? 
 
 Oh ! pity the stricken, not few in each crowd, 
 Distorted in form, slowly limping along, 
 
 Deep wrinkled, and scar-marked, and blackened, 
 and bowed, 
 The look of despair from a lifetime of wrong. 
 
 The victim, downtrodden because he is down, 
 The man who would rather be poor — and be 
 just — 
 
 The world, for the good, with its smile, has a frown. 
 And blessings are poured on the low slave of lust. 
 
 Our wealth may conceal, but it cannot prevent 
 The canker and rust, and the slandering breath. 
 
 The wound to our pride, that we burn to resent. 
 The friendships dishonored, the sickness and 
 death ; 
 
 And, keener still, shame for a daughter or son. 
 Some grief that we would to no brother confide, 
 
 Suspicions of wrong that we never have done. 
 And sharp, pinching want we are anxious to 
 hide. 
 
MUST LIFE BE SAD? 239 
 
 Vast, vast is the company turning sad eyes 
 
 Away from their riches, and honors, and pride. 
 
 Away from distress, and lone poverty's cries. 
 Away from the good to their longing denied. 
 
 Yes, down where the thousands are, weary or old, 
 Who know what the treasures of living are 
 worth. 
 
 And weaned by their pilgrimage, thorny and cold, 
 Are longing to sleep in the pitying earth. 
 
 But life must be sad in this empire of pain, 
 
 Whose king is grim death, and whose banner a 
 pall, 
 
 And when is perfected his merciless reign, 
 His sable pavilion will cover us all ! 
 
 But sleep there in hope — the great Victor be 
 praised ! 
 In spite of this king, comes a gleam like the 
 sun — 
 Some hand has the curtain a little upraised — 
 From beyond bursts a shout for a victory won. 
 
The solemn voice of tolling bells 
 Invades the midnight hours, 
 
 And deep the mournful chorus swells 
 From far-off spires and towers. 
 
 And still the rolling echoes flee 
 
 O'er widespread lands and sullen sea. 
 
 The anxious thousands learn with pain, 
 Well founded were their fears. 
 
 Strong men forget their joys and gain, 
 And shame not for their tears, 
 
 But softly walk with bowing head, 
 
 Uncovered by the honored dead. 
 
 Fair homes and busy haunts of men 
 
 Are draped in sable gloom, 
 A long line slowly moves, as when 
 
 We gather at the tomb, 
 With heavy hearts, and sighs, and grief. 
 And sorrow that despairs relief. 
 
" THE PRESIDENT IS DEAD" 
 
 The air seems hushed. On every hill 
 
 The softening- shadows go, 
 And nature's children all are still, 
 
 As if they felt our woe. 
 The stars more sweet and mild appear ; 
 The green earth drops its dewy tear. 
 
 While many in our brother land 
 
 Move with a softer tread, 
 And some, high-born, respectful stand 
 
 In honor of the dead : 
 And there the ancient minster bell 
 Rolls through the land its solemn knell. 
 
 Far off, far off, the message flies. 
 
 From every stranger shore 
 Some human heart in pity cries, 
 
 And love comes wafted o'er ; 
 The sable sign is wide unfurled, 
 And sorrow travels round the world. 
 
 But why is this ? God does not tell. 
 
 Nor answer when we cry, 
 Although he loves his people well, 
 
 And is forever nigh ; 
 Perhaps, some Achan lurks within. 
 Or public wrong, or private sin. 
 
 >4i 
 
242 
 
 " THE PRESIDENT IS DEAD" 
 
 Then strike us, Father, if 'tis best ; 
 
 We know Thy rod is love ; 
 Within Thy hand we dare to rest. 
 
 Oh, help us from above I 
 Our eyes are dim, we cannot see. 
 But in the dark we worship Thee. 
 
^eaf Btfe. 
 
 Leaves, the fair children of June, 
 Crown the spring forest anew, 
 
 Joyfully swing in the air, 
 
 Drinking in sunlight and dew ; 
 
 Drop from their summer-long perch, 
 Clad in most gorgeous array, 
 
 Floating in autumn's soft breath, 
 Aimlessly wander away ; 
 
 Dance through the forests and groves, 
 Race with the brooks and the bee, 
 
 Waltz over meadows and fields, 
 Skipping, and whirling, and free ; 
 
 Idle as idle can be. 
 
 Nimble as rabbit or bird. 
 Living a life in an hour, 
 
 Not a wish ever deferred ; 
 
244 
 
 LEAF LIFE 
 
 Lie down at last in some nook, 
 Tired of their fullness of mirth, 
 
 Ready to drop into sleep, 
 Ready to turn into earth. 
 
 Why should they waken again ? 
 
 Perfect life's race they have run ; 
 Full is their measure of joy ; 
 
 Nothing remains to be done. 
 
Z^i 'S)ucim of i^i {pitiitee. 
 
 From the delights of his gilded saloon, 
 Fitted the thoughtless to dazzle and snare, 
 
 Promising falsely, a coveted boon. 
 
 Strength for hard labor and solace for care, 
 
 Turning the stupid ones out with a jest, 
 
 Lastly, the Pitiless went to his rest. 
 
 Then he rejoiced in his dreaming to see 
 Daily new faces come gathering in. 
 
 What to the youthful the peril may be, 
 Sweet to his ear was the bachanal din, 
 
 Wealth he could win from his poisonous dole ; 
 
 Fixed was his heart on the glittering goal. 
 
 While in this reverie — visit unsought 
 Came an intruder, a mother in tears, 
 
 Bleeding in heart at the terrible thought, — 
 Crushing all hope of her wearisome years. 
 
 Thought of her son into slavery sunk. 
 
 Bloated and staggering, shameless and drunk. 
 
246 THE DREAM OF THE PITILESS 
 
 There sat a wife by a dim, fading light, 
 Fearing the man who has sworn to protect, 
 
 Beastly degraded, returning at night 
 
 Dead to all feelings of shame and respect, 
 
 Boisterous, vulgar, a merciless foe, 
 
 Filling her life with unspeakable woe. 
 
 Wandering vagabonds, tainting the air. 
 Begging for charity, ragged, forlorn ; 
 
 Poor little children, receiving no care. 
 
 Criminals, hating the day they were born, 
 
 Sorrowing friends who kneel down to implore, 
 
 Gather as curses and stand by his door. 
 
 Out of the old years to trouble his sleep, 
 Unwelcome memories, numberless, came ; 
 
 Homes that are ruined, and eyelids that weep. 
 " Men will be fools," said he, " am I to blame ? 
 
 No man is forced to come in or to stay ; 
 
 All might do worse if I turned them away." 
 
 Then on his pillow he rested his head ; 
 
 Saw not the leer of the two fiery eyes. 
 Marked not the fiend who leaned o'er his bed 
 
 Whispering falsely, in cunning disguise, 
 Anodynes lulling his conscience to rest ; 
 Picturing treasure stores crowning his quest ; 
 
THE DREAM OF THE PITILESS 247 
 
 Spinning the thread of invisble snares ; 
 
 Deeply designing — and well does he know ■ — 
 Tempting to scatter unwearied his tares, 
 
 Scatter them where he was sure they would grow. 
 Though a wail over humanity sweep 
 He will not fail the ripe harvest to reap. 
 
 Can you sleep, Pitiless ? — Dream till the morn, 
 Rest on your right to grow rich by your tolls ; 
 
 Shout for religion your bitterest scorn ; 
 But from the ruins of homes and of souls 
 
 To the Avenger arises a cry ! 
 
 How will you hide from the wrath in His eye ? 
 
Through the screened window, the half-open door, 
 Never seen crevices, thousands or more, 
 
 Holes where the light itself never can go, 
 Through the tough oak, it seems through the hard 
 
 walls, 
 Noiselessly, unseen, but constantly falls, 
 
 Beauty's unmerciful envious foe. 
 
 Casting its faded and patternless pall 
 Over our pleasant things, soiling them all, 
 
 Stealthily spreading the hue of decay 
 Over our treasures, all costly and rare. 
 Hidden and guarded with painstaking care, 
 
 Changing their colors to vagabond gray. 
 
 Hated brown snow on each table and chair, 
 Covers of satin and chisellings rare, 
 
 Marble forms faultless and spotlessly white, 
 Pictures and keepSakes and new gathered flowers, 
 Gems from the ocean king's deep hidden bowers, 
 
 Humbling our pride and offending our sight. 
 
DUST 
 
 Driven away, it will come back again, 
 Fearing not vengeance of maiden or men, 
 
 Silently sifting unceasingly down. 
 Marring the beauty of all we possess, 
 Clothing our riches in poverty's dress, 
 
 Figureless, dirty, old sackcloth of brown. 
 
 Truly I fear thee, O truth-telling guest, 
 Heeding my clamor as only in jest. 
 
 Giving no thought to my boundless disgust ; 
 Prophet and teacher, resistless your call, 
 Earthly beginning and end of us all. 
 
 Hated, but finally conquering dust ! 
 
 249 
 
 16 
 
Pressed between two stainless pages, 
 Filled with lore of by-gone ages, 
 
 Lies a bunch of golden-rod ; 
 Yellow arch of tiny flowers. 
 Bright as when in autumn hours 
 
 On their stems they stand and nod. 
 
 All the sisterhood are lying 
 
 Where the winter's winds are sighing, 
 
 Underneath the solemn snow. 
 Golden pledge, when summer ending 
 Hope and farewell words are blending 
 
 With the thoughts of long ago. 
 
 Since you do not seem to wither 
 In your lonely journey hither, 
 
 Or in dark December's sky. 
 Are you not some sleeping fairy, 
 Straying from your palace airy, 
 
 Where they are not doomed to die ? 
 
GOLDEN-ROD 
 
 Whisper what you saw that morning, 
 As you stood the fields adorning, 
 
 Glowing in the loving light, 
 Nectar in the dew-drop tasting, — 
 Bows with idle breezes wasting, 
 
 Having rested all the night. 
 
 Did you hear the words then spoken ? 
 As your slender stem was broken, 
 
 Lifting you from dark decay ; — 
 Where the summer flowers are lying. 
 And your fair companions dying, — 
 
 Up into a longer day ? 
 
 Though a secret you are keeping, 
 I will not disturb your sleeping, 
 
 Lest you wake with scornful eye, 
 And my rash attention spurning, 
 To your fairy form returning. 
 
 You should spread your wings and fly. 
 
 251 
 
t^i (^eaca (ponb of T)?— e. 
 
 [March i8, 1887.] 
 
 Among the hills, not often seen, 
 
 In its suspicious, dismal bed, 
 There lies a pond, with mystic sheen, 
 
 And waters silent, waveless, dead : 
 They flow not in, they ebb not back — 
 Are void of life, and inky-black. 
 
 Beyond the banks the hemlocks spread 
 Their boughs. Up from its watery face 
 
 Black trunks project, all charred, 'tis said 
 By some great fire that scourged the place - 
 
 Perhaps directed in its path 
 
 A bolt from heaven was sent in wrath. 
 
 Men may have added to the height 
 Of water, but it looks as though 
 
 A rill from Styx had come to light. 
 And gathered there its overflow. 
 
 A dark, repulsive, dismal spot ; 
 
 Upon our blooming earth a blot. 
 
THE BLACK POND OF W E 
 
 The strangers and those native born 
 There feel a dread, and quicker breath. 
 
 No skill could this lone spot adorn ; 
 It wears the hue we give to death. 
 
 Men say if lilies there could live, 
 
 No odors would their chalice give. 
 
 There is a legend — true or not — 
 Who knows it hateful it might seem, 
 
 For hated deeds or dismal spot 
 
 Had caused some man a frightful dream. 
 
 A fitting place, if men were there 
 
 Who in a bloody deed would share. 
 
 'Tis said a stranger once, alone, 
 Had foolishly displayed his wealth. 
 
 From whence he came was never known. 
 Nor if he went away by stealth. 
 
 But he was seen to pass that way, 
 
 As darkness came one summer day. 
 
 Though no one knew, the world all thought. 
 And hinted, what they did not dare 
 
 To trust to words. While proof was sought. 
 They dream of horrors, and forbear. 
 
 They search each secret hiding place, 
 
 But dread to see the dead man's face. 
 
 253 
 
254 THE BLACK POND OF W E 
 
 One man there was who sullen grew ; 
 
 He seemed the gaze of all to fear, 
 And from his former friends withdrew ; 
 
 A lonely man, with look severe. 
 Self-doomed, how gladly he would fly 
 The dreaded verdict in each eye ! 
 
 But to the war he marched away, 
 
 And bravely fought, and bled, and died ; 
 
 There leave him till the Judgment Day ; 
 The waters will no tale confide ; 
 
 The secret they so firmly hold 
 
 To living men will not be told. 
 
 Where'er the dead man's bones may lie. 
 In wood, or field, or slimy deep. 
 
 By night some hear a dismal cry. 
 
 They hear again for years in vSleep — 
 
 Deep, hollow moan of fixed despair, 
 
 From some doomed soul who lingers there. 
 
^ome ®ap* 
 
 Some day, some day, I know it well ! 
 
 'Tis graven on my soul ! 
 Somewhere, somewhere, I cannot tell, 
 
 God hides the fatal scroll. 
 Somewhere, triumphant, we shall meet, 
 And thither tend our restless feet. 
 
 The future, veiled to human sight. 
 
 Is full of what shall be. 
 I watch the dawn beyond the night, 
 
 I hope — I cannot see ; 
 But think, perhaps, " some day " is near, 
 And a well-known voice I seem to hear. 
 
 When left in silence and alone. 
 
 Where'er I chance to be. 
 In visions long familiar grown. 
 
 Then comes my love to me ; 
 While roses bloom, and zephyrs blow. 
 And skies assume their sunset olow. 
 
256 
 
 SOME DAY 
 
 You love me, did I hear you say ? 
 
 No words are half so sweet, 
 The song they sing in heaven for aye. 
 
 With every wish complete. 
 The story I have often told 
 Grows truer as the years grow old. 
 
 Ah ! friend, I am not worth your love, 
 
 I would not do you harm ; 
 Then flee away, my queen, my dove, 
 
 I cannot break the charm. 
 Then in the past my way I'll grope. 
 And dream, and dream, of vanished hope. 
 
 I cannot change, the lot is cast ; 
 
 One longing fills my soul ; 
 A bound, whence none return, is past, 
 
 One hope, one wish, one goal. 
 But I will save, though earth may frown. 
 The brightest gem, with spirit's crown. 
 
 Some day, from holy, dreamless sleep, 
 
 When calls the Crucified, 
 When earth, at last, can only keep. 
 
 My dust, and sins, and pride. 
 Transformed, made pure, I shall arise 
 To the home of grace beyond the skies. 
 
SOME DAY 257 
 
 And I will watcli by the river side, 
 
 Till you at last are found ; 
 Then we through gardens where abide 
 
 The saints in holy ground, 
 Through endless cycles, realms unknown. 
 Will upward, upward seek the throne. 
 
 The Father's face we may not see, 
 
 But, oh ! the bliss of flight. 
 From every power of sin set free. 
 
 In Christ's transforming light, 
 Towards nobler heights, above to soar, 
 And grow more Godlike ever more. 
 
Full seventy years ago, one day 
 The farmers gathered up their hay 
 
 On those far-spreading plains 
 That rest upon the eastern slope 
 Of great Wachusett, — a year of hope, 
 
 And fruit, and ripening grains. 
 
 Emerging from his tent of green, 
 With solemn tread, and dogged mien, 
 
 Came marching down the last 
 Historic Bruin of those hills, 
 With high-born majesty, that thrills 
 
 And stirs, like trumpet blast. 
 
 What brought the monarch from his seat 
 And mountain fastness, strong and meet, 
 
 To that dull world below ? 
 Perhaps — the last — he would have told 
 The story of his nation bold. 
 
 That now no man can know. 
 
BRUIN, THE LAST KING OF WACHUSETT 259 
 
 The news spread wide like flash of light, 
 The village trembled in its might ; 
 
 Each brave man grasped his blade, 
 Or gun, or scythe, or fork, or hoe, 
 And noiseless seeks the ancient foe ; 
 
 Great men were there that day. 
 
 As in pursuit those braves appear, 
 The king turned back, but not for fear, 
 
 He knew not how to yield. 
 He only sought to meet the shock. 
 Resisting like a granite rock, 
 
 Upon an equal field. 
 
 The watching wives and daughters saw 
 The hero toward Pine Hill withdraw. 
 
 And, all unarmed, resolved 
 To turn him back. One kingly head 
 Against a host with weapons dread. 
 
 In vulgar war involved. 
 
 That fair battalion stretched along, 
 Confronted there the brave and strong, 
 
 And dread defiance hurled ; 
 Broad aprons red, and blue, and white. 
 And 'kerchiefs glowing in the light. 
 
 Were strangely waved and whirled. 
 
26o BRUIN, THE LAST KING OF WACHUSETT 
 
 Then came a cry, so loud and shrill 
 It startled every sleeping hill ; 
 
 A war-cry brave men fear. 
 Again, again it echoed far, 
 It miofht have reached some distant star. 
 
 Ah, think of standing near ! 
 
 The fugitive was brave. He oft 
 Had seen the bale fire leap aloft 
 
 When great pines, crackling, burned ; 
 Had heard King Philip's warriors shout 
 For victory, or direful rout. 
 
 This was too much. He turned. 
 
 Brave Major Reeze, well armed, concealed. 
 Then fired on him in open field 
 
 A fatal, coward shot. 
 And then the others came, and fought. 
 And deeds of awful valor wrought ; 
 
 The dead corse knew it not. 
 
 Then mourn Wachusett's heroes slain. 
 The lofty peak and woods remain, 
 
 But silent are the braves. 
 King Philip long ago was dead, 
 King Bruin drops his weary head, 
 
 And no man decks their graves. 
 
(Bt?ening ^ong of i^t (RoBin* 
 
 When into twiliglit fades the day, 
 The robin from his hidden bower 
 
 Enchants us with his evening- lay, 
 Unequalled for its joy and power. 
 
 Art thou a bird, or from the throng 
 Of spirits blest, sent down to show 
 
 By bursts of joyful, matchless song, 
 The bliss we yet but dimly know ? 
 
 In that transcendent melody 
 Are raptures more than mortals feel, 
 
 Sweet words from realms we cannot see. 
 That faintly speak, but more conceal. 
 
 If once a friend, delay thy flight ; 
 
 To sing that mystic song, return. 
 Thy music thrills me with delight. 
 
 Its inner sense I long to learn, 
 
 O bird beloved so many years ! 
 
 On thy glad song I seem to rise 
 Above the earth, above the spheres. 
 
 At home at last beyond the skies. 
 
Silently leave me to dream in my chair, 
 Joy is not meet for my spirit to-night, 
 
 Gladness and merriment would I not share. 
 Visions of other days claim now their right. 
 
 Friends of to-day have dopped out of my mind. 
 Future things can I not know till they come, 
 
 Memory wake in me bitter or kind ! 
 
 I would not bid one sad voice to be dumb. 
 
 Fixed is the story of many long years, — 
 Much to repent of, I cannot conceal, — 
 
 Long hours of bitterness, sad hours of tears. 
 Will not the wounds of the penitent heal ? 
 
 There, too, were pleasures, sweet, scattered along. 
 Blessings unnumbered, too faultless to last. 
 
 Mingling with friends, a continual song ; — 
 Joyful is life when beheld in the past. 
 
THANKSGIVING DAY, 1886 263 
 
 All down the years are the faces I knew, 
 Dear friends and kindred, so early to die, 
 
 Beautiful, noble, unselfish, and true, — 
 Can I not see them ascending the sky ? 
 
 Five of the six, in my home when a boy, 
 Sleep all so soundly beneath the green sod, 
 
 Changes of time will our bodies destroy, — 
 Spirits, I know, will go upward to God. 
 
 Sleep, softly sleep, I will follow one day. 
 Trustfully, here in my place, I will stand. 
 
 Sadly I witness the passing away, 
 Lonely, I dream of the shadowy land. 
 
With weary steps and downcast eye, 
 There walks a man unnoticed by, — 
 
 A cast-off man of God. 
 Does rumor say he has done wrong, 
 And, therefore, many winters long 
 
 This dreary road has trod ? 
 
 No — nothing wrong — but, while he could, 
 Had labored hard for others' good. 
 
 Had preached, and taught, and prayed 
 Among the high, among the low, — 
 Wherever wanted he would go, 
 
 And some his call obeyed. 
 
 Disabled by a winter's blast. 
 His holy work is done, at last. 
 
 And dreary waiting came. 
 However sharp the sting might be, 
 The world no more his use could see. 
 
 And men forgot his name. 
 
A NEGLECTED SERVANT 265 
 
 With weary step and downcast eye, 
 Again, again, he passes by, — 
 
 But he is growing old. 
 Then men, by God's free gifts made proud, 
 Forgot his servant in the crowd, — 
 
 He had no stores of gold. 
 
 A gainless life at last he leads. 
 With nothing saved but holy deeds, 
 
 " Is any one to blame ? " 
 Says Dives, " give me for the place 
 A man of vigor not of grace," 
 
 And no man says, for shame ! 
 
 In the neglect of many years, 
 He's not so lone as he appears ; — 
 
 The unseen come and sing. 
 The spirits, moving to and fro. 
 Drop words of hope as on they go, 
 
 Recording everything. 
 
 With weary step and downcast eye 
 
 The man of God no more goes by, 
 
 Nor feels the loving rod. 
 
 The task assigned at last is done ; 
 
 And he has gone beyond the sun, 
 
 Up near the throne of God. 
 17 
 
Little Mabel, wonder-eyed, 
 Greeting with a winning smile, 
 
 Like a spirit glorified, 
 Only resting here a while. 
 
 Dancing with the grace untaught 
 Of a whirling autumn leaf. 
 
 Singing songs she might have caught. 
 From a wild bird's carol brief. 
 
 Trustful to the hands that rear, 
 Love for love in full returned, 
 
 Nature child, unspoiled, sincere, 
 Full of art she has not learned. 
 
 Feeling more than you can say 
 
 In your overflow of glee, 
 Queen of every changing day. 
 
 Little one, contented be ! 
 
 Haste not to be old and wise. 
 Ply thy little childish arts, 
 ♦ Honest face and beaming eyes, 
 Dull the pain of weary hearts. 
 
On the stony roadside, helpless, 
 Under summer's burning sky, 
 
 Lay a lifelong faithful servant, 
 Useless now, and left to die. 
 
 Here he sank beneath his burden. 
 Whips no more could make him rise. 
 
 Cruel hands, profane and greedy, 
 Could no longer tyrannize. 
 
 Strange that man should feel no pity 
 For his uncomplaining slave ! — 
 
 Many masters had been cruel, 
 No kind friend appeared to save. 
 
 While in dying pains he lingered. 
 If he had the powers of thought. 
 
 Changing visions might have glimmered, 
 Slowly fading into naught. 
 
268 THE DYING HORSE 
 
 Once, well cared for, kindly treated, 
 Labor hardly more than play, 
 
 Gentle hands bestowed caresses. 
 Proud, he longed to dash away. 
 
 With the friends who seemed to love him, 
 Cheered by childhood's merry cry, 
 
 Sport it was, unurged and tireless, 
 Over hill and dale to fly. 
 
 Then came dreary years of changes ; 
 
 Some faint marks of age appear ; — 
 By his former friends discarded 
 
 Oft he calls — they do not hear. 
 
 Changing masters, sinking downwards 
 
 On the road of toil and pain. 
 Days are longer, labor harder, 
 
 Food and rest oft craved in vain. 
 
 When from weakness he would linger. 
 Came the fiendish cruel whip, 
 
 Causing one last painful effort, 
 Flesh to tingle, sweat to drip. 
 
THE DYING HORSE 269 
 
 In a cart, and overloaded, 
 
 Starved, and lame, and harness-sore, 
 Kicked and scourged by heartless drivers, 
 
 Here he sank to rise no more. 
 
 Poor, dumb, robbed and noble servant, 
 
 Has Our Father ceased to reign ? 
 Was thy noble form created, 
 
 As in jest, for want and pain ? 
 
 Take, O Earth, this fallen victim. 
 
 Hard has been his cruel fate. 
 Give him rest from all his tortures, 
 
 Doomed long weary years to wait ! 
 
 You who owned him in his beauty. 
 Faithful, cherished, useful friend. 
 
 Think of all the woes he suffered. 
 Growing fiercer to the end. 
 
't^i ^ea. 
 
 A merciless mother was ever the sea, 
 
 Her children come leaping from valley and hill, 
 But never again will those streamlets be free, 
 
 She drinks, but rolls onward unsatisfied still. 
 
 She sports with the shore gayly tossing her foam. 
 Her mood is declared by her threatening roar, 
 
 She leaves the torn sea-flowers just wrenched from 
 their home 
 To wither and blacken, defiling the shore. 
 
 In hours of her madness, when restless and wild, 
 Her cataract billows revengefully rave. 
 
 Engulfing alike the frail beautiful child. 
 
 And man in his strength, who would perish to 
 save. 
 
 If all the bright spirits since life here began. 
 And treasures wrought out after agfes of care, 
 
 Were on the hard rocks when she thitherward ran. 
 She never would hesitate, pity, nor spare. 
 
THE SEA 271 
 
 There is nothing so treacherous under the sun, 
 Her clear, glassy face in a moment may change ; 
 
 Tornadoes abroad through her empire may run, 
 And waltz to a music terrific and strange ; 
 
 But down in her sunless and horrible maw 
 Where monsters, disgusting and ravenous, swim, 
 
 The whirlpools are tearing the fragments like 
 straw. 
 Of ships and of skeletons, eyeless and grim. 
 
 There costly productions of years passed away 
 Confused and in fragments are floating along. 
 
 And grinding themselves into orderless clay, 
 A harvest of death in a prison house strong. 
 
 O restless, pitiless, heartless, and dread ! 
 
 Though deaf to our words ever proud on thy 
 wave. 
 Though continents shake by the weight of thy 
 tread. 
 Thy glory will end as a wandering grave ! 
 
 As Earth shall continue its wearing away. 
 The rains ever washing the hillsides will run, 
 
 And bear to thy banquet the ceaseless decay, 
 Too foul to remain in the light of the sun. 
 
272 THE SEA 
 
 When conquest is perfect, and life has no place 
 On this dead world of rocks, with its garment of 
 cloud. 
 How long- will it wander through measureless 
 space. 
 Thy roaring its dirge, and thy breakers its 
 shroud ! 
 
(m^ ^mtat< 
 
 Come trustfully forth from thy slumber of years, 
 Thou long hast been silent, untuned are thy 
 strings, 
 And dust on thy sounding-board friendless appears. 
 The spirit that dwells in thee moves not its 
 wings. 
 
 A treasure in youth — though I boasted no skill, 
 I loved the rare cords and the deep solemn tones 
 
 That sent through my worshiping spirit a thrill ; — 
 I hear them still ringing through years that have 
 flown. 
 
 Come, rest — I will trouble thy silence no more, 
 The skill of my fingers is gone with the past. 
 
 The hopes of my musical fancies are o'er. 
 Go rest in thy corner, my friend, to the last. 
 
 But sweet are the memories clinging to thee, 
 My confident, true, in my sorrowing years. 
 
 When softly sweet words thou didst whisper to me 
 Inviting a hope with my gathering fears. 
 
274 ^^ GUITAR 
 
 When time had moved forward, surroundings were 
 changed, 
 Again, thou wert with me, long cherished, my 
 own, 
 I met thee in secret, the world seemed estranged, 
 But loved thy soft murmurs communing alone. 
 
 Oh, sad were those years then, almost to despair, 
 When hope had gone down, and the plans of my 
 youth 
 
 Were vanishing mist on the colorless air, 
 And ever was brooding a terrible truth. 
 
 I feared this fair world then so dear to my eyes 
 Might hopelessly fade with my vanishing sight. — 
 
 No faces, no flowers — no earth and no skies ! — 
 Ah, what is life worth ever shrouded in night ! 
 
 Sometimes were awakened by fingers unskilled 
 Soft music as sweet as an angel might sing, 
 
 And borne on its waves, then my spirit was filled 
 With rapture new born of a trembling string. 
 
 Now rest there, beloved old friend, in thy place ; 
 
 I think of the years thou didst help me to live, 
 And sweetly, yet sadly, come dreams of thy grace, — 
 
 Thy strings though untouched ever music will 
 give. 
 
Friends of your native land 
 Rouse from your slumbers, 
 
 Foes you thought scattered long 
 Boast of their numbers. 
 
 Under a loyal mask 
 
 Old fires are glowing ; — 
 
 Crushed by an iron heel, 
 Hot tears are flowing. 
 
 Down-trodden son of slaves 
 Wait for your shouting ; 
 
 Hear the sharp rifle ball — 
 Judge for the doubting ! 
 
 Friends of our goodly land. 
 
 List to the prancing ! 
 Hear the clear bugle note ; — 
 
 Foes are advancing. 
 
 Hark ! from the battlefields, 
 
 Countless in number, 
 Dotted with nameless graves 
 
 Where soldiers slumber. 
 
276 CAMPAIGN SONG 
 
 Where, in neglected fields, 
 
 Rest without cover 
 Victims of prison pens, — 
 
 Father and lover. 
 
 Where, in the horrid swamps, 
 Under waves sleeping ; 
 
 With not one message sent 
 Home to the weeping ; 
 
 Comes forth a voice to us, 
 Anxious and sighing. 
 
 Loud as the cannon's roar, 
 Faint like the dying : 
 
 Rouse up, ye living men ! 
 
 Shout the old war-cry ! 
 Save what our brave have bought 
 
 Did they in vain die ! 
 
IXfaitin^. 
 
 In an arm chair, softly cushioned, 
 
 Sat an old man in a dream, 
 Near him plays his little grandchild, 
 
 While the sunset glories gleam. 
 
 Marks of changing joy and sorrow- 
 Showed upon his wrinkled face. 
 
 For he saw again the vision 
 Of his youthful power and grace. 
 
 Pictures of his far-off childhood. 
 Dimmed, but often passing sweet. 
 
 Kiss of long-departed mother, 
 Whom he soon in heaven may meet. 
 
 What a world of joyful visions 
 Do we lose when we forget 
 
 Most of what occurred in childhood, 
 And our ever unpaid debt. 
 
 Came his home, his wife, and children. 
 Many years of joy and pride. 
 
 And his great unending sorrow 
 When his first-born idol died. 
 
278 
 
 WAITING 
 
 Work was done, and quite successful ; 
 
 Firm his step and strong his arm, 
 Proud he walked among his fellows, 
 
 And in life was still a charm. 
 
 Rolling years at last brought changes ; 
 
 Few now kept the yearly feast, 
 And his slow and weary footstep 
 
 Showed preeminence had ceased. 
 
 Now he loved his youthful namesake ; 
 
 Young and old at last draw near, 
 But his soul was prone to wander 
 
 With the friends no longer here. 
 
 Welcome came his life companion. 
 As she was those long-gone years, 
 
 And he seemed not to remember 
 Bitter hours and scalding tears. 
 
 Painful seemed the day of parting ; 
 
 Few who knew him now were found 
 One by one the brave and lovely 
 
 Slept beneath the grassy mound. 
 
WAITING 279 
 
 Now sojourning here a stranger, 
 All the world were in his love, 
 
 Waiting for the welcome summons 
 And the gathering above, 
 
 " Little beauty, come and see me, 
 
 For my race is nearly done. 
 And before the morning breaketh 
 
 I may be beyond the sun." 
 
Z^anh^itfin^, (Tlot>em6er, 1888» 
 
 Is it mist that hangs before me, 
 Dulling all my powers of seeing ? 
 
 Am I blind to good that might be ? 
 Whither is my spirit fleeing ? 
 
 Is there in the future glowing 
 
 Nothing more for hope to cherish ? 
 
 In the sable river flowing, 
 Are my loved ones all to perish ? 
 
 On this day of happy greetings, 
 With a spirit sad and lonely, 
 
 I have left a friendly meeting 
 For a feast with spirits only. 
 
 Like a stranger, here I wander 
 In these unknown well-known places. 
 
 On the absent let me ponder. 
 And recall the vanished faces. 
 
 I shall conquer with the morning, — 
 But to-night I walk in sadness ; 
 
 Darkly hangs the garb of sorrow ; 
 By the grave we seek not gladness. 
 
j[n QYlemortam^ 
 
 ATHERTON COOPER CHAMBERS. 
 One day to our world came a fair little child, 
 
 The pride of his parents, the joy of his friends ; 
 He seemed a young angel from heaven beguiled, 
 
 Too frail for the conflicts mortality sends ; 
 His beautiful helplessness made him a king. 
 
 And deep in his wondering, fathomless eye. 
 When first he beheld the bright glory of spring, 
 
 Were gleams of a spirit that never could die. 
 
 Then out from a cloud came a voice of command, 
 
 Addressed to an angel who loved to obey : 
 Go down to that far-off, that sin-blighted land, 
 
 And guide a sweet spirit unfettered to-day ; 
 His place has been waiting for thousands of years, 
 
 Bring hither my treasure, I heard when he cried ; 
 His life will be short in that valley of tears, 
 
 His work shall be done where the sinless abide. 
 
282 IN MEMORIAM 
 
 Then swift as a sunbeam he hastened to bless, 
 
 And noiselessly entered the chamber of death, 
 Unseen, yet beholding each sign of distress. 
 
 The useless devotion, the shortening breath. 
 He heard the sweet music of unspoken prayer. 
 
 That silently floated like incense above ; 
 And, full of compassion for sufferers there. 
 
 He prayed to his Lord to reward themwith love. 
 
 To the dear little sufferer he breathed not a word ; 
 
 He knew that his life might be sorrow and tears, 
 Surrounded by snares, with hope lost or deferred, 
 
 Deceived or degraded, through slow-moving 
 years. 
 In pity for those who must tarry below, 
 
 He longed the bright story of heaven to tell, 
 While tears of pure love and of sympathy flow. 
 
 Thrice blessed are they on whose forehead they 
 fell. 
 
 When sleep seemed to rest on the sufferer's face, 
 The angel received him with tenderest love ; 
 
 And, wrapped in a mantle of measureless grace, 
 Arose with his treasure to mansions above. 
 
IN MEMORIAM 283 
 
 Our eyes are too feeble to follow their flight, 
 Between hangs a curtain of glittering skies : 
 
 How blessed the thrills of his sinless delight ! 
 What glories astonish his wondering eyes ! 
 
 Our weak human hearts are expected to mourn, 
 
 But faith should rejoice in a victory won. 
 Our anguish, though great, should be trustfully 
 borne. 
 For all is well known to the pitying Son. 
 God took him — perhaps, He has loved him the 
 best — 
 To save from the evils that brood over all. 
 There, glorified now, and unspeakably blest, 
 
 He waits, and the hearts of his friends hear his 
 call. 
 
(Ba^ ;^eaf^er0* 
 
 One spring, in the meadow, appeared a bright pair, 
 Who built them a nest, working early and well ; 
 
 Their home, 'mid the green leaves, was guarded 
 with care, 
 And four tiny birdlings came hither to dwell. 
 
 There helpless they lie, with their feathers half 
 grown, 
 
 Unable to stand, and with wild, staring eyes ; 
 Shut up in their tree-world, all others unknown, 
 
 How feeble they were, what a look of surprise ! 
 
 The mother bird darts on her bright colored wings, 
 Seems dancing on sunbeams, is never at rest ; 
 
 A model of beauty, she constantly sings, 
 And loves the small heads swinging high in her 
 nest. 
 
 A hunter boy lurked in the pasture unknown — 
 The loving birds come to their treasure no more ; 
 
 The four little strangers now hungry and lone. 
 With wide-open mouths for their supper implore. 
 
GA V FEA THERS 285 
 
 O mother bird, hasten again to thy bower ; 
 
 Thy little ones tremble with fright and with cold, 
 Still waiting, and fasting, long hour after hour ; 
 
 Oh, come, with your wings the frail bodies en- 
 fold. 
 
 There, weary of waiting, thy presence they crave. 
 And, clinging together, despairing lie ; 
 
 Thy warm and soft feathers are needed to save ; 
 O mother, come home, or thy birdlings will die ! 
 
 A wing has been placed in a gay lady's head. 
 
 But fairy-like beauties were dragged from the 
 sky; 
 
 And four little birdlings lie famished and dead. 
 The mother bird heard not their perishing cry. 
 
Before an open furnace door — 
 A hundred letters in my hand, 
 
 That I would keep for evermore, 
 Reluctant to destroy — I stand. 
 
 When each one with its magic came 
 It gave my soul a loving thrill. 
 
 And after years remains the same, 
 I feel the joyful music still. 
 
 If wisely done — it seems a crime ; — 
 Too sacred were those pages rare. 
 
 To risk the chance of coming time, 
 
 Though I might guard with jealous care. 
 
 In doubt and fear — I would rebel — 
 I must, — I make the fatal cast ! 
 
 The fire has done the work full well ; 
 They blaze and flash — are dust at last. 
 
LETTERS DESTROYED 287 
 
 'Twas painful more than words can tell, 
 And much of life is gone to me ; 
 
 I seem to hear a solemn knell 
 For what again I may not see. 
 
 But they are safe, and on the wings 
 
 Of holy fire they fly above ; 
 No man shall know what sacred things 
 
 Were uttered to the ears of love. 
 
t^t €^ime0 of QtorfofS. 
 
 Out from yonder belfry welling 
 
 Comes the ever-welcome chime, 
 With a gentle prelude, telling 
 Of the ceaseless flight of time, 
 Kindly telling how our days are dying, 
 How our years with restless speed are flying. 
 
 Over meadows, over mountains, 
 
 Where the sounds of toil are heard, 
 Past the groves with hidden fountains. 
 Cool retreat for beast and bird ; 
 To the far-oft' lonely hamlet reaching, 
 Hourly comes the well-known solemn teaching. 
 
 Men who delve till shadows darken 
 
 Feel the hours are sooner gone, 
 Happy children stop and hearken. 
 Sporting on the summer lawn ; 
 When the weary night goes slowly creeping. 
 Pleasant sounds the music to the weeping. 
 
THE CHIMES OF NORFOLK 289 
 
 Just as sweetly rolls the measure 
 
 Where the weary are at rest, 
 Where the Reaper hides his treasure, 
 And the pure in heart are blest, 
 Where the solemn yew-tree and the willow 
 Stretch their arms above the dreamless pillow. 
 
 When shall come the hour of dying — 
 
 By some arrow shot at noon ; 
 On a bed of anguish lying ; 
 Or when age shall seek the boon ; 
 May my sinking spirit catch the ringing 
 Notes that ransomed souls in heaven are singing. 
 
^):txade from QYlr* ^a^for'e 
 
 MEN DON, New York, my childhood's home ! 
 my heart beats a little quicker at the men- 
 tion of the name, and dim, distorted pic- 
 tures pass before my mind's eye as of some other 
 world I once visited. Some are not now understood, 
 but passing sweet, yet I would not be a child again; 
 it is a delight to look back, but it would not be 
 to go back. The soul's life is onward, upward, 
 wiser, greater, holier, and happier. 
 
 Your letter about the beauties and fascinations 
 of spring carried me away to a world in which I 
 was a boy. It was spring, too, and in the spring- 
 time of life. My parents came from Enfield, near 
 Hartford, but in Mendon life first dawned upon 
 me. I sat alone and much of it came back to me — 
 it was fragmentary — bits of days and hours 
 strangely combined or disjointed, a sweet little 
 dream of childish joy, or wonder, came over me. 
 I will tell you a few of my visions and then leave 
 them to fade out forever ; no, not forever, for I 
 believe the mind will retain its store of facts and 
 
EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 
 
 291 
 
 feeling to all eternity. We may forget for awhile, 
 but they are not lost. My old home for my first 
 years was there. I saw the green grass and the row 
 of maples in front, — my father set them out. 
 Lilacs were before the windows looking very 
 friendly; there was a garden at the end of the 
 house ; many flowers were there. My mother loved 
 to cultivate them, and when she was old flower 
 pots were in her windows. Peach trees, before they 
 began to suffer from the many pests of to-day, 
 though great unshapely trees, produced large beau- 
 tiful red and yellow fruit. I see no more such. 
 Then there were plums, cherries, etc., etc. In 
 another part of the garden, I went to dig arti- 
 chokes, a great treat in my boyish days. I can see 
 the place where they grew, but they will grow no 
 more, for the garden with its zigzag fence is made 
 into a field, and the house is gfone. 
 
 My father's great barn was on the other side 
 of the road. You can never know what a delipfht 
 there is to a boy to be in a great barn in haying 
 time, breathing the sweet odors of new hay and 
 seeing the great loads drive in almost as large 
 as the barn itself. I remember a little elevation 
 where something had been done to attract me there 
 at the sunset hour, and I had the first consciousness 
 of the great world we live upon stretching far 
 away on every side, and the great mysterious dome 
 
292 EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 
 
 under which we live. I had often looked but 
 never felt before ; it was a new field for my 
 thoughts. 
 
 There was a brook running through my father's 
 farm, of which came many pleasant memories. 
 Sometimes its course was in the wild woods, wind- 
 ing around in the shade, rustling over its stony 
 bed, consisting of pebbles of many colors. It was a 
 boyish delight to wade in it and feel its waters 
 rushing by. At some sudden turns in its course it 
 became narrow, and consequently deeper. I was 
 delighted to look over the bank into its clear waters 
 and watch the scaly inhabitants waving their grace- 
 ful fins. They were happy as I, but it was of a lower 
 grade of delight. Some squirrels I could see glid- 
 ing along upon the branches with a merry jump. 
 In the margin of the woods were flocks of gay 
 singers, busy with their domestic duties, pouring- 
 out their marvelous songs, so I thought them. In 
 those days a bird was to me a thing of beauty. 
 How I envied their long, fearless flights, thinking 
 they might be messengers from an unknown world. 
 
 These thoughts and much more ran through my 
 mind in a few minutes, and I thank you for so 
 pleasant a visit back into the by-gone. But 
 enough ; you are tired, you cannot see what I saw, 
 nor hear the words that sounded in my ears, but 
 
EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 
 
 293 
 
 it was all real to me, a world of delights. Did you 
 ever think in the other world when memory shall 
 be relieved of its fetters, what a delight we shall 
 have always at our call ? The home of my child- 
 hood is destroyed, and the ploughshare has passed 
 over the garden, but memory will hold on to its 
 treasures, for it is spiritual ; though the eye may be 
 sightless, for it is mortal. 
 
 Next Tuesday, probably, with the members of 
 the Connecticut Historical Society, I shall go 
 through Boston on our way to Plymouth. There 
 will be no time to delay in Boston, but I hope 
 to be there soon. Plymouth is a holy land to New 
 England. There began the grandest government 
 the world has ever known. 
 
 So you have a garden. That recalls pleasant and 
 precious memories. When I was a youth at my 
 home in Enfield, I used to work in the garden 
 partly for the healthful exercise it gave me, but 
 more for the pleasure in it. 1 used to cultivate 
 long rows of flowers, not all rare, but old-fashioned 
 flowers, beautiful to me then, pulling up the weeds, 
 coaxing them to grow more vigorously, then the 
 buds were watched and as soon as a flower began 
 to peep through the green calyx my botany came 
 to my aid ; the very dust around them was dear to 
 me in that old garden spot, and the flowers in 
 memory seem almost angels of light calling forth a 
 
294 
 
 EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 
 
 kind of worship, for they are God's children and 
 they stand looking up to the sun in the attitude of 
 worship or adoration. I wonder what flowers will 
 bloom in the garden of Paradise ? My mother was 
 a great lover of flowers and had many rare speci- 
 mens ; she was fond and proud of showing them to 
 her neighbors. I see her now as she presented some 
 to her friends full of delight. Perhaps she has a 
 flower garden in some far away — with the family 
 all there save one. I shall meet them again (I look 
 back on five), when and where, I cannot tell. 
 
 I received the printed sermon on the Ministry of 
 Angels and have read it twice with increasing 
 interest. I have never had any pet theories on the 
 subject, have believed in them because the Bible 
 speaks of them as divine messengers ; you know 
 the word angel comes from a Greek word meaning 
 "sent" or "messenger." It is pleasant to think of 
 guardian angels following us through life and help- 
 ino- us in unknown danger and difficulties. Prob- 
 ably any of us might remember times when we 
 seemed to have received help and made wonderful 
 escapes. I remember when a boy with other com- 
 panions I had been roaming about as boys love 
 to do. I attempted to climb the bank of the 
 Connecticut river at a place where it was high and 
 precipitous. When almost up, standing on a nar- 
 
EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 295 
 
 row shelf of rock and holding on to a root it broke, 
 and for a moment I seemed falling- backward, my 
 head whirled, and had I fallen, it would doubtless 
 have caused death. But I did not fall, I never 
 could see why. I seemed to be held by nothing, 
 yet I was held ; and now, after forty years, cannot 
 think of it without a chill passing over me. I 
 wonder that I am alive. Was it a guardian angel 
 that helped me ? I do not know. Perhaps it is 
 a kindness in our great Father that we do not know 
 the unseen dangers around us. We should become 
 cowards. We ought to thank God every day that 
 we are still alive, yes, and also that if we are in 
 trouble a heavenly messenger may be hovering 
 over us ready to aid if it should be the will of God. 
 We cannot comprehend God, but we can form some 
 probably truthful opinions of His angels, for they, 
 like us, are created beings. 
 
 All efforts to describe Heaven to mortals have 
 been and will continue to be failures. How can any 
 one describe what " eye hath not seen nor ear 
 heard " ? I believe when we shall awake in Heaven 
 it will seem as strange to us as the world would be 
 to one born blind when his sight was given to him. 
 I once read " Dick's Future State " — a good man — 
 in which he endeavors to show how it migJit be, 
 and all his opinions seemed probable. The impres- 
 
296 EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 
 
 sion on my mind, not pleasant, was, that Heaven 
 was too much like earth. I choose to leave it a 
 mystery, being sure it will be such a place or state 
 as a being infinitely wise, good, and powerful would 
 prepare for those he loved, — that is enough for me. 
 But there was a rather concealed underlying 
 thought that all would arrive there in their time — 
 perhaps this is really the main object of the book. 
 You know there is a deep movement in the relig- 
 ious mind to-day to banish the idea of eternal pun- 
 ishment from Christian belief, not for want of evi- 
 dence in the Bible, but because the human heart 
 hates the thought. With the solution of this ques- 
 tion we have nothing to do, but we have ;i plain 
 duty to believe in Christ who saves from this eter- 
 nal death, and to induce others to believe. 
 
 One of the pleasant things this winter is a Ger- 
 man conversation club, consisting of twenty-five 
 persons, Americans, and one German lady as 
 teacher. All can speak German ; several have 
 spent considerable time in the Fatherland. The 
 first two hours no one is allowed to speak English 
 — the time is spent in general conversation. Ger- 
 man — conversational — like money in one's pocket, 
 slips away, and unless replenished is soon out of 
 reach, and it is astonishing how an exercise like 
 this brings it back again even without much study. 
 
EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 297 
 
 If present yoii would think yourself in the land of 
 the Teutons. 
 
 The Center Church has purchased a new organ 
 costing $20,000, and a concert was given to show its 
 good qualities ; it was very delightful ; wish you 
 could have been there. The one in our church has 
 been greatly improved. During the week the Inter- 
 Seminary Alissionary Alliance was held here. 
 " Theologs " from all denominations and all parts 
 of the country were present. They discussed the 
 nature and wants of the missionary field. The 
 public were treated to addresses, etc., from clergy- 
 men of note. Prof. Townsend of Boston was here 
 on Sunday, but as it was my day at the State 
 prison, I did not hear him. I have a class of eigh- 
 teen hard-looking men. 
 
 I do not know '' all " about Swedenborg, but have 
 heard and read something. There is no doubt as 
 to his being a most extraordinary man. His attain- 
 ments in science and general knowledge were a long 
 way beyond his contemporaries, but his books of 
 that description are all out of date now. The 
 world of science left him behind years ago, and he 
 is remembered now for his religious views. When 
 a man claims to have communication with the spirit 
 world I begin to think he is not of sound mind. I 
 19 
 
298 
 
 EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 
 
 once read one of his accounts, and, though only a 
 youth, thought it ridiculous. He claims to tell us 
 about the other world in detail, but who of all the 
 sacred writers has done such a thing ! Christ told 
 us how to get to heaven, but not what it was. In 
 view of the silence of those inspired men who 
 talked with God, his very human description seems 
 to me worthy of ridicule. I do not think he meant 
 to deceive, but was under the influence of a strange 
 delusion. We do not yet know much about the mys- 
 terious phenomenon of the soul, of spirits, of future 
 life, of death, etc. The Bible was given us for a 
 guide ; all we need to know is given us in a way in 
 which we need not stumble ; our only safety is in 
 holding on to the plain meaning of the sacred writ- 
 ings and let all false prophets perish with their day. 
 A fact that should cause every one to reject 
 Swedenborg is that he regards only a part of the 
 Bible as the Word of God — the rest is useful, but 
 not binding. In the New Testament he rejects in 
 this way all except the four Gospels and Revela- 
 tion. I do not think Swedenborg a representative 
 man, but if he is — of whom or of what ? The 
 number of the New Jerusalem Church is very 
 small, and will continue to be so, but there are al- 
 ways some people — good, perhaps — whose minds, 
 being a little warped, hanker for strange things, 
 believe upon no evidence, and reject the plainest 
 truths. 
 
EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 299 
 
 The star Sirius, the most conspicuous star in the 
 south, now seems to be looking into my window 
 with a kind and amiable eye. It is a great distance 
 away, but astronomers say it is the nearest star in 
 the firmament, and would only require about four- 
 teen years for a ray of light to reach us. Perhaps 
 when our earthly fetters have fallen off we shall be 
 able to fly away and visit somewhere in the now 
 unknown space, our Father's home; yes, but that will 
 not be all. 
 
 For I shall be as pure as lit^ht, 
 Claiming in many worlds a right ; 
 My Father's realm and seat. 
 
 I am reading now a very old heroic poem of Fin- 
 land, the " Kalevala." I have had it in mind for 
 years, but it has just been published in this coun- 
 try. It is from this that Longfellow is supposed 
 to have received the spirit and scheme of " Hiawa- 
 tha," but not the story. It is a strange, old poem, 
 said to be three thousand years old. Perhaps this 
 is doubtful, but it is very ancient. It interests me 
 much, not for the information it gives, but for the 
 echoes that come from old long-ago. It seems to 
 have no connection with the world of to-day. I am 
 not sure you would be interested — not unless you 
 understand its mythologies. 
 
300 
 
 EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 
 
 Saturday there was a great Luther festival held 
 in our oldest church, at which there was some fine 
 old Luther music well performed, but much faster 
 than in Germany, and with that a grand address by 
 
 Dr. H , professor in the Theological Seminary 
 
 here. On Sunday, in nearly every Protestant 
 church, the morning sermon was on that subject, 
 and in the evening there was a union service in the 
 Park Church with fine music and addresses. I 
 think Luther's life is the most memorable one in all 
 the annals of human history ; there never was a 
 more honest man, civilian or soldier, and probably 
 the civilization of Europe to-day hangs upon his 
 great work. 
 
 At home I observe the Sabbath very strictly. I 
 like to do it. Out of church and Sunday-school the 
 time is mostly spent in reading or studying some- 
 thing of a religious character — never any secular 
 books or papers. There is a profound pleasure in 
 the holiness of the Sabbath day. It is beyond and 
 above me, but I seem to long after it, and can say, 
 in truth, it is the happiest day of the week. May 
 God keep me never to lose any of my veneration 
 for the holy day. But the keeping of a day is in 
 the spirit we cherish. 
 
EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLORS LETTERS 
 
 301 
 
 Probably you have found me to be a kind of en- 
 thusiast in nature. When a boy, before I knew 
 what it really meant, it seemed natural for me to 
 think of the vegetable world as going to sleep in 
 autumn, as we for a night. What a sweet, dream- 
 less slumber they must have had all the snowy 
 months ; everything just as it should be — not like 
 us unfortunates — in due time awaking in spotless 
 beauty, in perfect bliss ! How the kind sun seems 
 to smile upon them, giving hour after hour its 
 transforming kisses, which they return with looks 
 of adoration, and soon will hang out on every 
 yielding spray a green banner to wave in joy and 
 gratitude ! Even now the magnolias and the apple 
 trees are filling the air with new delight. 
 
 How I would like to be out in the country now — 
 not only to say good morning to the trees and 
 flowers that are waking up out of sleep, but also to 
 welcome the birds that make their appearance day 
 by day, hopping around merrily. My favorite, the 
 oriole, has not yet appeared. I may not see him here 
 in the city where I live, but no bird is more wel- 
 come. He has on a bright dress, and his note, 
 though not equal to some, has a great charm to me. 
 It is a strange, wild note — sad, withal — which is 
 to be expected, for he comes alone, and is appa- 
 rently waiting for somebody. Somebody comes at 
 last, and his song loses its mournful character. 
 
302 EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 
 
 I am reading " Faust" with a German friend ; it, 
 with Dante's " Commedia," to me, towers high 
 above all products of human imagination. Neither 
 is good in every respect, but both are the works of 
 great geniuses. I would not recommend " Faust " 
 to any one unless they felt their religious opinions 
 grounded upon a solid rock, beyond a peradventure, 
 in regard to which no doubt ever comes. It may 
 not harm, but cannot increase the faith of anyone. 
 You may ask why any should read it. No one 
 should unless he feels a strong desire to do so. At 
 the first reading it seems to some the most profane 
 conception in all literature, without using a single 
 word of ordinary profanity. You know there is a 
 doubt among commentators what " Faust " meant. 
 vSome think it is the struggle of the good and bad 
 principles in the human soul. However it may be, 
 it is very subtle in its detail, and gives profound in- 
 sight into human nature in masterly sentences of 
 great beauty ; and in that lies the fascination for 
 me. There is no true, good talk in it, nor plati- 
 tudes ; an ignorant man should not venture upon 
 it. I do not think it can be translated. There are 
 some who value it as a " religious exponent." I do 
 not, but as offering an opportunity for looking into 
 the depths of our mysterious hearts and souls. I 
 am also reading a great " System of Theology." 
 You might presume it was to counteract the other, 
 but for the fact that it was begun before " Faust." 
 
EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 303 
 
 This has been a delightful day — a sky without a 
 cloud — blue, so blue and transparent we seem to 
 see far into its depths. If it were only a little 
 clearer, what wonders might we see ! The world 
 to me is full of beauty. My taste leads me where 
 I can commune with nature — the green children 
 of the forest and plain ; a walk by the sea, with its 
 wild, rocky, yet beautiful, shores, uniting with the 
 waves in a low, sweet anthem of praise. I think 
 the deep emotions of the soul, though not expressed 
 in articulate sounds, are in harmony, and join in 
 that great anthem, and feel unspeakable delight. 
 When our emotions are deepest our tongues seem 
 to fail ; their silence speaks louder than words. I 
 believe that deep in our hearts lie our choicest 
 treasures, and that is well, for we can carry them 
 with us to the end — yes, beyond the end. 
 
 How strong a problem is this human life of ours ! 
 Endowed with the elements of boundless, but fet- 
 tered, capacities and infinite longings, never gain- 
 ing an " answer to life's questions," because we fail 
 to see " the Hands that do offer help." Most seem 
 to have lived in vain — wanderers. I have some- 
 times thought that this vague longing for some- 
 thing better is the homesickness of the soul for its 
 original home in Paradise, from which it has wan- 
 dered, a prodigal, for six thousand years. The 
 
304 EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 
 
 vision lias vanished, but a taste for the unknown 
 and lost good remains. " Sounds from home played 
 upon a harp that finds faint echo in our souls, even 
 after two hundred generations." We shall never 
 be satisfied till we return to our Father's house. I 
 am " brushing up" my botany now for a short time, 
 occasionally spending the whole day in the woods 
 and fields alone. It is pleasant, but it might be 
 pleasanter ; and if you were here, 1 should try to 
 induce you to go with me. The frost will soon end 
 this pleasure, and take away the life of my dear 
 little children of nature. I am about to commence 
 the " Princess of Thule." I suppose Whittier's 
 prayer of Plato was really that of Socrates, but 
 given by Plato in Phaedrus, beginning, " O beloved 
 Pan, and all ye other gods of this place, grant me 
 to become beautiful in the inner man," etc. It is, 
 indeed, beautiful ! There is no Christianity in it — 
 it does not provide for lost sinners ; but where that 
 prayer could be answered would be heaven, for 
 where everything is perfectly beautiful within, and 
 at peace with all without, there could be no sin, for 
 sin is the ugliest of deformities. It is not claimed 
 that beauty is holiness, nor that ugliness (that is 
 the opposite of beauty) is sin ; but all holiness is 
 beautiful, and all sin is ugly and deformed. 
 
EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 305 
 
 We have had a very interesting series of Sabbath- 
 school lessons, embracing a great drama — the 
 grandest by far that the world has ever seen, or 
 that ever will be played on the stage in all the ages 
 of eternity — so great that the world fails to see it. 
 How many persons, speaking of Christ, realize that 
 He was the maker of the world, and holds it in the 
 hollow of His hand ? But it was so ; the dying 
 Christ on the cross was the eternal Son of God. 
 
 The good a teacher may do is not to be estimated 
 in this world. The possible results are far greater 
 with the younger ones, for there will be improve- 
 ment, and the effect will be more lasting. A little 
 truth lodged in a child's mind may last forever. It 
 is said a person fixed in childhood seldom changes 
 his religion, and it will be all the stronger if it 
 was only taught as a fact, without reason or expla- 
 nation. 
 
 June 23, 1 88 1. — I went to Cleveland as a dele- 
 gate to the international convention of the Ameri- 
 can Y. M. C. A. The convention and its doings 
 have been very interesting. It is a great thing to 
 see five hundred and fifty persons, most of them 
 young or youngish men, from every part of the 
 United States and Canada, gathered and moved by 
 one great impulse, and that a noble one — the work 
 of saving souls. Perhaps all engaged are not very 
 
3o6 EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 
 
 learned or wise, or free from mistakes, but all had 
 one common, intense desire. Some had a little 
 western roughness, and those from the South had 
 none of the coldness and proud reserve of our dear 
 Puritan home. It was amusing to see how strangers, 
 meeting on the streets, would stop, introduce each 
 other, shake hands with a stinging grip, and talk 
 away as though they had been life-long neighbors. 
 
 The meetings were devoted to devotional exer- 
 cises, business, and discussions, at which interesting 
 papers were presented. I did not realize the great- 
 ness of the movement at first, but now it seems like 
 a great wave, rolling over the country, and, per- 
 haps, the world — spontaneous, sinking down into 
 the heart of our social and religious life. The en- 
 thusiasm of the men engaged is astonishing. 
 
 The church is and will continue to be the in- 
 strumentality through which God establishes His 
 kingdom on earth ; the Y. M. C. A. is not an op- 
 ponent or rival ; it should be regarded as a ser- 
 vant. The church ought to do in its own field all 
 the Y. M. C. A. is doing, but it does not ; and a 
 spontaneous movement, like an avalanche, loosened 
 by the wants of the times, comes rushing down into 
 the gap. The church cannot stop it, nor resist it ; 
 but it can, and should, yoke it into service. In 
 many instances it does. All should aid and cherish, 
 but where this is not the case, some men will wake 
 
EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 
 
 307 
 
 up with the sound of rushing torrents in their ears, 
 and will be greatly astonished to find they have 
 been left behind, stranded and dry. 
 
 Our Connecticut Historical Society had an excur- 
 sion to Deerfield, Mass. — an old, historic place. 
 The ride through the young, fresh country was 
 very pleasant to Springfield ; then to South Deer- 
 field. There we took carriages, and rode to Bloody 
 Brook, where we rested a short time ; then over 
 hills and valleys to Old Deerfield, and to our hotel. 
 I at once left the company to find the home in 
 which my father was born and lived as a boy. The 
 Taylor family occupied it more than a hundred 
 years ago. The front part of the structure, with 
 its strange wall paper, was there. The grand elms 
 spread their arms over the street. I had heard of 
 them often. A wild whirlwind of thoughts rushed 
 through my mind, as I stood and looked up into 
 the confused world of branches. What had they 
 seen ? But they would not speak ; only a soft, low 
 murmur was heard. I felt its solemnity, but could 
 not interpret it. Walked along past my grand- 
 father's church, which, thanks to the degenerate 
 times, has become Unitarian. He was orthodox. 
 The rest of the time was spent in the rooms of 
 the museum of the Historical Society, where was 
 preserved a very interesting collection of colonial 
 relics. 
 
3o8 EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 
 
 I tliought you would like " Fishing Jimmy." 
 The effect of such lives is not lost ; like the prayers 
 of the saints, they are preserved in heaven. The 
 Pilgrim was bent down to earth, raking something 
 he thought was there, but the crown above he did 
 not see. Fervent prayers and good, holy lives rise 
 like incense up to heaven. We do not know always 
 here what good and great is, and in the future life 
 there will be great reversals and changes in the 
 relative place of men from the standard here. 
 
 What a pleasant world this would be if we could 
 select out from all we have known the best seasons, 
 places, and, more than all, friends ; but Providence 
 does not intend that for us, for we should then be 
 given over to this world, while our real home is in 
 another ; and so we might be strangers in a strange 
 land forever. 
 
 It is a beautiful theory that thoughts once ut 
 tered will never cease their sounding, but are 
 somewhere in the universe, repeating the words, or 
 the music, forever — often listened to by spirits, as 
 they float away to the happy isles. 
 
 I have sometimes seemed to catch a few faint 
 words or tones of a song so sweet that no human 
 tongue could speak them. 
 
EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 309 
 
 I want nothing evil preserved in my storehouse 
 of dear, pleasant memories — dear, even though 
 the friends should forget or become estranged. 
 
 We are reading the " Curse of Kehama," by 
 Southey. The " Curse " has great beauties and 
 great defects. We take turns in selecting subjects, 
 and when this was chosen there was but one copy 
 to be bought or borrowed in Hartford, so far as we 
 could learn. It is instructive to see how men are 
 forgotten. Southey was a poet-laureate of Eng- 
 land, and now no one has his greatest work. The 
 descriptions are wonderful. I do not think much 
 of the general plot. It has its foundations in Hin- 
 doo mythology. Southey was, no doubt, an ad- 
 mirer of Dante. It is a Hindoo story — gods and 
 men mingled in strange confusion. I used to take 
 great interest in those eastern mythologies. In the 
 midst of the chaos of disgusting things, there are 
 some sublime ideas. 
 
 It was a great pleasure to see your last letter 
 beginning with a German sentence. Of course, 
 we must study, or we will forget. German is a 
 noble tongue, and, to my ears, very musical. 
 Italian is music itself, and noble ; but the Teutonic 
 has more than beauty. My first teacher had been 
 a professor in a German university. My earliest 
 
3IO EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 
 
 piece was from Goethe ; it was of startling interest 
 to me. Prose is not more beautiful than in many- 
 other languages, but its poetry is charming, and 
 there is much of it, and of the highest order. 
 
 I was pleased with the series of articles upon 
 Methodists. What a wonderful history they have 
 had ! How much good they have done in the 
 world ! And how great has been their influence 
 on other denominations ! Years ago I had a few 
 decided objections to many of their practices, and, 
 perhaps, have now — something in practice, and 
 something in their belief — but their peculiarities 
 are passing away. I have always been a Calvinist, 
 and am not ready to give up anything now ; but I 
 must admit some old supposed truths do not look 
 to me quite as they did in former time. I think 
 our fathers fought bravely about points of no prac- 
 tical value. That which makes a man a Christian 
 is the same in every evangelical denomination. 
 There is enough in any and all for Christians to 
 unite upon, and leave the difficult questions to a 
 time when men shall become wiser. Although 
 strong in the faith of my church, I could unite with 
 any church that founds its faith on an intelligent 
 interpretation of the Word of God. 
 
 Some of the grandest events among the nations ; 
 some of the noblest deeds of individual heroism ; 
 
EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 311 
 
 and some of the most beautiful thoughts of the 
 noblest and fairest, have never been written, and 
 never can be. 
 
 Psalm 35 : 14 : " The secret of the Lord is with 
 them that fear Him." What is the secret of the 
 Lord ? What is it to fear Him ? The secret : To 
 know the glory and harmony of divine perfection, 
 which encourages trust in His love ; sweet com- 
 munion which the believer enjoys with God his 
 Saviour ; peace and joy that " spring from the 
 earnest of the vSpirit " ; the calm, sweet delight that 
 comes from the consciousness of the holy, loving 
 hand of God ever upon us, and to taste even a little 
 of the beauty of holinCvSS. One man believes in 
 God ; another, under the same circumstances, does 
 not. Why ? The one has learned the secret. One 
 man believes " all things work together for good " ; 
 another does not. One man finds a delight in a 
 holy life ; another does not. To one the Scriptures 
 .shine with the radiance of noonday sun ; to an- 
 other all is dark. To one the attributes of God are 
 attractive beauties; to another the characteristics 
 of a tyrant. To one life, however humble, has 
 more joys than tongue can describe ; to another 
 joyless, without one star in all his leaden sky. 
 There lies the secret — to those who have it, clear 
 as sunlight ; to those who have it not, without ex- 
 istence. 
 
312 
 
 EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 
 
 Fear. In good men the fear of God is a holy- 
 awe or reverence of God and His laws ; with bad 
 men a fearful apprehension of merited punish- 
 ment. John 8: 17: "If any man will do His will 
 he shall know of the doctrine," etc. That is, they 
 know the secrets of God who are willing to eio His 
 will. Experience shows that in proportion as we 
 love God and do His will, and work, in that propor- 
 tion is our insight clear and our faith strong ; but 
 evil-doers and rebels are, as a natural consequence, 
 unbelievers, without any evidence of divine truth, 
 and are constantly sinking deeper and deeper in 
 the black swamp of infidelity. 
 
 I used to wonder how the martyrs could go forth 
 to their dreadful death, but the truth is they had 
 learned wonderful secrets — so delightful and trans- 
 porting that neither fire, nor rack, nor hungry lions 
 had any power of fear over them. They might, 
 perhaps, have seen the dreadful preparations, but 
 they also saw farther, to things unspeakable. They 
 were not driven to death by sense of duty, but drawn 
 by glories others could not see — secrets clear to 
 their eyes — God's everlasting love. 
 
 My recollection of my visit to the two places is 
 very sweet. The one was quite unlike the other ; 
 each was delightful in a thousand ways. I felt a 
 fascination in the sea-washed shores, inviting noble 
 
EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 
 
 313 
 
 tlioug-hts, lifting a little out of self. I could find 
 companionship in those rugged rocks, could sit for 
 hours and days, read long volumes of inexpressible 
 thoughts and feelings on their torn faces ; but 
 they would not invite sociability — rather silence. 
 That was a place in which one might be alone, and 
 yet not alone. 
 
 The green world, however, is another world — 
 loving and friendly — in which we feel we are liv- 
 ing, breathing human beings, part of a family. 
 Some are hateful, but more have amiable quali- 
 ties ; some we like, and some we love ; and our 
 poor hearts beat wildly with contending emotions. 
 This is a fallen world — fallen very far down ; but 
 it bestows upon us hours, days, and years of un- 
 speakable happiness. What an Eden it would have 
 been if sin had not entered to blast everything ! 
 But nothing present, nor to come, can rob poor 
 mortals of faith, hope, and love. 
 
 The strongest proofs of the truth of Christianity, 
 to me, are conversions. 
 
 The little book, " Gold Dust," grows in value and 
 improves on acquaintance. There is a great deal 
 in it not very welcome to everyone at all times, but 
 for all that very healthful. I intend to read it some 
 every morning — we are often called to do what we 
 
314 
 
 EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 
 
 naturally do not desire to do. It is not easy to 
 love the rude and mean — " tired of doing little 
 things ? " Well, I used to be, but now I do not 
 know what little things are. Great things look small 
 at a distance, and little things often make a great 
 deal of noise ; a pin will cause great pain ; a clown is 
 usually represented as fat and clumsy. A rich man 
 gives a large sum of money, but it does not weigh 
 so much as the widow's farthing. Dives can en- 
 dow a university, but it is a mere trifle compared 
 with suffering a small thing for conscience sake. 
 
 The world thinks it is grand and brave to go out 
 to meet the foe, or the assassin, or some natural 
 danger, but it may be harder to sit in the place 
 where God has placed us. No, we shall not know 
 what things are great, and what small, till we see 
 them in the light that only dimly shines in this 
 world. 
 
 There is no religion in sadness. God meant us 
 to be glad, to sing and rejoice like the birds. But 
 for the " fall " there would have been one ceaseless 
 anthem of unmingled joy and delight. I think in 
 all undisturbed nature, except our race, this is the 
 fact now. 
 
 There are some friendships almost love ; they 
 are firm and mighty, and last life-long. The relig- 
 ious sentiment and some peculiar mental character- 
 
EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 
 
 315 
 
 istics add to the enduring quality. But that other 
 kindred passion is not friendship, though they may 
 walk together with joined hands ; it can rarely exist 
 except in the case of parent and child, or of man 
 and woman. Friendship is calm and peaceful, con- 
 scious of no sun, no rain, nor storm — but in the 
 other we are in the grasp of a power like a tornado. 
 Love to me is a grand oratorio. At times the 
 sweetest airs on the most delicate instruments are 
 heard, but soon we may tremble under a full or- 
 chestra such as man cannot construct nor at his own 
 volition play. Friendship is a great pleasure like 
 the gentle breath of summer. It may not be so 
 abiding, because so little is at stake. Sometimes it 
 is made in a breath, but when it is gone only a 
 slight, dim impression is left behind. It was not 
 deep and nothing is left. 
 
 Some friendships grow stronger though the per- 
 sons are far away ; so strong that we seem to see or 
 hear over vast distances of earth and time. What 
 a strange network binds human hearts — so fine, so 
 gentle, so sweet — and may be stronger than iron 
 cable and more cruel than the grave. 
 
 Round two hearts a golden chain 
 Was drawn, forever to remain ; 
 
 In Heaven the tiny links were cast, 
 Immortal hands to earth convey 
 
 With mystic locks, the ends make fast, 
 And take the golden key away. 
 
3i6 EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 
 
 Those who have given their hearts to God as well 
 as to each other will know no change on earth, no 
 change through all the cycles of eternity. Love is 
 a God-given gift. Let us tread lightly and rever- 
 ently before the author. 
 
 There is a Heaven-sent passion that descends 
 upon mortals, and they are no longer the same ; a 
 golden glow covers everything — defects and im- 
 perfections are veiled. Sometimes it is the dawn of 
 unbounded happiness, sometimes woe. 
 
 How full of our wants our hearts are. We think 
 if we only could do what we please, Heaven would 
 begin on our earth. The thought and longing is 
 some good. It is better to have a longing for some 
 good thing than to possess something the world 
 may choose. 
 
 Hearts that truly love will find each other in that 
 great multitude that no tongue can number, and go 
 on hand in hand, upward, forever to the Father's 
 throne, who is love. There is nothing greater to 
 hope for in this life — nothing — that is the filling 
 up of our cup of bliss. 
 
 1892. — A beautiful object does not make the same 
 impression upon all minds, it is true ; but there was a 
 culminating point of time in all my remembered 
 days, too sacred to be talked about, holy, as I would 
 have my death-bed hour. The first in point of time, 
 
EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 
 
 317 
 
 it will never be repeated by me under changed cir- 
 cumstances. My lips would refuse their office in 
 such an act of sacrilege. 
 
 It is strange how much pleasure hangs upon lit- 
 tle things ; perhaps we don't know what little and 
 great things are in this world — a prayer, a tear of 
 joy or sorrow. 
 
 If there were no sin, no disease, no sickness, no 
 want, with all the sweet, beautiful things the world 
 affords, that would be Heaven. 
 
 How many painful hours are spent trying to 
 make others happy ! I have no doubt that among the 
 persons we meet in our daily walks, year after year, 
 and feel repulsed by their look, that, if we knew 
 them well, we would find a friend who would be to 
 us an unfailing delight. 
 
 The face is a great tell-tale, but it does not tell 
 the whole story, nor always the truth. What pleas- 
 ant discoveries we shall make when we wake up 
 far away ! One day we may read volumes of life 
 with continued wonder and delight. 
 
 There is a great pleasure in making a good effort, 
 even if not successful as you would desire. Did you 
 ever think that so far as spiritual things are con- 
 cerned, and in reference to ounselves, success is the 
 
3i8 EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 
 
 effort, not the result of an effort, but the effort it- 
 self, even though to others it may seem a failure ? 
 But in this world we do not know always what re- 
 sults are successes. 
 
 1892. — We all like to be free ! — we would like to 
 sail away in the high heavens, over hills, groves, 
 and sea. How many things we could discover in 
 such a picturesque journey ! Some things, as trees, 
 fields, houses, etc., we can see in our present sm- 
 bound life ; but what pictures they would be if 
 viewed from a great height. 
 
 A glimpse we might get from time to time as we 
 ascend a mountain and look around. What pic- 
 tures eagles might have if they had any mental 
 feelings. 
 
 Do you never for a passing moment think that 
 after long years strange revelations will come to 
 us of men and things ? I am sometimes impa- 
 tient, — all seems a failure. 
 
 Nothing,— I would have had, — almost, — hope 
 now dim, — I think often what might have been 
 and is not, and almost am ready for the summons, 
 but that dark time passes away and I think of 
 sweet delightful things, — scenes that I would call 
 back. 
 
 Through clouds I can see a star ; it grows into 
 a happy world of unspeakable delight. 
 
EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 
 
 319 
 
 Many things in the hand of Providence are in- 
 comprehensible ; — but God is good, and right, and 
 loving, and consequently what He does will be 
 right and best. 
 
 The deepest things cannot be expressed. Sun- 
 set depends upon clouds. Deep feelings are 
 always serious and sad. 
 
 I wonder if there will be any autumn in the 
 spirit world, or will it be always spring? Who 
 
 knows ? 
 
 1892. — The passage you have selected will be 
 accepted for the year. " Thou wilt keep him in 
 perfect peace whose mind in stayed on Thee." 
 This passage is of uncommon interest to me. I 
 heard a sermon preached from it many years ago 
 that made a greater impression 'than any other, I 
 think. It was in a revival, not of the noisy character; 
 it was preached by a great revival preacher of those 
 days, now dead. It was a simple, earnest state- 
 ment that seemed short, though it was really long. 
 The two great thoughts in it were : " In perfect 
 peace whose heart is stayed on Thee " (^God). That 
 sermon has rung in my ears all the by-gone years. 
 I have told it to many as my golden sermon. I can 
 see him, how he looked, his soul on fire with his 
 subject. I consider it the great sermon of my life. 
 
320 EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 
 
 That poetry is a powerful means of culture, is 
 good, but of course we cannot always look at 
 autumnal tints, or flowers, or sunsets, or landscapes ; 
 but after the iron work of the day is done there 
 is usually a time we might use to refine and elevate 
 the fibre of our souls. Surely what could be better 
 for that purpose than the most beautiful works of 
 the most refined minds ! 
 
 I think that really great poetry must be studied, 
 rather than read ; it has been wrought out of the 
 very souls of the authors, by long, patient labor — 
 sometimes painful ; — we cannot comprehend it 
 without time and effort, perhaps like a mine it may 
 require hard digging, but in the end it yields pure 
 gold. Every time I read Milton, Shakespeare, 
 Tennyson, and others, they seem to be greater and 
 better. Sometimes a few lines, read many times all 
 at once, open up to me in wondrous beauty ; as a 
 sample, I enclose a few lines of the " Merchant of 
 Venice," that impressed me a short time ago as 
 marvelous. Surely a soul should become nobler by 
 meditating on noble thoughts. 
 
 From the Aferi/iant of Venice. 
 
 " Look ! how the floor of Heaven 
 
 Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold ; 
 
 There's not the smallest orb which thou beholdest, 
 
 But in his motion like an angel sings, 
 
 Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubims ; 
 
EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 321 
 
 Such harmony is in immortal souls ; 
 But, whilst this muddy vesture of decay 
 Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it." 
 
 Mrs. Heman's ode is very beautiful ; full of 
 pleasant thoughts, she loved nature and could read 
 its volume. I suppose her poems are not read now- 
 much, nor regarded as great, but she has contri- 
 buted many beautiful and good things to our 
 literature. 
 
 Dr. Mather preached a sermon on God's father- 
 hood. He is pastor of the old orthodox church 
 founded by Mr. Hooker, who, in very early times, 
 came across the wilderness, probably from Newton, 
 near Boston. He looks upon God as a Father, with 
 all the loving qualities of the only perfect of all 
 fathers. The old idea of predestination is not in 
 the sermon, but the real truth may be. Predesti- 
 nation as first preached was a dreadful doctrine to 
 me ; but perhaps we do not understand it, and in 
 time many dark things will grow light. I hesitate 
 to change anything in my creed. It is pleasant to 
 think of God as a father who loves all His children. 
 
 Thank you for the account of Venus of Milo. I 
 remember the statue in Paris, one of great beauty 
 and interesting in its history. It is almost in- 
 credible what skill the ancients had, which the 
 
322 EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 
 
 younger world has so largely lost. No doubt many 
 precious artistic creations are now lying- mutilated 
 under the ruins of old cities, or have been ground 
 to dust under the tramp of two thousand years. 
 
 The sea is always interesting to me. I am im- 
 pressed by it, like to watch it and dream over it ; 
 but it is always the same " cruel treacherous thing." 
 I always feel serious by its side, as if God were 
 there. 
 
 Browning will be always admired, but all his 
 poems will not. Part will fall out, but many are of 
 rare excellence. It is a great pity that a gem 
 should be obscured by a fancy that obscurity is 
 excellence. He is great in thought, and that is the 
 highest quality in poetry, but he does violence to 
 his mother tongue. 
 
 We are bound to be as great and good as possi- 
 ble ; to use our abilities to the utmost ; because 
 that is a good in itself. That, however, is not the 
 motive that incites men to action, ordinarily ; it is 
 that they may have a name, to be honored by future 
 generations. Never did a thinking being choose a 
 thing more unsubstantial. Do you think ten per- 
 sons in all New England living to-day will be 
 known or thought of one hundred and fifty years 
 
EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 
 
 323 
 
 hence ? It might be a pleasure to some to know 
 their names were in some old books in a mouldy 
 library. Posterity will not preserve the name of 
 one, out of many millions of our race, even in 
 historic countries. Therefore he who runs in this 
 race is chasing- a cloud, that if we could reach 
 it would seem to have no form or substance ; it 
 would be a race for chaff, for the wind. Is there 
 nothing for us to strive after? Yes. We have 
 infinite possibilities before us. Riches, honor, 
 reputation, learning, are something to be desired, 
 but they are also sometimes very hollow ; they are 
 mostly treasures of this world to be kept here, 
 worthless as the stock of a broken bank. 
 
 But if we can add something to the aggregate of 
 human happiness, or take away something of 
 misery, then we will have laid up treasure in 
 heaven. In a handful of sand there may be a 
 diamond ; you do not see it ; tread upon it ; it is not 
 harmed, it is one of the hardest of substances ; sub- 
 ject it to the heat of a furnace, it will not melt or 
 burn ; but wash away the earth and it will gleam 
 with wonderful brightness. Every child, however 
 disagreeable in face or clothed in however un- 
 sightly rags, has concealed not a diamond, but 
 something made out of the breath of God, that 
 even the combined misery of the world cannot 
 crush, nor the fires of the second death consume. 
 
324 EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 
 
 What a glorious success it would be to direct one 
 such little soul, so that it shall not wander forever 
 striving to hide from the eye of holiness, desir- 
 ing above all things to die, always dying, yet never 
 dead, but, on the other hand, to lead it, so that it 
 shall go on forever, shining brighter, glowing more 
 and more as it becomes more capable of reflecting 
 the rays of the Divine Father, through all the 
 ceaseless cycles of the future. Though we may 
 not see the results of labor to-day, what a joy it will 
 be after time is past, as you walk the golden streets, 
 if someone should leave the angel choir for a 
 moment to come down to thank you for directing 
 him in the way of life, and point to a long line of 
 friends and neighbors who are also there in conse- 
 quence of your labors. If the Queen of England 
 has been the instrument of saving one soul, it will 
 be in that day the cause of more pride than to have 
 been the queen of the greatest empire in the world. 
 Can any talent be hid, when as the result of any 
 day's work an impulse may be given, that will not 
 end until a new star is hung out in God's firma- 
 ment. 
 
 The heart is a great deal bigger than the tongue ; 
 it sometimes contains treasures that can never be 
 conveyed to another. The intellect produces New- 
 tons and Miltons, but "God is love." There is 
 
EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 
 
 325 
 
 something that will outlive the misfortune and 
 bitterness of earth, and bloom with everlasting 
 beatitude forever, for to exercise a strong and holy 
 love is to grow daily more like God. I know of 
 nothing human so Christlike as mother love. In 
 this world we must make Christ our righteousness ; 
 some day we shall be like Him, for we shall see 
 Him as He is. 
 
 The future is veiled ; 'tis well it is so, for if it 
 shall be evil we are saved the pain of anticipation ; 
 if it shall be good we can also gather the flowers 
 now within our reach. 
 
 I send you a flower not beautiful nor fragrant, 
 but it was picked by me a few feet from the ice of 
 the Swiss Alps of the Rhone glacier about seven 
 thousand feet above the sea. It is there called the 
 Alpine Rose, but I think it is a species of Rhodo- 
 dedron. My " Whisperings " were manufactured on 
 one of the warm sunny days, just passed. 
 
 One finds Wordsworth a little hard to become 
 interested in — that was my experience some years 
 ago. I knew he was a great poet, admired by 
 many whose opinions were valued. To me it was 
 very tame, and in short was given up. Some years 
 after, having heard a lecture upon him, another 
 
326 EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 
 
 attempt was made with a different result. I then 
 read more carefully. The Excursion was read 
 twice, most of it aloud to myself — alone — not too 
 much at a time — and in the end it was much liked. 
 Many of his shorter poems are good, but that is my 
 favorite. I think he grows upon you like a good 
 friend, as the acquaintance become more intimate. 
 He has been called the poet of nature, and his resi- 
 dence among the English Lakes has rendered them 
 to many hallowed ground. 
 
 No one can tell where the departed are. If we 
 could draw back a very thin veil perhaps we should 
 find ourselves in the midst of angels and blessed 
 spirits, and when to others we seem to de- 
 part, it may be to us only the throwing off our 
 rags and infirmities and waking up into everlasting 
 glories. This, of course, is only speculation, but I 
 am sure that the reality will be better than we can 
 imagine — " Eye hath not seen nor ear heard." We 
 are so encased in our earthly tabernacle that it 
 darkens all our vision and fetters all our power of 
 thought and action, and we know not much about 
 our spiritual possibilities ; we are like caged birds 
 that never flew. Think of the life of the poor im- 
 prisoned thing compared with what it would be if 
 it could spread its wings and soar away above the 
 tree-tops out into the sky, and then look down upon 
 
EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 327 
 
 the world below. The higher the flight, the farther 
 will the vision extend. 
 
 To place flowers upon a neglected grave is a 
 sweet thing to do. The sleeper may not know it, 
 but a living friend may be made glad, may be 
 made to feel that there are unselfish friends in the 
 world ; but more, the giver will be lifted up a little 
 nearer Heaven, for, while a mean selfish act lets us 
 down, a kind, unselfish act will add wings to our 
 upward flight. A visit to a cemetery is a good 
 thing. I feel better for going there. It is not a 
 pleasure, but there may be a holy satisfaction, a 
 growth of soul, an experience we would not seek, 
 but yet would not miss. There is the connecting 
 cord between the present and the past. At home 
 we remember our friends as they were — they are 
 not the same now — but, in the cemetery, we are re- 
 lated to them as they are and as we shall one day 
 be. 
 
 Activity, love, and hope are the great factors in 
 our earthly happiness. We might write sermons 
 upon each topic, and, looking into our own hearts, we 
 might speak much truth, because it is ourselves and 
 what we know. Happiness comes, but we long for 
 more. I have deep longings for many things. I 
 want much time for reading and study, for the ex- 
 
328 EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 
 
 ercise of my pen, for seeing the world, for doing 
 good to the unfortunate. Ah ! what a change I would 
 make in the old, wicked world. No doubt multi- 
 tudes wonder why Providence has not favored them 
 more, but probably we would not do as we think 
 we would, andourlono^ed-for good-fortune might be 
 the cause of our spiritual loss. Very few persons 
 who are not compelled to do something ever ac- 
 complish anything. My dissatisfaction is easily 
 cured by thinking how many people are poor, dis- 
 figured, ill-shapen, feeble-minded, afflicted, and 
 friendless, troubled in many ways, whose whole life 
 is sickening to think of as we view them, when 
 many of them in the sight of God are better than I 
 am. Whom does the Lord chastise ? Why should 
 He favor me and leave some of His dearest children 
 in want ? I have walked around this circle many 
 times and learned a lesson. 
 
 On leaving Hubbardston the ride was very inter- 
 esting. On arriving at Williamstown I found the 
 village was full of strangers — returning students 
 and their friends. I was out early before breakfast 
 for a walk, and I found the village one of the most 
 beautiful places I was ever in. There is not much 
 here besides the college and buildings. I spent the 
 day inspecting parks, museum, etc. One of the 
 most interesting things was the monument, raised 
 
EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 329 
 
 on the site of the haystack where the prayer meet- 
 ing was held which resulted in the American Board 
 for Foreign Missions. On the " Haystack " monu- 
 ment were cut the names of the men, and one of 
 them was Francis L. Robbins, my old minister 
 when I was a boy. 
 
 Two boy friends and myself visited the " Tower," 
 a place of resort on the mountain — we call it so — 
 
 about ten miles from H . We went part of 
 
 the way by cars, but walked up and back, not far 
 from ten miles. It was a delightful walk, over hill 
 and dale, through pleasant farms, then white with 
 apple blossoms. The sun was bright and the air 
 clear, but not too warm. We watched the birds, 
 stopped to hear their songs, particularly the bobo- 
 link ; admired the nimble squirrel, rested when we 
 could have a fine view, drank from the mountain 
 spring, and at last emerged from a forest to the 
 open space on the top, from which we had a de- 
 lightful view of the Farmington valley. The boys 
 threw stones over the precipitous western side. We 
 walked along the ridge of the hill, enjoyed the most 
 delightful scenery. The air was so clear we could 
 see at a great distance towns and villages that glis- 
 tened in the sunlight. I hardly know of a place so 
 delightful as this little mountain top, not quite a 
 thousand feet in height. 
 
330 EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 
 
 How weak we are when sickness and other evils 
 overtake us — almost children again — but we must 
 work on. We sometimes wonder why God permits 
 so much at once, but He does not tell us, does not 
 utter a word to our ears ; yet I believe He is a God 
 of love, and yearns over us, His children, as no 
 mother can. We have no right to call Him to ac- 
 count, but we should pray, believe, and trust. We 
 may not always receive what we pray for, but it 
 may be better, a thousand-fold. Have courage ! 
 Look on the bright side, and hope. So far as hu- 
 man life is concerned, this is a dreadful world, 
 though it might be a paradise. I have frequent oc- 
 casion to see the dark side. In face of all that, I 
 believe there is nothing more true than that " all 
 things work together for good to those who love 
 God." 
 
 There is a beautiful thought in your quotation : 
 
 " Give Him thy first thought, 
 So shalt thou keep Him company all the day, 
 And in Him rest." 
 
 To come ever in company of the wisest, greatest, 
 most beautiful, and most loving being in the uni- 
 verse, and also " in Him rest " ; there is no other 
 perfect rest in this life; it is constant toil or anxiety, 
 waiting, fearing, and failure. Yet this rest in 
 Christ is not idleness, but eternal activity — activity 
 
EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 331 
 
 because it is a pleasure. Rest in Heaven is freedom 
 from evil. 
 
 I have read the " Greatest Need of the World " 
 Avith delight, and shall read it again. I have been 
 studying the particular features of Christ's charac- 
 ter that I may think of Him and about Him every 
 day. Do you think this principle has a wider ap- 
 plication ? Supposing I think of some friend I 
 know every day, what effect will it have on me ? 
 I see it ; I feel it. I have often thought of that time 
 when you read to me " The Greatest Thing in the 
 World." 
 
 There is something very attractive in the natural 
 movements of little folks. This I think is partly 
 due to the fact that they have not been spoiled by 
 fashion and the selfish and shallow notions of the 
 age. They are usually just as they should be, and 
 as they were intended to be. The human race, you 
 know, had many divine qualities in Eden, and if 
 they had not fallen they would have, in many re- 
 spects, resembled the angels in heaven, and so, in 
 the unspoiled innocence of childhood, many of their 
 actions have the beauty and innocence of those 
 lost excellences. I have some little friends I love 
 to see : one little girl not more than six years old, 
 Mabel ; a little boy, perhaps eight years old, " Chub- 
 bie." He writes to me occasionally. 
 
332 EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 
 
 The " musicale " was delightful, but what would 
 you have thought if you had seen me sawing my 
 violin. It was a fact. I should like to have heard 
 the sermon you wrote about, " God so loved the 
 world," etc. I hardly know a passage equal to it in 
 all literature. 
 
 Our club took advantage of the fine weather and 
 went to a hill near Farmington on an " apple blos- 
 som " picnic. Plato thought that some of those 
 ideas that come into our minds unbidden were the 
 dim recollections of a previous state of existence. 
 Perhaps that is so. I must have lived in some other 
 world in which there was something very delight- 
 ful in relation to the apple trees which made an im- 
 pression so deep that time cannot efface it. I wish 
 it had been so arranged that with these dim recol- 
 lections there had also been foreordained the 
 return of the things themselves. That, how- 
 ever, could not be, for, forewarned by memory, we 
 should hold on to the pleasant things with all our 
 might, and then, if we were strong enough, the 
 world would cease to move. 
 
 We are very discontented beings ! We do not 
 want it to be very cold, or very hot, or very dry, or 
 very wet. But I think we have the best climate our 
 mother earth presents. How would we enjoy the 
 
EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 333 
 
 tropics, with their broiling sun and fevers, magnifi- 
 cent vegetation, alligators, snakes, and tarantala? 
 and then Greenland and the snow houses, yes, and 
 the fur clothing (the ladies admire fur cloaks even 
 here) ; dear me, think how luxurious a dinner must 
 be cut off from a fat piece of whale's blubber? 
 New England for me ; but for all that, it is cold 
 here just now. Don't you think we could have that 
 hole out in Manitoba through which it is said the 
 cold wave comes stopped up tight ? 
 
 I have often heard the " Messiah " with great de- 
 light. The emotions produced are a little too great 
 for me to comprehend : in such a performance they 
 seem to take me up by force, carry me away as in a 
 whirlwind, away to the ends of the earth, up to the 
 stars, but when returning to myself there is a sensa- 
 tion of indescribable joy, but yet of something too 
 great for me to appreciate. This goes to show that 
 there are many things " eye hath not seen nor ear 
 heard," etc., which we shall be able to under- 
 stand in the far-off future. I like Elijah very 
 much. A few days ago I had a very interesting 
 experience. There is a club here of colored young 
 men — of the selected specimens — and they had a 
 banquet, their first, at which Frederick Douglass was 
 present and delivered a lecture upon John Brown. 
 The president of the club is the janitor of our build- 
 
334 
 
 EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLORS LETTERS 
 
 ing ; he attended to my wants last year when I was 
 sick. Gov. Jewell and other gentlemen were pres- 
 ent. The table was beautifully set and well served. 
 I was greatly interested at the sight of the black 
 faces contrasting with the white napkins. Most of 
 the negroes had good heads, indicating great possi- 
 bilities for them in the future. Speeches were 
 made by Mr. Douglass, two ex-governors, and sev- 
 eral colored persons. What a strange thing that 
 Providence, to enlighten the negro, should have 
 brought him on a long journey of two centuries of 
 slavery ! How little can we tell what shall be from 
 what is. A hundred years hence they who are liv- 
 ing will be astonished to see how in the progress of 
 that race God has caused " the wrath of man to 
 praise the Lord." 
 
 Our club has just begun to read Carlyle's " Hero 
 and Hero Worship." I have read it times before, 
 but like it better every time. It is said a book 
 worth reading once is worth reading twice. 
 
 One of the finest things in Dante is when he rises 
 on a chariot on his way to the heaven of God. 
 
 The mind, if we do not control it, will wander 
 away over strange, sometimes beautiful, fields, 
 where we may meet delightful acquaintances, and 
 
EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 335 
 
 hear words we cannot remember — they are too 
 sweet, too heavenly — perhaps not of this world. 
 
 While we are trying to fix a thought with our 
 clumsy pencil, a hundred have flown away and are 
 lost. I have an untiring admiration for trees. I know 
 there is a vast activity going on, from the smallest 
 root-fibres, far away under ground, to the points of 
 its soft leaves — wonderful and beautiful. They 
 stand so noble, so gentle, spreading their broad 
 arms over us, shading us by their soft, green foliage, 
 each leaf of which is a wonder of beauty ; if a 
 breeze comes along, they wave their heads with in- 
 finite grace and respect. Sometimes there comes 
 a low sigh or whisper, to which we must listen at- 
 tentively if we would catch it — a sweet voice, tell- 
 ing a tale or singing a song ; but, alas ! it is in an 
 unknown tongue. I believe every sound of nature 
 is a word, though we do not know its meaning. 
 One day I hope to know " The many tongues of 
 nature's speech." 
 
 Flowers are preachers — each has a peculiar text, 
 but all are upon the same subject, which is beauty ; 
 about the same thing, as to tell about God, who is 
 the perfection of beauty in His being, thought, and 
 deed. 
 
 Are you enjoying this charming October weather ? 
 The autumn has been very delightful — in fact, the 
 
336 EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 
 
 whole year has been almost without a parallel. I 
 like the time of the falling leaf. The world is then 
 so beautiful, and, withal, so serious. Times of 
 laughter, gladness, and merriment are all good in 
 their way — often, too — but how cheap the world 
 would be without its solemn, serious hours ! We 
 should then be like butterflies and birds, who know 
 nothing about the exalting emotions of soul and 
 spirit. The poor, beautiful leaves lie upon the 
 ground. I am sorry for them, but they will come 
 again — perhaps, brighter than ever. And we also 
 shall come again in our spring. A few days ago I 
 had occasion to walk a mile or so in the country ; 
 having time, rested under a tree near a stone wall 
 — a silent world, no noise. It is under such cir- 
 cumstances our best thoughts come to us. I am 
 not sure but that angels visit us then once in a 
 while ; their voices are not heard, nor does the 
 sound of their moving wings reach our dull ears, 
 but a delightful influence is felt from things unseen, 
 perhaps. 
 
 Thanksgiving. — I am strong in my admiration 
 of old Pilgrim customs. I went Thanksgiving day 
 to Tariffville, fourteen iniles west, to my brother's, 
 and it was pleasanter than I expected, for you 
 know it is a sad day for me ; it seems inevitable, 
 for it has its foundations in earthly relations. I 
 
EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 
 
 337 
 
 wish the day had been kept as a religious day ; then 
 we could all have been thankful, for the kind 
 Father has showered upon us blessings without 
 measure, and when we thank God for his favors 
 we look forward, we hope ; and hope is full of glad- 
 ness. 
 
 Christmas takes hold of heavenly things. If we 
 will look out of ourselves, it is to the Christ Child. 
 There is nothing in this world so beautiful as child- 
 hood, and there is, or was, one child infinitely more 
 beautiful than any other. 
 
 My paternal relatives are scattered far and wide. 
 Westfield, Mass., was an early diverging point, and 
 now they are in New York city and state, Michi- 
 gan, Carolinas, New Orleans, among Rocky Moun- 
 tains, etc., somewhat numerous, but many of them 
 I have never seen. No one of that name, to my 
 knowledge, was ever found to be an angel, though, 
 so far as I know, I have no occasion to be ashamed 
 of any of them. 
 
 Accident of August, i8go, at Quincy, Mass. 
 
 The terrible events that occurred the day of my 
 leaving Cottage City hang like a pall on my spirits, 
 and will for a long time. In that train was an aunt 
 of mine, in whose house I spent my first six years 
 in Hartford — ^Mrs. Olcott Allen. She was a very 
 
338 EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 
 
 worthy lady, a superior woman. With her was 
 Bessie Allen, her granddaughter. They were both 
 killed, probably withorut any consciousness of their 
 fate. It would be a blessing for us all to go as 
 quietly. What a long, dreary dying we have, some 
 of us ! They will be buried in Hartford, where 
 other members of the family are sleeping. It has 
 been a great shock to me. I might have been in 
 that train, in that car ; it was strange I was not. I 
 do not know whether it would have been good or 
 evil. It is dangerous to discuss God's providence. 
 We are free beings, and make our own fortunes. 
 We cannot understand it, but He loves us with an 
 infinite love. Why this excellent mother and beau- 
 tiful daughter, fitted to be useful in the world, were 
 taken away so suddenly, I do not ask ; but firmly 
 believe " all things work together for good to those 
 who love God," and that He loves his creatures 
 with an infinite tenderness. I suppose these things 
 occur as they ought, as they must, not because they 
 are elected to be so, as men say ; but the harmony 
 of divine government and personal moral freedom 
 of each of us cannot exist without it. 
 
 Byron was a very great poet, a natural poet, full 
 of beauty and feeling. If the poison could be ex- 
 tracted from the sweet, there would be very much 
 to admire in the profound feeling of his verses, 
 
EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS y^o^ 
 
 which were a life-long lament for unsatisfied love, 
 engrafted upon a heart soiled and rebellious, full of 
 bitterness against God and man, I do not accept 
 his theory, nor did he believe that 
 
 " Man's love is of man's life a thing apart, 
 'Tis woman's whole existence " ; 
 
 for in his last poem he says : 
 
 " Yet though I cannot be beloved, 
 Still let me love." 
 
 I think no dividing line can be drawn. A man 
 must go out to battle with the world, and, therefore, 
 sometimes becomes clothed in a rugged bark, and 
 some persons by nature have hearts dry as husks ; 
 yet gold is gold, in whatever form or surroundings 
 it may be placed. Some of his poems have rung in 
 my ears from childhood. The sentiment is very 
 fascinating ; he is full of poetic fire and originality. 
 I feel my soul stirred to its depths by them. He 
 has an emotional element beyond anyone else, but 
 with that he is said to have great defects, literary 
 as well as moral. His soul took fire suddenly, and 
 we feel dragged along with him. Yet he was al- 
 most destitute of moral principle. Nothing was 
 wrong for him he desired to do ; nothing was sacred 
 he desired to desecrate. In his writings were para- 
 graphs of beauty and deep feeling almost beyond 
 a parallel. He had a brilliant setting for a poet. 
 
340 EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 
 
 but men never or seldom become great poets who 
 are destitute of moral sense. When he sank down 
 into the pit of his own digging there was a fiery- 
 glow of beauty that lingered after men began to 
 forget — like the burning of a ship far off on the 
 dark sea ; we see the glow when all else is perish- 
 ing. 
 
 I do not agree with Socrates in the opinion that 
 "there can no evil befall a good man," if taken lit- 
 erally, for some of the best men ever known to me 
 have been very unfortunate in many ways, an evil 
 destiny seems to hang upon them, and the most 
 earnest labors, seemingly well-directed, have left in 
 their hands nothing but ashes. 
 
 There is, nevertheless, a great truth behind that 
 sentence. It is, I think, a rude way for saying, 
 " All things work together for good to them that 
 love God " (Romans 8:28). 
 
 The events of life to some seem to be tumbled 
 along without design or order, but it is not so ; 
 everything is ordered, and every little event involv- 
 ing us is for a purpose. If we love God, it is a 
 means to a great end ; that, however aimless or 
 valueless it may seem, is directed with infinite wis- 
 dom and benevolence. We may beat our heads 
 against a wall in our effort to resist what seems an 
 unfriendly fate. We shall fail. But the beating 
 
EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 
 
 341 
 
 of our poor heads may prove a medicine sent us by 
 the Great Physician. It is a marvel that Socrates, 
 who was a heathen, and who had never heard of 
 the true God, should have found out so many wise, 
 noble things. He seems the greatest mystery and 
 the grandest character in the heathen world. All 
 things work for good to the God-loving. 
 
 How many pleasant associations hang around the 
 violet. Perhaps no flowers were in my boyhood's 
 path so often, or were more beautiful in them- 
 selves. My mind's eye can see great patches of 
 them standing close, ranked in some sunny spot, 
 nodding to the breezes of the early spring. 
 
 In the plant world under continuous showers a 
 wonderful transformation is going on, nothing less 
 than a resurrection from the dead, and a grand 
 bridal feast to last for half a year. What a beauti- 
 ful carpet mother earth is spreading for the gather- 
 ing ; so pleasant to the eye in its general effect and 
 upon close examination found to comprise details 
 of infinite variety and artistic beauty. 
 
 No royal manufactory ever produced carpet or 
 tapestry so beautiful as good mother nature spreads 
 to the foot of her poorest child, on this loving occa- 
 sion. Invisible fairy fingers seem to be busy from 
 ever}^ — just now — brown twig, green leaves packed 
 away with infinite care, in tiny bundles, crowning 
 
342 EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 
 
 fheir work with smiling faces of love speaking 
 flowers. I look with unspeakable joy upon this 
 spring resurrection, not only as a pleasure to the 
 senses, but as a proof of our endless life. The 
 hand that keeps the life of a tender bud through 
 the ice of winter to awake in the spring will not 
 leave our souls to perish. I am a lover of nature in 
 all its forms ; never feel alone conversing with 
 beast, bird, or plant. 
 
 Some philosophers believe in a previous state of 
 existence. I cannot tell where, nor how, it is very 
 dim, perhaps a cobweb of a dream, but in that far- 
 off future it will not become faint again. We may 
 not credit the old theory, but the treasure of recol- 
 lection will not fail in the future. Every dear, 
 true, good, holy experience will be a joy, as every 
 thousand years shall pass away. This moon is the 
 famous harvest moon when it seems to linger with 
 us and smile more lovingly, but the weather is so 
 cloudy we have lost it. After all, the moon shines 
 on in all its beauty, it is only the damp, cloudy 
 drapery of earth that hides it from us, and its silver 
 light is poured out in unspeakable splendor upon 
 our world, though we see it not. The smiles of 
 God are flooding us just as truly. 
 
 I like "orthodoxy," and my preferences are de- 
 cided ; but to me, a Christian of any evangelical 
 
EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 343 
 
 creed, is a real Christian ; and if necessary, I could 
 find a home with any company of believers, who 
 found their hope of salvation upon the merits of 
 the Son of God, come in the flesh, according to the 
 Gospel. When traveling it was my custom to 
 attend the church that was established or promi- 
 nent in any city where I chanced to be. 
 
 Extracts from Historical Report of Church for iSSy. 
 Read February 2, 1888. 
 
 We have no means of estimating results. It is 
 largely a work in our inner life that the world can 
 but dimly see, a work going on silently in many 
 souls — we hope in all — that is changing the moral 
 and religious life in response to our seeking, as 
 truly as the warm sun, the water, and the rich earth, 
 are developing the acorn into an oak. It is silent, 
 but almost all great processes of nature are silent. 
 We cannot see the growth of a forest tree, but we 
 can see that it has grown. We can see after the 
 lapse of years, also, that many of our friends are not 
 quite what they were. There is something about 
 them more noble, gentle, loving, and a few seem to 
 have been eating angel's food. 
 
 The real history of a church is of that descrip- 
 tion, and if we knew of some library in which the 
 facts could be learned, a history could be written of 
 marvelous interest. It is in that character, how- 
 
344 
 
 EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 
 
 ever concealed from us, that we stand before the 
 eye of God, and He deals with us in His providence 
 with our soul's life all open before Him. Let us 
 not forget that our complete impartial history is 
 not to be written in this life, but may be read in 
 some far-off nobler gathering. 
 
 Our hearts may sometimes become so encrusted 
 with indifference, I hate to say selfishness, that we 
 hardly think of others. That crust should be 
 broken. We should look around to find where we 
 can do some one a favor, or make some one happy. 
 The reflex influence upon our own spirits would 
 repay us a hundred fold. 
 
 When in silence we recall the past we find multi- 
 tudes of delightful reflections, sweet hours of com- 
 munion with the Divine Love, when He has seemed 
 to smile upon us and to speak to us with a 
 voice that surpasses the most delightful music. 
 No doubt those favored moments come to many 
 more frequently as the years roll on, and the bitter 
 side of life is nearly lost in the beginning of a more 
 than human existence. 
 
 This is a delightful Zion to dwell in. From the 
 pastor in his exalted, responsible seat, down to the 
 place of the humblest of our brethren, we find 
 nothing to complain of, and we are glad in such 
 
EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 
 
 545 
 
 a company to make our journey heavenward. Our 
 Zion has given delightful opportunities for the 
 growth of its membership in Christian graces, — a 
 very pleasant place to grow in, but we have not 
 yet reached the gardens of the blessed that we 
 should lie down and rest. But this for us is the 
 hour of labor. We should hold up the hands 
 of our pastor, preach grand sermons by con- 
 sistent Christian lives, and pray with that mighty 
 power that even the humblest disciple can wield, 
 who believes that God is our Father, and that He 
 hears and will answer. 
 
 Rest and a change are desirable ; they sharpen 
 our appetites ; but absolute and continuous rest, 
 except Avhen we are sick, would be a torture. The 
 body must rest ; it is perishable ; but the soul is no 
 doubt Godlike in its nature, and but for its tem- 
 porary slavery to a body would never be weary. 
 We sometimes look longingly to the time of our 
 liberation when we can fly away and be at rest, but 
 I think that means rest from sin. We were de- 
 signed to be holy and active forever. 'Tis our 
 glory to do all we can. 
 
 What a strange thing music is ! It comes with 
 the sense of hearing, but withal what a world of 
 emotions and pleasure it excites ; we seem to be 
 
 22 
 
346 EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 
 
 enjoying Heaven in a thousand ways we cannot 
 comprehend, but it is marvelously real at the 
 time. I wonder if in the future life — some future 
 state we shall realize anything like it. I believe 
 we are greater than we know, greater than we be- 
 lieve or suspect, — with only some faint under- 
 standing of what is in the future — very vague, but 
 in the mansions of the blessed, the heart of man 
 has never conceived what we shall be. 
 
 How all nature hints of eternal life — a resur- 
 rection ! The insect goes to sleep in its chrysalis 
 state, having instinctively selected a suitable place, 
 and in due time comes out in a nobler and more 
 beautiful form. Once wormlike, it spreads its 
 wings and soars aloft into a world, compared to the 
 first, of inconceivable beauty. The trees drop 
 their leaves and rest awhile, to all appearance dead, 
 and robed in black ; then winter covers the earth 
 with a mantle of white, not death, to protect the 
 tender seeds, and they will come again and sing 
 and dance all the summer day full of happiness. I 
 am never alone out among the hills with the green 
 world for my companion. The forest waves its 
 leaves over me in love. The flowers have fra- 
 grance in their smiles. I enjoy familiar rocks, 
 pleasant shade, listening to what the winds and 
 trees are talking about, and perchance the note of 
 
EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 
 
 Z47 
 
 some bird, alone like myself. Alone ? No. I am 
 never alone. Nowadays I am sometimes lonesome, 
 but not alone. I frequently find pleasanter com- 
 panionship when really alone than in company 
 with many. There are strange things in our inner 
 life. Yes, I do love the natural world when clothed 
 in its fresh spring beauty. It is to me a grand 
 oratorio with its never discordant chorus and its 
 gentle inimitable songs ! 
 
 How many golden opportunities slip away from 
 us ! How sweet they look when out of reach, but 
 I suppose all things are ordered and sure. We 
 must drink in all the joy we are capable of, for 
 what is past returns, in part, in memory. An eter- 
 nal purpose runs through all events for good, 
 though we may not see it. 
 
 Nobody knows surely what is a great action, nor 
 what accomplishes much. We only see the outside, 
 or at a distance, or what is unfinished. All our ac- 
 tions are seeds that will, perhaps, grow to trees or 
 weeds, under whose branches we may find protec- 
 tion, or that may entangle about our feet and poison 
 us when we fall. God only knows what is great or 
 small, and we may find ourselves happily or sadly 
 disappointed in the far-off. There are in the world 
 great, noble, gifted souls, who may seem to ordi- 
 
348 EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 
 
 nary persons to waste their lives in trifles ; but the 
 future may reveal a victory greater than kings can 
 boast of. 
 
 A few days ago I attended a " Burns Festival," 
 and it gave me a great deal of pleasure. I had a 
 great liking for Scotch doings when a j^outh, and 
 read vScotch poetry and story, and dreamed over its 
 hills and lochs. Once, when a boy, I acted in a 
 dialogue taken from the " Lady of the Lake " in a 
 school exhibition, with great glory to myself (so I 
 felt then). A Highland dress was borrowed from 
 one who was born among the Bens and Glens ; and 
 when we came to the passage, " And, Saxon, I am 
 Rhoderick Dhu ! " I felt greater than a king. But 
 I do not noiv. 
 
 At this gathering there was first heard the inde- 
 scribable tones of a bagpipe, played by a tall man 
 in the garb of the glens — half comical and half 
 mournful. Scotch dances and songs followed, 
 bringing back to me long ago in pleasing variety 
 and freshness. I sat in a state of mingled delight. 
 I was a boy again ! The audience seemed my 
 friends. I had no idea there were so many Scotch- 
 men here — in fact, the best emigrants that come 
 to us. 
 
 Unconsciously I flew away to Scotland, and lived 
 over my visit there. I sailed over the lochs, 
 
EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 349 
 
 climbed the hills, wandered through the glens, saw 
 Staffa and Zona, the long Caledonian Canal, the 
 Grampian Hills, etc., etc. Shall I ever see it again ? 
 I admire Burns greatly. He was not altogether 
 good, but he sang many delightful things that touch 
 a sensitive soul very deeply. They are in sympa- 
 thy with our deepest nature. " To Mary in 
 Heaven " could not be all fact. " A Fond Kiss be- 
 fore we part." "Oh, my Love's like a Red, Red 
 Rose." " To a Mouse." The mouse poem seems 
 comical at first, but there is in it a store of heart 
 and feeling. You know what he means to say, not 
 like Browming, who conceals half, if, indeed, he 
 could understand it himself. 
 
 One must study Dante to like him. Few persons 
 read more than the " Inferno," but " Purgatoria " 
 leaves behind the demons, conducts penitents 
 through some suffering, it is true, but for their 
 good. A blessed hope is always before them. In 
 Paradise the poet, rising on a chariot, instructed by 
 Beatrice, sees the earth fade in the distance below 
 him. Upward they go, rising through the heaven 
 of the moon, of the stars, etc., till they reach the 
 tenth, the Empyrean Paradise, where the Father 
 and Son are worshiped by the purified and sancti- 
 fied spirits, who enjoy everlasting, unspeakable 
 bliss. Dante had, indeed, been into the prison of 
 
350 
 
 EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 
 
 the lost, but he had also been into the presence of 
 God — the presence of God in Heaven. 
 
 There are some persons whose companionship is 
 as delightful as the sweetest music. It is, indeed, 
 hard to return from fairy-land, to drudge and delve 
 in common earth, away from the pleasant things 
 that will intrude upon our minds ; and half-de- 
 spairingly we begin to wonder if, after all, we have 
 not been dreaming. But we live in the world yet ; 
 we have a work to do, and duties to perform ; and 
 our future depends upon our present. Everything 
 is for something ; a kind hand guides all, and all 
 for the best ; so let us submit to the inevitable, and 
 wait and hope for the fullness of time. Yet the 
 good Lord will not blame us, I think, for enjoying 
 the highest gifts he ever bestows upon our race. 
 
 I enjoy my vacation ! It is such a delight to be 
 free and do what we please ; no nutst in the way 
 from morning to night. But, after all, if our life 
 passed in that way, it would be a failure. We were 
 made to work, to be anxious, to strive, and fail ; 
 and then to resolve and determine to win and put 
 our whole life into action, striving and continuing, 
 and are never satisfied with the effort. Many 
 workers do not seem to accomplish anything after 
 a long life of effort ; but does anyone know whether 
 
EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 
 
 351 
 
 lie has accomplislied anything worthy ? In the or- 
 dinary acceptation of the term we know what the 
 word means, but that is superficial. Is not a great 
 thing that which gives the greatest and best re- 
 sults ? But what do we know about results ? Very 
 little. They maybe far off, hidden, obscure. They 
 may be like tiny rills, or wandering drops of water, 
 silently seeking their way down through the damp 
 soil, under the stones or among the roots of forest 
 trees, to come out again, perhaps, far away, lost to 
 the eye of man, unheard of, forgotten, till their 
 path is shown by the destroying avalanche ; or in 
 giving life to a million of flowers, that spread 
 beauty and fragrance over the spring landscape ; 
 or, perhaps, a drop upon the dying unfortunate, or 
 the tear of pity in the eye of love, making giver 
 and receiver equally happy. At the great day of 
 awakening to come we only can see what was great 
 and profoundly good ; so let us be slow to judge. 
 
 God pity the weak man who, having no strength 
 to combat with the world, in his failure becomes a 
 miserable victim to be laughed at and to die, when 
 there is a heaven for him, even if he died unblest. 
 
 The passages of Scripture have been set down 
 for the year. I intend to make them a study. It 
 will be pleasant to think that you will do the same. 
 
;52 
 
 EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 
 
 After the Gospels, Romans is the great book of 
 the Bible — full of truth, full of mystery. It has 
 been studied a great deal. Many try to disbelieve 
 it, or explain it away — a great trouble to some 
 modern students — but I believe it entirely, though 
 in some places hard to understand. It must be 
 heard, becatise it is written by the wisest of the 
 apostles, upon the deepest topic, of the most pro- 
 found of all subjects. 
 
 Some persons never realize the importance of 
 that divine affection — no, not an affection, but 
 something dearer, mightier, whose results continue. 
 Love — it is a deep subject ; it enters the inner 
 .sanctuary of our souls, and it will hold its place 
 through all eternity. Love is a strong silken or 
 golden cord, that sometimes draws us or binds one 
 soul to another, when mutually agreeable to each 
 other. It cannot be crushed by advice or force ; it 
 comes without warning or notice ; all our other 
 mental powers are weak and yield to it. We do not 
 resolve to love, but we love. One finds himself a 
 captive, and in chains, but they are gentle fetters. 
 I think the highest and strongest love is when one 
 is willing to sacrifice himself for the good of the 
 object of his affections. When the soul begins to 
 obey the divine influence, the pure become better, 
 and should be happy. To love some good object is 
 
EXTRACTS FROM MR. TAYLOR'S LETTERS 353 
 
 to rise tip into a happier world. The pain of unre- 
 quited love may cause anguish, but the victim has 
 heard the deeper music of his being ; and the 
 strong heart that has loved, though in vain, is liv- 
 ing a higher life. The man who has never loved 
 will be always lacking in many manly qualities ; in 
 a certain sense, blind and deaf. 
 
 A pure soul may not always find a response, and 
 the regret may be like a sea of gall ; but the love 
 he has felt may add a new cord to the harp of his 
 soul, and a deep minor, but melodious, music will 
 never cease its thrill. This may be bitter and an 
 injury in the battle of life, but he has added a new 
 capacity to go with him through life eternal. 
 
 " I hold it true, whate'er befall, 
 I feel it when I sorrow most, 
 'Tis better to have loved and lost, 
 Than never to have loved at all." 
 
 There are few cases in which a true love will die ; 
 but I can conceive how one might continue to 
 cherish in his secret soul the most intense and 
 deathless love in regard to one whom he can never 
 name in public. Love is the mightiest power in 
 the universe. Every kind act has been produced 
 by it. It caused the divine work in the beginning. 
 It opened the door of Paradise. It redeemed us on 
 Calvary. " God is love." 
 
&)cttact from (^00a^ on @^ffreb 
 
 LET us think a moment upon what poetry is, 
 and how we should read it. 
 If these poems we are studying are worthy of 
 their name and origin, they have been coined out 
 of the writer's very soul ; melted down in the cruci- 
 ble by the burning intensity of his thoughts. The 
 dross has been repeatedly burned off, and in the 
 intensity of his search he has looked down into 
 depths unseen at first. Much that was once good 
 has fallen away before new-found jewels. In fact, 
 the reader knows but a tithe of what has glowed in 
 
 his vision. 
 
 If so, we should read slowly and studiously, striv- 
 ing to discover the deeper meaning of the sentence, 
 sometimes difficult. Thoughtless rapidity is ab- 
 surd. Can a man comprehend in a fraction of a 
 second the keen conceptions of a gifted person 
 growing out of hours of study. We should read, 
 reflect, re-read, and the half-concealed beauties will 
 yield to our search. 
 
 The person who reads poetry chiefly for the plot 
 
EXTRACT FROM ESSAY ON TENNYSON 355 
 
 should read prose. A very rapid, hasty reading 
 will be like riding through fields presenting trans- 
 cendent landscapes with a race horse and with 
 blinded eyes. 
 
 If we read our author over and over studiously, 
 we shall find he will improve every time. 
 
 Tennyson was self-conscious in his writings, and 
 inspired his own utterances, "singing his own 
 score by note." He began as a metrical artist, 
 feeling that "poetry is an art, and the cJiief of the 
 fine arts." " He devoted himself, with the eager 
 spirit of youth, to mastering this exquisite art," 
 " and wreaked his thoughts upon expression for 
 the expression's sake." 
 
 His first volume began with " Claribel " and ended 
 with the " Mermaid." 
 
 Whatever might be said of the leading thoughts, 
 the details were excellent. He who could not see 
 beauty even in " Claribel " must be dull, and per- 
 haps increasingly so in the other poems in the first 
 volume. 
 
 The great excellences were in the accuracy of 
 his descriptions of nature, and the justice and origin- 
 ality in his words and sentences, always just and 
 never flat. If they contained no great thought, as 
 some said, they were at least a step to something 
 greater. 
 
 Many admired the first volume. Many men of 
 
356 EXTRACT FROM ESSAY ON TENNYSON 
 
 severe tastes were repelled. Not a few pieces were 
 omitted by the author in succeeding' editions. 
 
 The second volume (1832-3) began with the 
 " Lady of Shalott," and indicated a decided progress. 
 One of his reviewers remarked, " a more original 
 and beautiful volume of minor poetry never was 
 added to our literature." " His manner was there 
 clearly developed" and well pruned. The metres 
 were delicious. In the rhythm every word was 
 needful and studied. " The force of metrical ele- 
 gance made its way and carried everything before 
 it." " From that day Tennyson took his place at 
 the head of the art school y 
 
 Among the marked pieces are " The Lady of 
 Shalott," " Oenone," " May Queen," etc. 
 
 Mr. Stedman said " more dewy, fresh, pathetic, 
 native verse had not been written since the era of 
 ' As You Like It.' " 
 
 This volume accomplished an auspicious work for 
 ten years, and is to-day highly valued. His blank 
 verse had here arrived at a high point of excellence. 
 He enriched it by a style entirely his own. It will 
 be found illustrated in two styles, one in the " Idyls 
 of the King" — his own invention from study of 
 Homer — the other in the "Gardener's daughter," 
 " Dora," " Godiva," etc. Ulysses is unapproached. 
 We will only further name as among the beautiful 
 poems, " Break, Break, Break," " Flow down Cold 
 
EXTRACT FROM ESSAY ON TENNYSON 357 
 
 Rivulet to the Sea," and, purest and highest, " St. 
 Agnes " and " Sir Galahad." 
 
 The beautiful pieces in the second volume are so 
 many and so excellent that a critic would almost 
 feel obliged to repeat the entire number. I will 
 only recommend the careful reading — 710, the 
 studying — of every one with an effort to enter into 
 the feeling of the writer himself. 
 
 The time came when our author seemed to feel 
 that he must do something orreater. 
 
 About 1847 "The Princess" was produced. The 
 theme and the story never had any existence before 
 it came out of his brain. I w^ould prefer, since it was 
 his invention, that he had saved it from anach- 
 ronisms and apparent impossibilities, not pleasing 
 to all readers. But, however that may be, it is a 
 delightful story, full of great, noble thoughts, and 
 fascinating beyond many of his works. The tour- 
 nament scene is thought to be the most vehement 
 and rapid passage in all Tennyson's poetry. 
 
 The five melodies, " Sweet and low," " The splen- 
 dor falls on castle walls," etc., are the finest group 
 of songs produced in our century. 
 
 The " Princess " had a purpose — it was a picture 
 of woman's struggle. 
 
 In 1850 — 40 years old — appeared "In Memo- 
 riam," the most characteristic of Tennyson's works. 
 It is a poem of the century. It contains the wisest 
 
358 EXTRACT FROM ESSAY ON TENNYSON 
 
 reflections upon life, death, and eternity, expressed 
 in words of almost unequaled beauty. No one can 
 ever attempt a poem upon a similar model with- 
 out ruin and disg-race to himself. Some great 
 elegiac pieces by other masters have been pro- 
 duced, but tJiis is superior to all. 
 
 The metrical scheme, though disliked by some, is 
 no doubt a grand success. It is a British poem, a 
 steady, yet varying funeral march. 
 
 Objections have been raised — of course it would 
 be so if it had merit. It is said it presents a con- 
 fusion of religion and skepticism, attempts to recon- 
 cile faith and knowledge, and to blend Dante and 
 Lucretius. In many instances parts greatly admired 
 by some are condemned by others, both, perhaps, 
 competent judges. 
 
 No poem of the author finds so many admirers 
 among educated readers. One significant thing is 
 that the interest and admiration increases with 
 every reading. 
 
 In 1850, having become the poet laureate, he had 
 occasion to write " The Ode." It is a great poem, 
 but not his greatest production. He did not succeed 
 so well in presenting the events of the day. His 
 nature was brooding, and he longed to commune 
 with the mysteries of beauty and truth. 
 
 " Maud " is a combination of " strength and weak- 
 ness," and not a general favorite. It has many pas- 
 
EXTRACT FROM ESSAY ON TENNYSON 
 
 359 
 
 sages of marvelous beauty, combined with some 
 weak and unmeaning, while the whole seems with- 
 out much design or general thought. It was a pity 
 to waste so much beauty on so poor a plot, if there 
 was any. 
 
 Everyone admires " The Brook." 
 
 " I chatter over stony ways, 
 In little sharps and trebles, 
 I bubble into eddying bays, 
 I babble on the pebbles." 
 
 lingers in our mind long after it is read. 
 
 To point out even most of the poems of excel- 
 lence would be to name the entire number. We 
 must reserve our remaining time for the one greater 
 work. 
 
 " The Idyls of the King," though produced at dif- 
 ferent times, are, in the end, all cemented together, 
 forming now one whole, and that is the great epic 
 of chivalry — the presentation of Christian knight- 
 hood as it should be. Not like " Paradise Lost" — 
 it was never so lofty, but never presenting long, 
 prosaic passages. 
 
 It is doubtful if Tennyson began the ten poems 
 with the plan of the completed whole. His first 
 piece was near the end of the whole structure, and 
 might have been the beginning or end of the idyl, 
 but it grew upon him. Piece after piece was pro- 
 
36o EXTRACT FROM ESSAY ON TENNYSON 
 
 duced, and, in the end, all were arranged to form a 
 whole, and the abrupt breaches were filled by some- 
 thing new. 
 
 The " Princess " was indeed entirely a creation of 
 his own, but the black-letter compilations of Sir 
 Thomas Malory were an exhaustive storehouse for 
 him to draw from. However tame or disconnected 
 they might have been in their original source, in 
 his hands a marvelous change was wrought, and the 
 whole seems to have now unity of thought, having 
 passed though a magical transformation. I remem- 
 ber hearing a scholar, then occupying a pulpit in a 
 New England city — twenty years ago — speak en- 
 thusiastically of the " Morte de Arthur," as having 
 a strong Homeric flavor, and then cited a passage 
 that he thought had many of the characteristics 
 of the Greek language. 
 
 The idyls are varied, and all have their own 
 beauty. There is no barbaric brutality, the moral 
 of all is good, and the tendency is to make better 
 men and women. 
 
 In my opinion, in the words of a valued critic, 
 " There is nothing finer in modern verse than the 
 interview between Arthur and his remorseful wife ; 
 nothing loftier than the passage beginning : 
 
 ' Lo ! I forgive thee as Eternal God 
 Forgives: do thou for thine own soul the rest. 
 But how to take last leave of all I loved ? 
 
EXTRACT FROM ESSAY ON TENNYSON 361 
 
 golden hair, with which I used to play, 
 Not knowing ! O imperial-moulded form. 
 And beauty such as never woman wore, 
 Until it came a kingdom's curse with thee. 
 
 1 cannot touch thy lips, they are not mine, 
 
 But Launcelot's; nay, they never were the King's.'" 
 
 The beginning of " Guinevere " is not so interest- 
 ing ; it could not be, but it was necessary to build 
 the sequel upon, but in the closing is the climax of 
 the poet's work. Nothing more noble, nothing 
 more pure, loving, or holy can be found though we 
 search far and wide. 
 
 Among the later poems is " Enoch Arden," about 
 which I will not stop to write, for he who has not 
 read " Enoch Arden " is only to be commiserated. 
 
 " The Dramas " are his least successful continued 
 poems. " Queen Mary " and " Harold " have been 
 variously and severely criticised. Many thought 
 Mary Tudor's history a monotonous and continued 
 distress. The suffering finds no vent in action. 
 
 Some parts of the drama were well executed and 
 contain masterly portraits. 
 
 " Harold " was a more dramatic subject, but the 
 dramas were, on the whole, coldly received. 
 
 It is difficult for contemporaries to judge of an 
 
 author with complete justice. Various social and 
 
 local relations come in with their prejudices. The 
 
 works of great artists are rarely appreciated for a 
 
 23 
 
362 EXTRACT FROM ESSAY ON TENNYSON 
 
 generation or more after they have passed away. 
 Good judges and the general public sentiment seem 
 to regard our author as very near the summit of 
 perfection for our generation. His works are al- 
 most artistically perfect in rhythm, beauty of 
 thought, freedom from everything vulgar or offen- 
 sive. They invite us to something noble and ele- 
 vating, leaving no stain behind. 
 
 There is no designed obscurity in his poems 
 feigning profundity, but, while planned and ex- 
 pressed in great simplicity, they have in reality 
 more depth and subtlety than many others we are 
 hardly able to understand. 
 
(^00ap on ^o^n "Ktate. 
 
 THE subject of this paper was born in apart- 
 ments connected with a stable, at the sign of 
 the Swan-and-Hoop, Finsbury Pavement, London, 
 on 29-31 of October, 1797. His father was head 
 ostler in a livery stable, and his mother was the 
 daughter of his father's employer. He thus in- 
 herited no genius, and was not favored by the cir- 
 cumstances of his childhood for the development 
 of his poetic talents and tastes, but they grew spon- 
 taneously, in spite of the surroundings that we 
 would think were unfavorable to the production of 
 a poet, and a lover of beauty in all its forms, with 
 a marvelous imagination that could develop one 
 fair object into a numberless family, each an im- 
 provement on the first ; but of that we shall see 
 more in the sequel. 
 
 We have no time to speak of his family, further 
 than to say that he had a brother George, who 
 eventually came to America, and one, always called 
 Tom Edward, who died early, and a sister, Frances 
 Mary. 
 
 There is reason to believe that his parents were 
 above ordinary people, and had many admirable 
 qualities. 
 
364 ^SSA V ON JOHN KEA TS 
 
 The mother's passion for her first-born son was 
 devotedly returned by him. It is said she was sick 
 once when he was a child, and was ordered to be 
 kept quiet by the physician, when he insisted on 
 keeping watch at her door with an old sword, and 
 allowed no one to go in. 
 
 The boys were sent to school to the Rev. John 
 Clark at Enfield, father of Cowden Clark. The 
 school was of good repute, with pleasant aspect 
 and surroundings. It was once the residence of a 
 West India merchant, and stood in a spacious gar- 
 den. 
 
 His father died in April, 1804. His mother mar- 
 ried within twelve months, but the marriage was 
 unhappy. There was soon a separation, and no 
 mention was afterward made of his stepfather. 
 
 The family were then located with their grand- 
 mother, in Church Street, Edmonton. She left, in 
 the end, a considerable estate to the younger family. 
 Between the Enfield school and his mother, the next 
 four or five years were spent (1806- 18 10) in com- 
 fort and pleasantness. 
 
 As to his characteristics at school, Ch. Cowden 
 Clark wrote : " He was a favorite with all. Not 
 the less beloved was he for having a highly pug- 
 nacious spirit, which, when roused, was one of the 
 most picturesque exhibitions off the stage." His 
 brother Tom's ears having once been boxed by an 
 
ESS A Y ON JOHN KEA TS 365 
 
 usher, " John rushed up, put himself into the re- 
 ceived posture of offense, and, it was said, struck 
 the usher, who could have put him in his pocket. 
 His passion at times was almost ungovernable, and 
 his brother George, being considerably taller and 
 stronger, used to hold him down by main force, 
 laughing when John was in one of his moods, and 
 was endeavoring to beat him." " He was not 
 merely the favorite of all, like a pet prize-fighter 
 but his highmindedness, his utter un- 
 consciousness of a mean motive, his placability, his 
 generosity, wrought so general a feeling in his 
 behalf that I never heard a word of disapproval 
 from anyone, superior or equal, who had known 
 him." 
 
 These exhibitions of his boyish moods were soon 
 over. They showed the intensity of his feelings, 
 that ever continued, but they were guided in other 
 directions. So, " in the last few terms — that is, in 
 his fourteenth and fifteenth years — all the energies 
 of his nature turned to study. He became sud- 
 denly and completely absorbed in reading, and 
 would be continually at work before school-time in 
 the morning and during play-hours in the after- 
 noon, and could hardly be induced to join in the 
 school games." 
 
 At this time he won easily all the literature 
 prizes in the school, and, in addition to his proper 
 
366 ESS A V ON JOHN KEA TS 
 
 work, imposed on himself such voluntary labor as 
 the translation of the whole " ^neid " in prose. 
 He read books of history, travel, fiction, etc., but 
 the books he read with the greatest eagerness were 
 those of ancient mythology, Lempriere's " Diction- 
 ary," Spence's "Polymetis," and Took's "Pantheon, 
 that he almost learned by heart. There was thus 
 in him a marked change, but it was an omvard step 
 in the progress of his growth. 
 
 February, 1810, his mother died in his fifteenth 
 year. It is said " he sat up whole nights with her, 
 in a great chair ; would suffer nobody to give medi- 
 cine, or even cook her food, but himself " ; and he 
 read novels aloud in her intervals of ease. 
 
 " Bitterly he mourned for her, and he gave way 
 to such impassioned and prolonged grief — hiding 
 himself in a nook under his master's desk — as to 
 awaken the liveliest pity and sympathy in all who 
 saw him." 
 
 We can discover here the further indications of 
 that strong, independent spirit that afterwards re- 
 called John from the honorable, but unpoetical, pro- 
 fession of a surgeon to be one of the favored of 
 the muses. 
 
 His grandmother, about this time, left to the 
 Keats children a considerable estate, intrusted to 
 Mr. Richard Abbey and Air. Rowland Sandell, to 
 be in time given to them. 
 
ESSA V ON JOHN KEA TS 367 
 
 We do not know who proposed it, but in the 
 sequel John Keats, at the end of the year 18 10, 
 being then fifteen years old, was bound out as an 
 apprentice for five years to a surgeon at Edmonton 
 named Hammond. 
 
 His passion for literature and the pleasures of 
 the imagination was not to be stifled, and whenever 
 he could spare any time from his work, he plunged 
 back into his school occupations of reading and 
 translating. What a pity it was that such a great, 
 gifted soul should be doomed to waste those five 
 years ! He was for a time in the habit of walking 
 over to Enfield to see his friend, Cowden Clark. 
 Here, for the first time, he saw Spenser's " Faerie 
 Queene." It was a new world to him, and through 
 it he went "ranging with delight." Many per- 
 sons by the reading of this grand old book have 
 found that they had a poetic spirit. " It was the 
 ' Faerie Queene ' that awakened his genius." In 
 that " fairy land he was enchanted, breathed in a 
 new world, and became a new being." " Enam- 
 oured of the stanza, he attempted to imitate it, and 
 succeeded." This was done shyly at first, and not 
 till two years later (181 5) was anything shown to 
 Cowden Clark. " Though born a poet, he was 
 ignorant of his birthright until he had completed 
 his eighteenth year." 
 
 In 1 8 14, a year before the expiration of his term 
 
368 ESSA V ON JOHN KEA TS 
 
 of apprenticeship, he had quarreled with Mr. Ham- 
 mond, and, apparently, had no further connection 
 with him. The facts in relation to this change are 
 not known. 
 
 About nineteen years of age, he went to live in 
 London and continue the study of his profession, 
 about the year i8i4(?). 
 
 July, 1 8 1 5 , he passed with credit his examination 
 as licentiate at Apothecaries' Hall. His heart was 
 not in the work, but he was no bungler. The prac- 
 tical responsibilities of the profession weighed upon 
 him. Voices were luring him along other paths. 
 He declared to Cowden Clark his own sense of his 
 unfitness for the profession, saying : " The other 
 day, during the lecture, there came a sunbeam 
 into the room, and with it a whole troupe of 
 creatures floating in the ray ; and I was off with 
 them to Oberon and fairy-land." 
 
 Remembering what passed through his mind at 
 the time of his last operation, he never took up the 
 lancet again. 
 
 He now formed intimacies with young men of 
 literary tastes. His verses had improved, and were 
 not kept with the same secrecy ; and some attracted 
 notices of writers of mark and standing. 
 
 About the winter of i8i6 and 1817, the time of 
 his coming of age, he conceived the purpose of de- 
 voting himself to a literary life. It is supposed 
 
ESSA V ON JOHN KEA TS 369 
 
 Mr. Abbey, who managed the Keats estate, was not 
 pleased with the idea ; apparently he could not pre- 
 vent it. 
 
 He continued his studies for awhile in London, 
 popular among- his fellow-students, and habitually 
 gentle and pleasant. His devotion to poetry pre- 
 vented his having any other taste, or indulging in 
 any vices. 
 
 He despised Pope and Byron, but delighted in 
 Spenser, caring, in poetry, more for the beauty of 
 imagery, description, and simile than for the inter- 
 est of action and passion. 
 
 It is not easy to state what are his earliest poems, 
 but the " Lines in Imitation of Spenser " were 
 early. And he approved himself a poet, indeed, 
 by his lines, "On First Looking into Chapman's 
 Homer." 
 
 In 1 816 Keats became acquainted with Leigh 
 Hunt, who afterwards exercised great influence 
 over him and his poetry, but not always good. 
 
 Among the persons he often met and enjoyed in 
 those days were John Hamilton Reynolds, James 
 Rice, Shelley, Hayden [artist]. Miss Willis, and 
 J. Severn [artist]. 
 
 In his third winter in London he was fairly 
 launched in a world of art and letters, and in 
 familiar intimacy with some of the brightest spirits 
 of the times. The power and the charm of genius 
 
370 ESS A V ON JOHN KEA TS 
 
 were already upon him. It is said " the character 
 and expression of his features would arrest even 
 the casual passenger in the street." " A small, 
 handsome, ardent-looking youth, the stature little 
 over five feet, figure compact and well-turned, 
 with the neck thrown eagerly forward, carrying a 
 strong, shapely head, set off by thickly-clustering 
 brown hair, the features powerful, finished, and 
 mobile " ; mouth wide, combative, and sensitive, 
 forehead not high, but broad, eyes light brown. 
 
 Hayden said : " Keats was the only man I ever 
 met who seemed conscious of a high calling, except 
 Wordsworth. 
 
 " He was in his glory in the fields. The hum- 
 ming of a bee, the sight of a flower, the glitter of 
 the sun, seemed to make his nature tremble. Then 
 his eyes flashed, his cheeks glowed, and his mouth 
 quivered." 
 
 Mrs. Proctor spoke of the impression of his eyes 
 " as of those of one who had been looking on some 
 glorious sight." 
 
 He was not always at ease in the company of 
 women, but with men he was pleasantness itself, 
 quiet and abstract, brilliant and voluble, by turns, 
 but unaffected. If the conversation did not inter- 
 est him, he was apt to draw apart, sit in the win- 
 dow, and " peer into vacancy." 
 
ESS A Y ON JOHN KEA TS 371 
 
 There at this time existed a literary atmosphere 
 such as England has not since known. 
 
 Advised by his friends, he was induced to pub- 
 lish a volume — his first — and it appeared in 
 March, 1817, at the age of about twenty-two years. 
 
 We would call him a very young man, and by 
 examination it will be seen that he had not yet ar- 
 rived at that state of poetical excellence which he 
 afterwards reached. His own peculiar style was 
 not yet adopted, but his character as a poet began 
 to show itself. He differed both from Wordsworth 
 and Shelley. 
 
 His grammar was not always correct, and his use 
 of English was not to be approved in some in- 
 stances. 
 
 " It was his instinct to love and interpret nature 
 more for her own sake, and less for the sake of 
 sympathy which the human mind can read into 
 her, with its own workings and aspirations." 
 
 " There is, obviously, a great immaturity and un- 
 certainty in all these outpourings — an intensity 
 and emotion out of proportion. Yet in this first 
 book there is much that the lover of poetry will 
 always cherish." 
 
 Passages that go to pieces under criticism may 
 have about them a spirit of beauty that charms us. 
 He believed that poetry should not strive to en- 
 
372 ESS A V ON JOHN KEA TS 
 
 force particular doctrines, nor enter the field of 
 reason ; but its proper aim is the creation of 
 beauty. 
 
 Keats sought poetic liberty. The volume was 
 regarded by his publishers as a failure. 
 
 During the period from April, 1817, to May, 1818, 
 Keats was busy on his longest poem. Much of his 
 time was spent in various places out of London, 
 for reasons of health largely. Many of his familiar 
 friends were met, and mutual expressions of inter- 
 est and approval were made. Every day he 
 worked upon " Endymion " ; fifty lines were pro- 
 duced. 
 
 He had learned by his hard experience, and 
 had corrected many of the imperfections of his 
 previous works. 
 
 His failure did not break his spirit. Moved by 
 his own good sense, and by the advice of his 
 friends, he devoted himself to study, with refer- 
 ence to general improvement and the perfection of 
 his greater work. He was not perfectly successful, 
 but it was a grand school for him, and his struggles 
 and failures were stepping-stones to the temple of 
 fame, though it was at a great cost. 
 
 " Endymion " was published, and this is an ex- 
 tract from its preface : " It is just that this young- 
 ster should die away ; a sad thought for me, if I 
 
ESS A V ON JOHN KEA TS 373 
 
 had not some hope that, while it was dwindling, I 
 may be plotting and fitting myself for verses fit to 
 live." 
 
 After " Endymion " was published, with Mr. 
 Brown he started on a northern tour for health 
 and recreation. On foot, in a suitable garb, they 
 went over those parts of Western Scotland now 
 ordinarily visited by tourists — no doubt with great 
 pleasure and profit, in some respects. They started 
 June 22, 1 8 18, and he returned by boat from 
 Cromarty August 9th. We cannot, for want of 
 time, give the details of this journey. Probably 
 Keats did not admire Scotland very much, and 
 sometimes his strength was not equal to the de- 
 mands of the journey. " From the experiences in 
 this tour are traced the first symptoms of his hered- 
 itary tendency to consumption, and his throat 
 trouble never really, for any length of time, left 
 him afterwards. 
 
 On his return from the north he found that very 
 severe attacks had been made upon him by Black- 
 wood's Magazine and the Quarterly Reviezv. He was 
 spoken of as " Johnny Keats," as an " amiable bard- 
 ling," a " Cockney Poet." The worst part of the 
 Keats review was in its personalities : " Go back to 
 the shop, John ; stick to plasters, pills, ointment 
 boxes, etc." Besides, much of the material for 
 the criticisms was dishonorably obtained from a 
 
374 ^SSA V ON JOHN KEA TS 
 
 friend (Bailey), under the promise of confidence 
 that it should not be used to his disadvantage. 
 The attack is believed to have been written by 
 Lockhart himself. If so, it was a felon's stroke on 
 his part. 
 
 The Quarterly article on " Endymion " followed 
 in an equally contemptuous strain, the writer pro- 
 fessing to have been unable to read beyond the first 
 canto, or make head or tail of that. 
 
 Many expressions of friends and articles in the 
 public prints came to his assistance. During these 
 attacks he was living under another far more 
 heartfelt trouble. His brother Tom was very sick, 
 and he, as a brother and a nurse, tenderly watched 
 over him until December, when his end came. 
 Keats was then invited to live with one of his 
 friends (Brown), and as soon as he could control 
 his afflicted spirit, he began his poetic work again. 
 The special topic was " Hyperion." He had al- 
 ways sought to keep clear of the passion of love, 
 "lest it should burn him up." He apparently 
 intended never to marry. Once he wrote : " The 
 roaring of the wind is my wife, and the stars 
 are my children ; the mighty abstract idea of 
 beauty in all things. I have stifled the more di- 
 vided and minute domestic happiness." " I feel 
 more and more every day, as my imagination 
 strengthens, that I do not live in this world 
 
ESS A V ON JOHN KEA TS 375 
 
 alone, but in a thousand worlds. Alone, shapes 
 of epic greatness are around me. Tragedy conies 
 sweeping by. I wander like a lost soul upon the 
 Stygian bank, I melt into the air with a voluptu- 
 ousness so delicate that I am content to be alone." 
 That may serve as a picture of his natural poetic 
 spirit. But his hour came ; perhaps few men 
 are safe when exposed. Soon after his removal 
 to Brown's house he became acquainted with Miss 
 Fanny Brawne, and after a little while was com- 
 pletely fascinated by her. For want of space, we 
 must speak very briefly of this young lady. Suf- 
 fice it to say that she had many personal attrac- 
 tions, but some of his friends thought she was no 
 mate for him, either in heart or mind, and re- 
 garded the attachment as unlucky. But the expe- 
 rience of 6,000 years has shown that a third party 
 can neither produce nor prevent a great love. 
 Apparently, in regard to Keats, it was a case in 
 which the passion was bounded by no time or 
 circumstances. This was a time of untoward for- 
 tunes for him. His brother George, whom he 
 tenderly loved, had removed to America. 
 
 The Scotch tour had overtaxed his strength and 
 revealed a deadly enemy, Tom had died almost in 
 his arms, and upon this had come the gibes of the 
 reviewers. 
 
 Love, the fever in his blood, doubts or tanta- 
 
376 ESS A V ON JOHN KEA TS 
 
 lizing rapture alternating, bereavement and antici- 
 pated poverty, were too mucli for him, and he 
 broke down. He could not work much, but he 
 showed a brave face to the world, and such work 
 as he did then, was at the very height of his 
 powers ; it includes parts of Hyperion and the Eve 
 of St. Agnes. 
 
 He wrote poetry for the love of it. " I feel 
 assured (he said) I should write from the mere 
 yearning and fondness I have for the beautiful, 
 even if my night's labors should be burned every 
 morning, and no eye should ever rest upon them." 
 
 In the midst of his troubles one of his friends 
 wanted to borrow money of him, and though he 
 got it for him with great difficulty, it, apparently, 
 was never repaid. 
 
 "As his flesh began to faint in the service of 
 poetry and beauty, his soul turned often with a 
 sense of comfort towards the milder divinity of 
 Death." 
 
 Then, out of the mere yearning and fondness he 
 had for the beautiful, he produced poem after poem 
 that are among the treasures of the English lan- 
 guage. 
 
 In spite of his magnanimous reception of the 
 Blackzvood and Quarterly attacks, as time went on 
 he felt more and more his wounded pride and 
 darkened prospects. It was a mean, cruel attack, 
 
ESS A V ON JOHN KEA TS 377 
 
 without ground, as the sequel has proved, probably, 
 for some real or supposed pique. The humble 
 preface should have made them his friends, not his 
 destroyers. 
 
 He struggled manfully against the legion of 
 troubles on every side, writing with all his excited 
 energies, with greater evils before him, and some- 
 thing dreadful in a most certain prospect. From 
 the middle of August to the middle of October he 
 was in the old cathedral city of Winchester, and 
 they were the last good days of his life. He studied 
 on Lamia, Otho, and the Eve of St. Agnes. 
 
 The brightness of early autumn continued to 
 sustain and soothe him, and then he made a vigor- 
 our effort to rally his moral powers, and banish 
 his morbid sensibilities. 
 
 The die was cast for death, and in October, 
 1 81 7, begins the melancholy closing chapter of 
 Keat's history. " Of the triple flame which was 
 burning away his life, the flame of genius, of 
 passion, and of disease, — while the last kept 
 smouldering in secret, the second burst forth every 
 day more fiercely, and the first began from this 
 time forth to sink." He tried various schemes 
 to escape his coming despair. Among them was 
 the writing of a play, but strangely it never 
 came out. He commenced a poem in a new style, 
 
 24 
 
378 ESS A V ON JOHN KEA TS 
 
 " Cap and Bells," but it was in a strain alien to 
 his nature. 
 
 He was very skillful in concealing his troubles 
 from his friends, but they began to discover that he 
 had lost his cheerfulness. 
 
 " Only the dreamer venoms all his days, 
 Bearing more woe than all his sins deserve ; " — 
 
 were among his cries of bitterness in those days. 
 
 The wasting of his vital powers by latent disease 
 was turning all his sensations and emotions into 
 pain. Soon after January 28th came the first 
 overt attack of fatal disease. 
 
 Brown relates that one night " on entering the 
 cold sheets, before his head was on the pillow, he 
 slightly coughed, and I heard him say, That is 
 blood from my mouth. Bring me the candle, 
 Brown, and let me see this blood. After regarding 
 it steadfastly he looked up into my face with a 
 calmness of countenance that I can never forget 
 and said, * I know the color of that blood, it is 
 arterial blood — that drop of blood is my death 
 warrant — I must die.'" 
 
 A new volume, the immortal volume, containing 
 Lamia, Isabella, The Eve of Saint Agnes, Hy- 
 perion, and the Odes, soon made its appearance, 
 and had a moderate sale. 
 
 He had been warned not to risk the rigors of an 
 
ESS A V ON JOHN KEA TS 379 
 
 English winter and made up his mind to seek a 
 milder climate, but as a soldier marches up to a bat- 
 tery, and, on September 19th, with Severn, a friend, 
 he sailed for Naples, having, to pay his expenses, 
 sold the copyrights of Endymion for £\oo. 
 
 Let us now briefly consider some of his poems 
 before we go to meet him in the old Roman 
 capital. 
 
 ENDYMION, 
 
 the longest and, perhaps, one of the earliest of 
 Keats' works, is worthy a candid examination. It 
 has its imperfections and its beauties. He, doubt- 
 less, made a great mistake in using words of his 
 own coining the English-speaking world will never 
 adopt — a dangerous vanity, as many authors have 
 found to their sorrow. Toward the end of the 
 composition the number of such words became less, 
 till they almost cease. There were many boyish 
 things he would, doubtless, have discarded in later 
 years, both in language and in thought. 
 
 Some of his love scenes were rather overwrought, 
 even silly, but it must be remembered he was very 
 young. 
 
 With all the adverse criticisms others may see fit 
 to make, there are many wonderful passages, al- 
 most without their equals. What he chose to see 
 in everything was the beautiful, and it continued to 
 be his joy to the end. 
 
3 So £SSA V ON JOHN KEA TS 
 
 It is a strange story that Sappho sang long ago, 
 but of which we only know what she said " second 
 hand." An old Grecian story, modified by a Gothic 
 mind, and to enjoy it we must take it for what it 
 is, — Grecian, mythologic, and untrue, as to facts, 
 but valuable for its beautiful pictures and situations 
 never found but in poetry. If we can give no 
 freedom to the imagination, it will be useless to 
 read Endymion. 
 
 It is unfortunate that he could not have had time 
 and leisure to review the work after his manner 
 had become more mature (laughing at his critics, 
 but learning from them), nevertheless, in it were 
 the indications of the future poet, who would shine 
 brighter for his suffering, 
 
 LAMIA, 
 
 a story of magic and mythology, has fewer defects 
 in language than Endymion. Probably everyone 
 who reads it, as it deserves, will feel a thrill of 
 pleasure or pain that will not be forgotten for 
 many days. 
 
 ISABELLA, 
 
 a tale of Bocaccio, adorned and amplified in a north- 
 ern manner with tones of sentiment and colors of 
 romance. 
 
 The lines are not all of equal workmanship, but 
 the scene is realized with unerring vision. The 
 poet seems to be reaching his highest point. 
 
ESS A V ON JOHN KEA TS 381 
 
 THE EVE OF ST. AGNES 
 
 is a story of times nearer to us, written when Keats 
 was in his meridian. Its characters are men and 
 women of to-day like ourselves. The story is of 
 marvelous interest, and there hangs over it a 
 charm, magical, almost supernatural, but always 
 beautiful, suggestive, and real, and when it ends 
 we are sorry there is not more. 
 
 HYPERION 
 
 was probably written after his tour to Scotland. 
 The subject had been long in his mind. It was his 
 purpose to " sing the Titanomachio or warfare of 
 the earlier Titanic dynasty, with the later Olympian 
 dynasty of the Greek Gods," particularly one epi- 
 sode, the dethronement of the Sun God, Hyperion, 
 and the assumption of his kingdom by Apollo. 
 He intended to write a poem in ten books, but 
 only the first and second and a fragment of the 
 third have come down to us. He was an admirer 
 of Milton, and doubtless Paradise Lost had much 
 to do with the fragment. 
 
 It was a Greek subject, on a peculiar Greek field, 
 but he did not write in a Greek manner, though 
 some of his passages are not far behind. 
 
 " As when, upon a tranced summer night, 
 Those green-robed senators of mighty woods, 
 Tall oaks, branch-charmed by earnest stars, 
 Dream, and so dream all night without a stir." 
 
382 ESS A V ON JOHN KEA TS 
 
 " Though Keats sees the Greek world from afar, 
 he sees it truly." 
 
 It was a brave work he undertook. In the war of 
 the Titans he had little to guide him except scraps, 
 here and there, and no doubt he took some liber- 
 ties which better Greek scholars — as such — would 
 not have dared to do, but what would such have 
 said of Milton if he had left to the world but two 
 books of Paradise Lost ? 
 
 Keats chose the subject probably for an oppor- 
 tunity to paint marvelous pictures of terror and 
 beauty, and he produced, so far as he went, one of 
 the grandest poems in modern times, and if it had 
 been completed it would have been the pride of all 
 who speak our excellent language. 
 
 MYTHOLOGY, 
 
 It has seemed strange to some that Keats selected 
 so often mythological subjects for his poems, and 
 perhaps it would have been better if he had not, 
 but there is to be found a good reason for the selec- 
 tion. 
 
 His imagination reveled in the region of beauti- 
 ful things, and it would be natural for him to 
 choose subjects in which he could have the broadest 
 field and the freest wing. Some persons feel for 
 the stories of Grecian mythology a strong disgust; 
 they might say they were worse than childish, with 
 
ESS A V ON JOHN KEA TS 383 
 
 not a shadow of truth. In one sense that is true, 
 but there is something there, after all, for those 
 who have eyes, adapted to the inspection. To the 
 ignorant and uncultivated the Grecian mythology 
 may be silly or offensive, but to poets it is poetry. 
 
 The old Homeric deities had about them much 
 that was gross and repulsive, but who can say those 
 stories are not the struggles of poetic souls to 
 express somewhat in figurative language the feel- 
 ings borne into their souls by the sighs of distorted, 
 upheaved mountains, dismal chasms, and riven 
 rocks? What would be more natural than to 
 attribute such results to Titanic forces. Not that 
 they believed in Titans, but they were in the spirit 
 to accept them. So these ancient moral and phy- 
 sical monsters came from the rude poets and not 
 from history or tradition. 
 
 In later times, though still ancient, when men 
 had become more cultivated, when much of the 
 primeval rudeness had worn off, these old deities 
 were largely dethroned, and a purer worship, or 
 rather poetical feeling, had taken their place. Then 
 the ever inquisitive imagination had filled the 
 world with countless deities, though some of the 
 old ones were there a kind of background. Then 
 every hill, dale, forest or plain, the sea, rivers, and 
 fountains had their beautiful inhabitants, as beauti- 
 ful as the then existing state of poetical culture 
 
384 ^SSA V ON JOHN KEA TS 
 
 could create. Some were bad, of course, but that 
 was to be expected, for the Christ had not yet 
 come. 
 
 In early times, the poets — I mean those who sang 
 because they could not keep silence — here found a 
 field for the exercise of genius in which there 
 seemed no limit. 
 
 There Keats delighted to wander. 
 
 A mere beautiful thought, or natural object, in 
 his mind, was the beginning of a train of kindred 
 or related thoughts, that constantly repeated them- 
 selves, and a world of beauties came unbidden, 
 seeking to be uttered in song. 
 
 The stories of Endymion, Hyperion, and Lamia, 
 are not true, but beneath every line was a truth of 
 almost matchless beauty for those whose souls were 
 open to poetry. 
 
 Those whose spirits are still in their poetical 
 chrysalis may well rest till the time of their waken- 
 ing out of sleep. The man who knows no Greek or 
 Italian or German would be a simpleton to deny the 
 beauty of Homer, Dante, and Goethe. 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 There are about forty-four smaller poems. Some 
 ot them are very beautiful, and all deserve to be 
 read. 
 
 " Otho the Great " is a tragedy with many good 
 
ESS A V ON JOHN KEA TS 385 
 
 points, but it was not regarded as a great success, a 
 thing not easily achieved since Shakespeare wrote. 
 The " Cap and Bells " was still less fortunate. It 
 was a falling off from the high point he had before 
 reached, and the style, character, and peculiarities 
 seemed unlike himself, and not in harmony with 
 his spirit as shown in his other works. Perhaps 
 it is just as well that it was never finished. 
 
 THE RHYTHM 
 
 of Keats was simple ; he did not ordinarily indulge 
 in fanciful stanzas, and when we apply the rigid 
 metrical scale, sometimes we may possibly suspect 
 that there are imperfections. Perhaps, however, 
 like his great successor, a line to him was as a strain 
 in music, not dependent necessarily on the number 
 of syllables, but upon the duration of time. Perhaps 
 it is not true that all long syllables are exactly equal 
 to two short ones, and his ear arranged them with 
 an accuracy that may seem to us a fault. 
 
 LITERARY PECULIARITIES. 
 
 Time will not permit me to say much about the 
 peculiarities of Keats' style. Stedman in his " Vic- 
 torian Poets " made thirty-four references to him at 
 least, and a few of them will be cited here. 
 
 " Keats, the English apprentice, surrounded him- 
 self with all Olympus' hierarchy, and breathed the 
 freshness of Thessalian forest winds." 
 
386 £SSAV ON JOHN KEATS 
 
 " Mrs, Browning read Greek for the music of its 
 literature. As for Keats, he created a Greece and 
 an Olympus of his own." It is said that Keats 
 " begat the body of the idyllic Victorian school." 
 
 " The art which was born with Keats and found 
 its perfect work in Tennyson already seems faultily 
 faultless" and over refined. 
 
 He is said to be " the rarest and most intuitive 
 master of the fastidious art." 
 
 " He (Tennyson) began as a metrical artist — at a 
 long remove, even, from that of so absolute an art- 
 ist as was John Keats." 
 
 "These constituents — technical finish and the 
 revival of classical taste, — more fully developed by 
 the exquisite genius of Keats, were to mark the out- 
 ward features of English metrical literature during 
 the period whose poets have been included in this 
 review " (Victorian). 
 
 " I do not hesitate to say that this epic (Lander's 
 ' Gebir ' ) as poetry, and as a marvelous production 
 for the period and for Lander's twenty-two years, 
 stands next to that unrivaled torso composed long 
 afterwards, — the ' Hyperion ' of John Keats." 
 
 Tennyson proved his kindred genius by his in- 
 stinctive study of details in his immature verses in 
 marked contrast to his fellows and every predecessor 
 but Keats, that strong "excepted soul." 
 
 " Paradise Lost " is the masterpiece of stately Ro- 
 
ESSA V ON JOHN KEA TS 387 
 
 man syntax. " Hyperion " is the finest specimen in 
 modern times. 
 
 Had Keats lived — had he lived to gain the feel- 
 ing of Morris, to pass from aspirations to attain- 
 ments, and had his delicious poems been succeeded 
 by others comparing with " Isabella " and the " Eve 
 of St. Agnes " as " The Earthly Paradise " compares 
 with " The Defence of Guinevere," then, indeed, 
 the world would have listened to a singer, — 
 
 ' ' Such as it had 
 In ages glad, 
 Long ago." 
 
 THE END. 
 
 It is hoped this brief sketch of Keats will render 
 the study of his works more interesting, but it is 
 not easy to restrain our indignation at the cruelty 
 with which he was treated by the reviewers, for, in 
 fact, he was murdered. We might say he should 
 not have regarded them if he felt they were wrong, 
 but should go on working hopefully and await the 
 verdict of time, remembering that literature and art 
 are seldom fairly judged until another generation, 
 but justice, though sometimes tardy, will surely 
 come in the end. His soul was of no common fiber. 
 A discord is unknown by some, but painful to 
 others. With him " a thing of beauty is a joy for 
 ever." The cords of his soul were delicately tuned 
 
388 ^SSA V ON JOHN KEA TS 
 
 to cause delight or suffering. There had at last 
 come upon him a triple suffering — disgrace, pros- 
 pective poverty, and hopeless love — and he sank 
 under their burden. 
 
 What a loss has befallen the world ! If he had 
 been blessed with that easy and long life enjoyed 
 by Tennyson, what might we have seen ? He was 
 not an artificial poet, but born such, and his and our 
 hopes were blighted by the sneer of a man whom 
 the world will despise if ever discovered. 
 
 We left him some time ago on shipboard, bound 
 for the milder climate of Italy, hoping her sunny 
 skies would look gently upon his frail constitution. 
 Let us now return to him. 
 
 The Maria Crother sailed from London, Sept. i8, 
 1817. Several of his best friends went with him as 
 far as Gravesend. The voyage at first seemed to 
 do him good, but it was long and tedious. They 
 met with storms and calms on the way, tossing a 
 long time in the channel, and did not arrive in 
 the Bay of Naples till after four weeks, to which 
 was added a quarantine of ten days. His effort 
 to keep bright partly imposed on Severn, his com- 
 panion, but on November ist he wrote to Brown, 
 betraying the secret of his anguish. He said, 
 " I can bear to die — I can not bear to leave her. 
 O God ! God ! God ! Everything I have in my 
 trunk that reminds me of her goes through me 
 
ESSA V ON JOHN KEA TS 389 
 
 like a spear. I see — I hear her. O Brown, I 
 have coals of fire in my breast. It surprises me 
 that the human heart is capable of so much 
 misery." 
 
 Shelley, then in Italy, warmly renewed his invita- 
 tion to come to Pisa, but his and Severn's plans were 
 for Rome. Arriving there, they found lodgings in 
 the Piazza di Spagna, in a house going up the steps 
 to St'a Trinita dei Monti. Their food was poor, but 
 Severn got a piano, and Keats was soothed by the 
 music. Keats began to read " Alfieri," but dropped 
 it at the words too sadly applicable to himself, 
 
 " Misera me! solliero a me non restra 
 Altro che '1 pianto, ed il pianto e delitto." 
 
 A transient hope was followed by despair. Hem- 
 orrhage followed hemorrhage on successive days — 
 then came a fever. 
 
 Severn was more than a brother to him, but was 
 obliged to refuse one request for his good. In re- 
 ligion he had been neither a believer nor a scoffer, 
 but, admiring the Christian behavior of Severn, he 
 acknowledged the power of Christian teaching, and 
 asked his friend to read to him from " Holy Living 
 and Dying," and strove to pass the remainder of his 
 days in peace and constancy. 
 
 They had few home comforts ; the outer world 
 cared not for them. At one time they were in 
 danger of a want of money, but just in time a re- 
 
390 ^SSA V ON JOHN KEA TS 
 
 mittance came. He did not now expect to recover. 
 He said once, " I feel the flowers growing over me," 
 and gave his epitaph, " Here lies one whose name 
 is writ in water." 
 
 Tender and harrowing memories haunted all the 
 after life of the watcher. We will not pursue the 
 sad scene further, only to say that on the 23d of 
 February, 181 8, death came. 
 
 He was buried in the Protestant cemetery in 
 Rome, near the pyramid of Caius Sestius, and there 
 too rest Shelley and Severn, a place of pilgrimage 
 for the Enoflish race forever. 
 
FortnigJitly Club, March ii, i8Si. 
 
 AT the commencement of this discussion it must be 
 clearly vinderstood that on m}^ part no attack is made 
 upon the newspaper press itself, but an effort will be made 
 to show some of the injurious effects of newspaper read- 
 ing as we find it in practice. The gentlemen of the press 
 are not to be blamed for the use others make of their 
 labors — that is ordinarily beyond their control. 
 
 In passing, let me say that the American press is justly 
 regarded as one of the most important and effective agen- 
 cies for the advancement of the public and private wel- 
 fare. A republic could hardly exist without it, and should 
 its regular visits cease, business would suffer a paralyzing 
 shock, while the general intelligence and culture would 
 mourn its loss. My limits will not permit me to enlarge 
 on this view of the subject. 
 
 It might naturally be expected that no moderate terms 
 of condemnation would be used in regard to those articles 
 or short items that, at times, make their appearance, tend- 
 ing to foster crime — indirectly, at least — and which are 
 subversive of the public morality, which every honest man 
 is bound to cherish and defend. That vulgar, poisonous, 
 and disgusting sheets, catering to a depraved appetite, and 
 cultivating a love for low tastes, have been issued, we 
 know to be true ; and if we could see the heart or inner 
 
392 
 
 NE IVSPA PER READ ING 
 
 life as clearly as we can material things, many a charred, 
 desolate ruin, as a natural result, would be disclosed to 
 our view. But we must add that these evils would follow 
 from the perusal of any poisonous literature, and is, there- 
 fore, not confined to periodicals. 
 
 This is not, however, the aspect of the subject to which 
 I intend to call your attention. An honorable class of 
 men are not to be blamed for the misconduct of one per- 
 son, over whom they have no control, and whose charac- 
 ter and doings they condemn. I shall assume in this 
 paper that the managers of the American newspaper press 
 are, as a body, men of high character, as well as of culti- 
 vation and intellectual strength, who ordinarily would be 
 the champions of honor and purity, and would condemn 
 in the strongest terms everything endangering the public 
 and private morality. For this reason, no further notice 
 will be taken of this feature of journalism, believing that 
 the toleration of articles of doubtful character are in our 
 day rare exceptions. But still we sometimes wonder if 
 those gentlemen realize the mighty influence they wield, 
 and we wish they would leave out a few things they see fit 
 to introduce. 
 
 What I more particularly desire to bring to your notice 
 concerns the intellectual rather than the moral nature of 
 man. There is an evil, not so obvious to the looker-on as 
 that which concerns character, nor does it reduce a man 
 to so low a level, but that, nevertheless, is worthy of our 
 consideration. It is not the fault of the journal, but it is 
 the unwise use of the same. We should avail ourselves of its 
 advantages, not as an end, but as a means to an end — as a 
 source from which to gain information that we can use in 
 order to accomplish something else. For this purpose it is a 
 great storehouse, well filled with material that we could 
 
NEWSPAPER READING 
 
 393 
 
 not obtain from any other source, gathered from all the 
 land — even from all the world — by means of a compli- 
 cated system, directed with great skill and at great cost. 
 When our favorite daily comes it has the welcome look of 
 a friend, who by his smiling face betrays the possession of 
 good news. We can well spare a short time over it. We 
 must read the telegraphic reports, the doings of legisla- 
 tures and of Congress, more or less attentively ; also the 
 city items, some general facts of all the world's doings, 
 and such business articles as will help us during the day. 
 If we want to buy or sell, or find a rent or a situation, or 
 hire a clerk or servant, we may learn something to our 
 advantage ; or, what is better, with a quick eye we can run 
 over the paper, and see if there is anything there that 
 will be of use to us, or, perhaps, interesting, and pass over 
 the rest. The editor has furnished a great variety, not all 
 for one person, but for the whole country ; and the wise 
 man will select that which will be valuable to him, not al- 
 lowing a silly curiosity to deprive him of his useful time in 
 an attempt to read the whole. Thus far he has done well, 
 and ought to have gained something that may be of use 
 to him. 
 
 If men would read in this way, there would be but one 
 side to the subject under consideration here to-night, but 
 there is much reason to believe that most persons read out 
 of mere childish curiosity — not in search of anything, not 
 finding anything. 
 
 I have seen a man — it is true with a face almost devoid 
 of expression — leaning over a city paper, apparently 
 reading everything from the name to the last period. 
 Very probably he saw nothing in it, after all. As a sample 
 of another class, you have seen a man, possibly a little 
 older, and a person of leisure, read paper after paper, hour 
 25 
 
394 NEWSPAPER READING 
 
 after hour, but all the time with a face dull and sleepy. 
 If he had been in search of something that he might make 
 use of, it would have been well, but it was merely to pass 
 the time. How strange that in this wonderful world time 
 should hang heavy on any person ! As he reads along 
 nothing lightens up his eye, tmless, perhaps, he comes 
 across the account of a murder, a fraud, or accident ; and 
 then he soon relapses into his former state of temporary 
 idiocy. If this were only for one day or week, it might not 
 be so bad ; but when it is the practice from year to year, 
 it becomes a dreadful abuse of the human intellect, that is 
 capable of such exalted uses. 
 
 We have all heard the story of the countryman who for 
 the first time sat down to the dining-table of a well-kept 
 city hotel. At the sight of the bill of fare he was be- 
 wildered. Supposing, in his simplicity, he was expected 
 to eat everything therein presented, did his best. We 
 have also seen men who, it would seem, tried to accom- 
 plish the same task, but not from a like error, but because 
 their low animal tastes prompted them — in short, he was 
 a gourmand. It is incredible what an amount of abuse our 
 innocent stomachs can be subjected to, and yet that the 
 owners should live. We are all familiar with such persons, 
 who, at last, must settle the account by enduring a legion 
 of ills that are the natural consequence. This is one of 
 the many compensations in nature. 
 
 I feel a certain amount of self-condemnation in compar- 
 ing anything possible in literature to the examples set us 
 by the baser nature of man ; but in the newspaper read- 
 ing of some men there is a practice not unlike the dining 
 of the country youth. The publishers have, like good 
 hosts, spread a table with a great variety ; things substan- 
 tial to nourish us for work, things delicate and savory to 
 
NEWSPAPER READING 
 
 395 
 
 please the palate ; they give us side-dishes and dessert ; 
 some things are likely to be poor, or unripe, or it may be 
 particularly disagreeable to some peculiar people, but there 
 is a variety, and every man may hope to find something 
 to his taste ; withal, in the headings is a bill of fare from 
 which he can select. Many readers begin at the top, and, 
 without using their judgment or making selections, read 
 through the entire bill. 
 
 What a wicked abuse of our intellectual stomachs ! 
 Look over the contents of ordinary daily papers, and think 
 of devouring all or a large part of that heterogeneous 
 mass, when, in most instances, no part has much, if any, 
 connection with any other part, or relation to any condi- 
 tion of our being. Is it possible to digest such a mass ? 
 I know nothing about the mental gastric juice, but the 
 brain ought to refuse such nourishment. Is it not a won- 
 der that these misguided persons, after a few years of 
 ofEending, are not all occupants of institutions for imbe- 
 ciles or madmen ? 
 
 By one reading in this way, what has been gained? 
 Very little ; dim impressions of a multitude of things ; 
 fog ; facts only half understood, and nearly all to be for- 
 gotten in a day. What one retains the longest is that 
 which was the most exciting or impressive at the time, 
 such as accounts of crimes or disasters — a kind of ingath- 
 ering that makes tis poorer. Good things were there, but 
 they were only half comprehended, and are left covered 
 deep with impressions of no use — mere trash. 
 
 All do not waste their time in this way, but many do 
 year after year, and deserve to be called newspaper glut- 
 tons. Some may say : " It is their own business, and if 
 they choose to use their time in that way, let them do so ; 
 they, perhaps, have nothing else to do." True, they have 
 
396 NEWSPAPER READING 
 
 a perfect right to read what they please, but they could do 
 something better. The world is full of good books, whose 
 study would make a man greater and happier. 
 
 There are other classes of periodicals — religious, scien- 
 tific, and literary — some of which are of a high order of 
 merit, but, from the nature of the case, not liable to the 
 same evil consequences as those to which, ordinarily, secu- 
 lar dailies and weeklies are subjected. 
 
 A person continuing in this manner of reading would be 
 confirmed in certain mental habits by no means favorable 
 to his improvement or strength. Among them, it might 
 be said that he would be without any definite object or 
 plan, or clear understanding of what he passes over ; with- 
 out continuous thinking or association of kindred topics or 
 ideas ; without efforts to overcome anything difficult ; 
 and would remember very little that passed through his 
 mind. Whoever believes and appreciates this will not 
 doubt its injurious consequences upon our habits of think- 
 ing. 
 
 Habits are produced by repetition. If we desire to have 
 good habits, it will require effort, often severe and contin- 
 ued. Bad habits, that we have no desire to cultivate, and 
 that come upon us through ignorance or carelessness, 
 nevertheless hold us with the same iron grasp. The first 
 are helpers ; the others make us slaves. 
 
 Let us now attempt to discover the effects of the habits 
 referred to upon some of our important mental operations. 
 This field is entered upon with no little hesitation, for I 
 lay no claim to a knowledge of intellectual philosoph}^ — a 
 subject pursued by comparatively few, not because unin- 
 teresting, but because of the difficulty in the study itself. 
 Yet, as my line of thought taaturally passes along the out- 
 skirts of that domain, it cannot be entirely avoided. Let 
 
NEWSPAPER READING 
 
 397 
 
 anyone for a moment turn his thoughts inward towards 
 his thoughts, and if he does not choose to exert his will 
 upon them, he will perceive a strange current ceaselessly 
 pouring along, impelled by some power not understood. 
 In some men — a few — these thoughts will be clear and 
 distinct, having some relation to the subject that interests 
 them at the time, or those to which they are compelled to 
 direct their attention. But to a far greater number these 
 thoughts will seem to have no connection or relation to 
 each other. It is a strange procession — pictures of fields, 
 houses, cities, persons ; things beautiful that make us 
 start up with pleasure ; things hateful from which we 
 would draw back. There are, as if frescoed upon a wall, 
 acts of men we have known, wise and noble, who have 
 done us good, whom we now long to see again ; any day of 
 our life may come back to us again, gratifying us with our 
 successes, or charging us with our faults, or, it may be, 
 with wrongs, scalding us with the memories of our blun- 
 ders, from the effects of which we are to-day suffering. 
 There are also recollections we cannot throw off, and a 
 hideous long list of things we have seen and heard — per- 
 haps done — that we loathe, and would obliterate if it were 
 possible, but we cannot. We can shut our eyes and stop 
 our ears, but this mental current will run on through life. 
 Some of the impressions are vivid ; many are distorted, 
 dim, cloudy, entangled. We may control it for a time, but 
 stop it permanently we never can. The possessors of a 
 mind may think wisely or foolishly, but they must think 
 forever. 
 
 This is our mental store, gathered by experience, by 
 reading, and by the chemistry of our own intellect. To 
 some it is a treasure to be used, ready at hand ; to others 
 it is a heterogeneous mass of good and bad, a hopeless 
 
398 
 
 NEWSPAPER READING 
 
 tangle, out of control ; to others it is a possession that 
 cankers and poisons present and coming years. We seem 
 to look upon it — ourself looking upon ourself . There is 
 stored up what is to make us men or fools. Thought, if 
 under control, may be the source of our highest happi- 
 ness ; but if it yields to no bridle, it will be useless — it 
 may become cruel as the rack from the inquisition. 
 
 There are, fortunately, powers given us by which the 
 ever-moving contents of our mental storehotise can be con- 
 trolled, and important among them is recollection, or vol- 
 untary memory. In proportion as this is ready and tena- 
 cious, objects of thought or impressions can be gathered 
 up, the valuable ones selected, bound together, and held 
 obedient to our call. This valuable faculty is susceptible 
 of improvement, and of decay (failure). It might be in- 
 teresting to record some of its phenomena, but our pres- 
 ent purpose will only call for a few statements in regard to 
 its improvement or loss. 
 
 We are told by those competent to instruct in intellect- 
 ual science that there are practices tending to its cultiva- 
 tion, and in this there is a remarkable agreement among 
 our wise men. They say we should cultivate habits of 
 fixed attention, and should never be satisfied to leave a 
 thought until it is thoroughly mastered. Prest. Paten says 
 " the soul can recall no more than it makes its own," § 306. 
 We should read or study systematically, and associate kin- 
 dred objects and facts by after-reflection ; we should prac- 
 tice frequent repetition of what we read. 
 
 Now I ask you to consider if the method of newspaper 
 reading pursued by a large proportion of those who in- 
 dulge continually in that habit is not just the reverse of these 
 precepts ; as most read without care to understand, with- 
 out any plan, and forget what they have read in a few 
 
NEWSPAPER READING 
 
 399 
 
 days. Do we not learn to remember by remembering, and as 
 truly to forget by forgetting ? 
 
 Closely connected with memory is another faculty that 
 deserves consideration. I mean the further control of the 
 mental current, or the fixing the mind upon a particular 
 thought, and holding it there. " Not only can we arrest a 
 particular thought .... but we can hold it with a 
 firm grasp until we have examined it in all its parts, if it 
 be complex, and in all its relations to other thoughts and 
 things. In the power to do this men differ greatly, and he 
 who can do it is capable of producing great results. It 
 was in this power alone that Sir Isaac Newton said his 
 genius consisted. . . ." * 
 
 The value of superiority in this power cannot be over- 
 stated. How is it that success is obtained in mechanics 
 and engineering, in science, and in the professions, when 
 brought to contend with difficulties? Is it not by examin- 
 ing each truth or fact till thoroughly understood, and then 
 holding the whole like a map before the eye of the mind, 
 until the investigator sees all the relations and possible 
 consequences ? He who can do this in the highest degree 
 is the greatest man. This is the prerogative of a disci- 
 plined mind ; this is genitis. 
 
 Unthinking persons suppose that education is the acquire- 
 ment of an amount of facts. They can see nothing in ma- 
 thematics but rules for performing practical calculations ; 
 in the natural sciences, nothing but aids in conducting 
 manufactories and drug stores; or in the ancient languages, 
 nothing but ability to read epitaphs and the terms of science ; 
 yet the great value of a systematic education is the disci- 
 pline, which might remain, if the facts should be forgotten. 
 
 * Outline Hist., p. 140. 
 
400 
 
 NEWSPAPER READING 
 
 In these days of reading we are in danger of having too 
 many facts and too little thinking. 
 
 A man cannot acquire the will power over the opera- 
 tions of his mind by allowing it to run on carelessly and 
 without plan over what comes next in the order of a news- 
 sheet, or in the fascinations of an exciting story, but by 
 wisely selecting something that is worthy of his attention, 
 and compelling his thoughts to dwell upon it till it has 
 been mastered, and has become a part of himself. Surely 
 you will not recommend the news-sheet for that ! 
 
 How much better it would be to devote the greater part 
 of one's leisure time for reading to some of the grand 
 works of the great masters of literature and science ! If 
 a person would make such a selection, read it over and 
 over, think upon it, discuss its conclusions, question them 
 if he choose, but drink in the author's spirit — it may cost 
 time and labor, but in the end he will find that he has 
 grown, that he has become a greater man. 
 
 It is important to read the best things, and to read them 
 in the right way. A large proportion of the books of to- 
 day are not worth reading. Their authors are not capable 
 of instructing, even in this superficial age. The value of 
 a novel lies in presenting a correct picture of human na- 
 ture, but the sentiments and incidents often introduced 
 are not in accordance with anything that ever takes place 
 in any real life. They may claim to write as artists, but 
 true artists paint in accordance with nature. Men write 
 not because they have thoughts crowding up and demand- 
 ing utterance, but apparently as a pastime. Every man 
 is, doubtless, good.for something, but all are not predes- 
 tined to write books worth reading. 
 
 It is claimed by some that newspaper reading is a great 
 educator. That depends upon what you mean by educa- 
 tion. If it is the filling of the mind with a great number 
 
NEWSPAPER READING 4©! 
 
 of things, as you would fill a sack from a disarranged mu- 
 seum, then you are right. But if by education is meant 
 discipline, the preparing of the mind to think and act 
 wisely and independently, what then ? Many of our 
 dailies, as well as monthlies, have noble editorials and se- 
 lections, worthy to be used as instruments of culture ; but 
 how often do we see reporters who have been tolerated 
 year after year in the use of what has been called " news- 
 paper English " — a cousin to pigeon-English — using enor- 
 mous phrases that "sound like firecrackers in an empty 
 barrel," using great words for small ideas, a great noise, 
 with nothing underneath ; not hesitating to spice their 
 productions with slang words and phrases, which, as a 
 rule, no clean man should tolerate. 
 
 We sometimes meet a young person whose language is 
 so perfect in its construction, whose Avords so well chosen, 
 whose pronunciation is so faultless, and in a peculiar, un- 
 affected, but soft, round tone, that we feel inclined to stop 
 and listen, as to the first notes of a bird as it returns to us 
 in spring-time. In what school was that learned ? 
 
 The practice of reading weak things, and in a careless 
 way, as practiced by many, must in time destroy the taste 
 for all really substantial literatui^e and science. Many per- 
 sons, apparently ignorant of the satisfaction of doing 
 greater work, are content to creep along with childish 
 things or unhealthful excitement. There is an intellectual 
 feast spread out for them, but they do not see it. The 
 vigorous youth, who has strengthened himself by manly 
 exercises, feels a supreme delight in climbing rugged 
 mountains, and is well rewarded by the pleasure of the 
 effort, as well as by the sight of the soul-stirring scenery 
 around him ; but some, with feeble knees and easily hur- 
 ried breath, are content to grope along in tame pastures 
 and misty valleys below. It is so with the mind. Those 
 
402 
 
 NEWSPAPER READING 
 
 who will not struggle to grasp and comprehend a great 
 thought will not enjoy one ; but every newly-acquired 
 power adds to the possibilities of happiness. A man may 
 stop his ears and den}- that there is any beauty in an ora- 
 torio or opera, or he may shut his eyes and declare that 
 there is no such thing as a rainbow. A man may be will- 
 ing to waste his glorious possibilities over senseless stories, 
 and think there never were such persons as Dante, Goethe, 
 Milton, Shakespeare, and a host of other great names. 
 Well, it cannot be helped ; you never can compel a man to 
 be great and wise and good. 
 
 This is an age of wonderful opportunities for conquest 
 in all the departments of knowledge. It is a day of great 
 men in science. Books for convenient study are without 
 number. But who reads good books ? Who is intelligent 
 in regard to anything but the commonest topics of the 
 times ? Some, surely — many — but a large proportion of 
 men, in the cities and out, never study anything after 
 leaving school ; seldom read anything worth reading. 
 Go and examine, and you will find that a large majority 
 have nothing more than the vaguest, most superficial 
 notion of history, literature, and science. 
 
 We can get a glimpse of what people read by exam- 
 ing the reports of libraries. The classification of books 
 drawn from the Hartford Library Association for the year 
 1880 gives for: 
 
 Fiction, . . . . .69 per cent. 
 
 History, . 
 
 Travel, . 
 
 Biography, 
 
 Arts and Sciences, 
 
 Poetry and Drama, 
 
 Theology, 
 
 Miscellaneous, . 
 
 6 
 6 
 
 6 
 
NEWSPAPER READING 403 
 
 I am informed that the amomit of fiction here is about 
 the same as in other similar libraries. This is a sad pic- 
 ture, and not prophetic of great men and a wise com- 
 munity. 
 
 Fiction has a proper and useful place in our reading, 
 but think of 69 per cent. ! If a man never reads a novel, 
 he would do well to begin ; but if he makes fiction his or- 
 dinary reading, he should at once turn his attention to 
 something more worthy of his time. It is a pity to see 
 anyone, especially a young person, given over to light 
 fiction, without any possibility of finding pleasure in 
 anything that requires effort. But this paper is already 
 too long. 
 
 I do not charge these evils upon newspapers, but such 
 consequences are the natural result of the manner in 
 which they are read. 
 
 "We may be sorry for the newspaper English that 
 sometimes occurs, and an occasional naughty thing that 
 creeps in — most mysteriously, no doubt — but we cannot 
 do without them ; we must read them daily and care- 
 fully ; we must acknowledge our obligation to them, and 
 defend them in their perfect freedom in everything con- 
 sistent with honor, truth, and the public and private 
 welfare. But, valuable as they are, they should not be 
 permitted to push aside that other literature of which 
 we have a noble inheritance — an inheritance selected by 
 the common consent of mankind, with unerring skill, out 
 of a vast number of books annually published, but most 
 of which are soon forgotten. They may have cost the 
 authors great labor — may have been written in their heart's 
 blood — but the jury that decide upon the result are deaf 
 to any considerations but real value 
 
 Generation after generation this sifting process goes on. 
 
4^4 NEWSPAPER READING 
 
 The world is found to be a good judge of genius, always 
 dropping the least valuable, till the few that remain are 
 better than gold. They are the real originals, of which 
 most of the others are only imitations. We might almost 
 say that they are inspired. 
 
 If men would take advantage of these opportunities and 
 draw their mental food from such great sources, choosing 
 the good and casting away the bad, youth would be inore 
 interesting ; manhood more useful and noble ; and old 
 age, with its tottering step and dim eyes, in the very 
 wrinkles on its face, would have a charm more lasting 
 than youth, more attractive than beauty. 
 
Zv(xu(e. 
 
 MR. TAYLOR'S LETTER TO HIS MOTHER. 
 
 Dresden, November 30, 1873. 
 Dear Mother : 
 
 The last letter received from you was October 27th. My 
 last was Dresden, November 23d. I went to my banker 
 Saturday hoping to get some news from home, but there 
 was nothing there. It was about Thanksgiving time and 
 my thoughts had been looking westward — hope you had a 
 good time. 
 
 I kept up the anniversary, and a full number were pres- 
 ent, but only in imagination; going back twenty years and 
 more when all could be present. I thought of the great 
 stir about the house for many days before ; the destruc- 
 tion of chickens, and the manufacture of cakes and mince 
 pies that were arranged along the shelves of the buttery 
 in most tempting displa3^ Allen came up the night 
 before, Gilbert had driven over in the morning about i 
 p. M. Amelia and Adolphus after the sermon in the 
 church come, and we are all there. In due time all are 
 arranged around the table, in the center of which is a 
 turkey, cooked brown and crisp, as few know how to do it, 
 a blessing is sought from the Giver of all good, and we 
 commence our feast. It seems impossible to dispose of 
 the load on our plates, but where there is a will the way is 
 easier ; and so wonders are accomplished. The remains 
 of the turkey are removed and a chicken pie introduced 
 into its place. We have eaten enough, but there is some- 
 
4o6 TRA VELS 
 
 thing about the crust of that pie, — brown and flakey, — we 
 cannot resist ; and then I always liked chicken pie ! we 
 submit ; we cannot help it ; and resolve to take the conse- 
 quences. After our plates are unloaded, for in spite of 
 our qualms of conscience as to eating any, we have eaten 
 all, and sometimes been up the second time ; the great pie, 
 what is left of it, is retired ; now we have done — no, we 
 are not done — pies are brought on : mince, apple, pump- 
 kin, squash, cream, etc., etc., until they formed a complete 
 circle on our plates ; an hour ago we thought there might 
 be danger of eating too much, but now we have given up 
 thinking, we resign ourselves to our fate — but those pies ! 
 Can you believe it .' I have not seen a pie since I left New 
 York! 
 
 A great many good things are still behind, but we posi- 
 tively refuse — we have done our best, — with the best 
 things. A fire is burning in the parlor and there we sit the 
 evening out, talking and making ourselves as happy as 
 was possible. We had not accomplished any great things 
 in the world ; we were not a wealth-gathering company, 
 but we had had a thousand things to be thankful over, and 
 all were there. In the morning we shall separate with 
 the expectation of meeting again as each year returns. 
 Twenty times and more have we met, and our gatherings 
 have been pleasant, but time long ago began its changes. 
 Amelia, quiet and thoughtful, left us first, and her faultless 
 brother followed soon. I have no doubt they have been in 
 company in Paradise more than twenty years, and I some- 
 times think that during these many years among the holy, 
 they will have become so bright and beautiful that we 
 shall not be able to look at them, when we follow on. A 
 few more gatherings and Adolphus ceases to come. From 
 time to time new faces were added, one, two, three, and 
 
MR. TAYLOR'S LETTER TO HIS MOTHER 407 
 
 four, whom we love full well, and witli whom we hope to 
 journey ever more, but we miss those who have gone 
 before. 
 
 Last year the oldest of our company quietly went to 
 sleep ; and on the Thanksgiving day after, you and I sat 
 down to our family feast alone. It was a sad day for both, 
 but we said nothing. 
 
 I hope this time it was pleasanter. I would gladly have 
 gone a hundred miles to be with you, and hope after 
 this we shall not again be separated on that day. 
 
 I think we have been led into "green pastures " and by 
 " still waters," and I thank God every day for the multi- 
 tude of His blessings and have no doubt of His daily care 
 and guidance. Let us then be very thankful for the good 
 and pleasant things we have enjoyed, and full of hope over 
 what is to come, remembering that all our steps are 
 directed by a hand that cannot fail. The way we are led 
 may not be our choice, but it will be the best. What a 
 comfort to think that nothing can go wrong ! But that can 
 only be true when we keep in view the two worlds of our 
 existence. 
 
 We do not know whether the spirits in bliss know any- 
 thing about the events going on here, or take any interest 
 in them ; much less can we conceive what marvelous 
 things will be told to each pilgrim arriving, by those who 
 have enjoyed the light of the Saviour's face for twenty 
 years. We might almost wish to hasten our time, but no — 
 our duty is to harvest all earth can give us, till the day of 
 our call. The flowers, fruits, grain, and perhaps thorns, 
 are ours ; all is well. 
 
 " One sweetly solemn thought 
 
 Comes to me o'er and o'er, 
 I'm nearer home to-day, 
 
 Than I have been before." 
 
408 TRA VELS 
 
 I humbly trust we shall yet celebrate a Thanksgiving 
 feast from which not one shall be absent. And then think 
 of an endless, sinless life with saints, angels, Christ ! 
 
 Your affectionate son, 
 
 Henry W. Taylor. 
 
 THE SIEGE OF LA ROCHELLE. 
 
 THE famous siege of La Rochelle took place in the year 
 1827, after a little more than 100 years of Protestant 
 struggles, marked with alternate periods of success and 
 failure, but gaining on the whole, until the time of final 
 disaster. 
 
 The origin of Protestantism there is uncertain. Perhaps 
 it was the slow development of natural causes, or the 
 disgust of sensible people for the abuses of the Catholic 
 priesthood. Perhaps the seeds were brought by Dutch 
 sailors, or it may be that the bold utterances of Luther 
 found their way over the hills from far-off Wittenberg. 
 
 In 1 534 they received the Bible in the French language, 
 and that would surely bring out fearless men. 
 
 The evil spirit that was then aroused by the leaven of 
 the Reformation was illustrated by the burning alive of 
 Marie Belandelle. 
 
 In 1546, some nuns, called Black Sisters, deserted their 
 convents and returned to their families. 
 
 In 1548 the Inquisitor published a list of condemned 
 books, such as the works of Wickliff, Huss, Jerome of 
 Prague, Luther, Zwingle, and Calvin, by which we get a 
 hint of the literature of the times. 
 
 In 1552 a person was burned at the stake after having 
 
THE SIEGE OF LA ROCHELLE 
 
 409 
 
 his tongue slit, but, in spite of that, in 1588, the first church 
 was organized, and a consistory estabhshed. 
 
 1589, Abjuration of Henry of Navarre, "Weakness," 
 "Duplicity," "Sacrilege," "A Blot"; 1598, Edict of 
 Nantes. Full liberty of conscience ; 1606, Jesuit Legnums; 
 1 610, Henry Assassinated ; 16 14, Pastors try to quiet 
 troubles; 1621, General Assembly at La Rochelle ; 1622, 
 War, Fort Louis, before their gates ; " Delenda est 
 Carthago." 
 
 It was the determination to destroy La Rochelle. The 
 priests hated it because it was the stronghold of the 
 Reformation, the king, because it had resisted all the 
 power he had been able to bring against it. Richelieu, 
 though a priest, looked forward only to the political re- 
 sults. 
 
 To accomplish this downfall the royal power was con- 
 centrated, and the Cardinal was the guiding genius. 
 
 A gi-eat fort, St. Louis, had been constructed before its 
 very gates, and munitions of war of every available 
 description had been concentrated for a vigorous attack. 
 
 The Rochellais had long watched the signs of the com- 
 ing events. They had no confidence in royal promises, 
 and, although always very loyal, were compelled, now, to 
 trust to their walls and their strong arms for safety. 
 
 Buckingham with his English ship was in the harbor, but 
 probably he did not care greatly for La Rochelle, but 
 rather for the addition of a new Calais to the English 
 possessions. He did not attack Fort St. Louis, that would, 
 perhaps, have raised the siege, but he seized upon the Isle 
 of Re, a comfortable place for him, but not very danger- 
 ous to the royal enemies. 
 
 The Rochellais were truly French, loved France, and 
 26 
 
410 
 
 TRA VELS 
 
 now made one more effort at reconciliation, but it was 
 answered by cannon mounted before their gates (Sept. lo, 
 1627), and they must open or fight. 
 
 The King arrived on the 12th of October. All the mili- 
 tary forces of the kingdom were before La Rochelle. 
 Thirty-six thousand picked men and an immense war 
 material. All the ports, from Havre to Bayonne, had 
 furnished men and small craft. Richelieu, in three 
 months, by strenuous effort of will and activity, had 
 precipitated the whole power of France upon this single 
 point. La Rochelle had 28,000 souls, — 7,000 fighting men, 
 and of Buckingham's 10,000, but only 4,000 remained. Had 
 Buckingham guarded the sea, France being short of 
 vessels, he might still have been master of the situation. 
 But the blunder of putting 6,000 picked men on shipboard 
 was committed. They passed and were lost. On the 
 6th of November, before embarking, he played his last 
 card, making a desperate assault on the fort. He lost 
 many men in the attack, and more in his embarkation, and 
 2,000 men were killed (November 17th), after which he 
 made a disgraceful retreat. This unfortunate city, aban- 
 doned by him who had compromised it, was now con- 
 fronted by a monarchy. Six thousand, without help and 
 almost without provisions, undertook to defend themselves 
 for one year more against a great army with a whole king- 
 dom behind it. 
 
 France, in 1627, employed vast sums of money to destroy 
 her own chief stronghold. Millions were thrown away in 
 constructing immense works which could serve only a 
 temporary purpose. Some of these forts, built to capture 
 the city, were as extensive as the city itself. They were 
 united together by a prodigious system of circumvallation 
 of three or four leagues in extent, which encircled the 
 
THE SIEGE OF LA ROCHELLE 41 1 
 
 suburban country. A monster La Rochelle had been 
 built to smother the smaller one, and for one year's use 
 alone. After all, this would be useless unless commimica- 
 tion by sea was shut off. Some attempts had failed, but 
 Richelieu's will overcaine all. The whole army desired to 
 work on the dike. Each soldier was paid for every basket- 
 ful of stones he brought. The soldier's pay was also 
 largely increased, bounties and good warm clothing were 
 distributed with provisions in abundance. Money went 
 directly from the cash-box to the soldier. This dike is 
 said to have been one-half mile long, in some places sixty 
 feet wide, and 840 feet below the surface of the water. 
 (Lord.) On September 29th the mile was completed. 
 
 The Cardinal may have been a bad man, a cruel, un- 
 scrupulous man, but he was great. Most generals would 
 have given this work up in despair, for besides being diffi- 
 cult to construct, on account of its doubtful foundation 
 and great height, it might be carried away by the sea 
 when the first strong wind should blow. Yet he remained 
 indomitable ; his strong will, one of the secrets of his suc- 
 cess, did not know how to yield. Little as we might 
 admire him as a man, his unyielding determination to 
 compel success also compelled a certain admiration, 
 though coupled with hate, as in the case of another re- 
 nowned Frenchman of later times. The French, 'tis said, 
 all except the King, hated him at one time, and but for the 
 doubtful wisdom of its besieged in shutting out the Eng- 
 lish, he might have failed. 
 
 The Rochellais suspected the English and zvould not 
 throw open their gates to them. "What do you offer.?" 
 said Buckingham, "what indemnity for our expense.?" 
 "We offer only our hearts," stubbornly replied these 
 heroes. This immortal resistance is vouched for by a 
 
412 
 
 TRA VELS 
 
 Catholic, Arceve, who had possession of all the manu- 
 scripts, since destroyed. 
 
 " Who would not mourn at seeing France thus annihi- 
 late that which was best in her ? — The incipient republic 
 was maintaining itself against two kings." 
 
 Brave challenges to single combat were offered to the 
 enemy outside of the walls, and fought as bravely. 
 
 This was not a contest in which bravery was to receive 
 its merited reward. The besiegers remembered the an- 
 cient bravery of the Rochellais and feared to make an 
 assault. Means less brilliant, but surer, were taken ; it was 
 resolved to reduce it, not by cannon and sapping, but by 
 famine. It was surrounded by seventeen forts and a 
 greater number of armed redoubts, cutting off all com- 
 munications from the land, and when the dike should be 
 completed no provisions could be received from the sea, 
 and thus for this unfortunate people was preparing the 
 dreadful tragedy of starvation. 
 
 Noble, patriotic, and true to their king and nation, yet 
 doomed to endure the most unequalled suffering, for no 
 good reason, or if a reason were given, truthfully, it would 
 be that they desired to worship God according to an 
 enlightened conscience. 
 
 About April 9, 1628, party feeling became excited and 
 the mayor became a dictator. Capt. Guiton was elected 
 in spite of himself. ' ' You know not what you do in 
 choosing me," he said. " Understand me well, that with 
 me there is no talk of surrender ; whoever breathes a word 
 of it, I will kill." He laid his dagger on the table of 
 the City Hall and left it there permanently. 
 
 A Guiton was needed to sustain the city against the 
 horrible blow it experienced in beholding the English, 
 so long waited for, at length appear and disappear, without 
 making any effort in its behalf. 
 
THE SIEGE OF LA ROCHELLE 
 
 413 
 
 In such an extremity of despair the fanaticism of a dying 
 country drove a man to dedicate himself to the kiUing of 
 Richelieu. He only wished to be assured " that it was no 
 sin. " Guiton did not approve, and the ministers to whom 
 he also went forbade him to do the act, saying, " If God 
 saves us it will not be by means of a heinous crime." 
 
 "The famine had become pressing; the people had 
 eaten everything, even down to leather, which they boiled. 
 A cat was sold for 45 lires. A barbarous thing, deferred 
 as long as possible, had finally to be done, viz.: to drive 
 out the poor, the aged, the infirm, and the women who 
 were widows or without support, and send them over to 
 the besiegers, that is to say, to their death ; whoever 
 passed the lines was lost. This unfortunate crowd, on pre- 
 senting themselves, were received with gun shots. They 
 returned imploringly to La Rochelle and found there 
 visages of stone, and gates inexorably closed. They must 
 die of hunger between the two." 
 
 " In the midst of the horrible scenes we have recalled, 
 Guiton invariably displayed to his fellow citizens a coun- 
 tenance that was placid, almost gay. By day he presided 
 in the council, visited the. sick, and consoled the dying ; by 
 night he made the rounds, and in person commanded the 
 patrols. 
 
 " Some citizens, in their distress, thinking he stood alone 
 in the way of peace, attempted to kill him. Guiton, 
 relentless to spies and traitors, did no more than imprison 
 those who laid the blame on him alone." 
 
 The English Parliament had finally aroused itself and 
 voted a powerful subsidy to save La Rochelle. Bucking- 
 ham moved with disheartening slowness. His country- 
 men accused him of treachery, and one of them assas- 
 sinated him. 
 
414 
 
 TRA VELS 
 
 This third fleet did not set out until September, too late 
 to deliver the city; soon enough to see it perish. 
 
 The first English army served to consume a part of their 
 provisions, the second to drive them to despair, and the 
 third to leave 15,000 people to die of hunger. 
 
 " Richelieu had made repeated offers to the besieged, 
 even so far as to propose that the king should enter with 
 but 200 men, merely to say he had entered. For form's 
 sake they would only have to pull down the exterior angle 
 of the bastion, but matters had reached that point where 
 surrender was no longer possible. The magistrate who 
 would have signed the act would have been killed as a 
 traitor. They dragged their bodies along, no longer bore 
 their arms, and could only walk by the aid of sticks. Sen- 
 tinels were found in the morning dead with hunger, at their 
 posts. And with all this Guiton said: " It will soon be our 
 turn. So long as one live man remains to close the gate, 
 it suffices." 
 
 " On the 28th of September, before this dead city ap- 
 peared eighty English ships ; several of them were power- 
 ful ones. The French had but forty-five small vessels, 
 defended, however, by the batteries on shore. 
 
 It was a grand spectacle, every man at his post, the 
 Cardinal on the dike, the king everywhere. Ladies in 
 coaches watched from the bluffs." The English who had 
 been sent ahead, lead-line in hand, soon came to halt, 
 finding little depth of water. The larger vessels could not 
 come up, they said, and the smaller ones would be of no 
 use. The French refugees who were on board the English 
 fleet then asked to be permitted to take in the fire-boats — 
 to go and fasten them with their own hands to the stock- 
 ade. They could discern, from the sea, the poor people of 
 La Rochelle who had bravely opened the little inner gate- 
 
THE SIEGE OF LA ROCHELLE 415 
 
 way, and, who on their own part, in spite of the tide and 
 wind were driving a fire-ship upon the dike. The English- 
 man did not grant our French the honor they asked. He 
 drew his fire-boats himself, very poorly, and crosswise. 
 Everything shamefully miscarried. 
 
 What did this fleet come for? To negotiate? It was 
 the death of La Rochelle, and brought everything to an 
 end. The moral blow it inflicted was so heavy that the 
 people ran to throw themselves at Richelieu's feet. Had 
 the English not come to drive them to despair they might 
 have held out eight days longer, when the dike was de- 
 stroyed by a tempest, and the city could have been 
 revictualed and might have still continued to hold out. 
 
 After being apprised of the treaty by which the English, 
 his faithless allies, had delivered him over to Richelieu, 
 Guiton, seeing his garrison reduced to seventy-four French 
 and sixty-two English, felt that he had accomplished and 
 obtained from his fellow countrymen everything that was 
 possible consistent with humanity. He was accordingly 
 the first to ask that surrender be made to the king. 
 Then himself liberated from prison Raphael Colin, a 
 mortal enemy, and turned over to him the custody of the 
 city, hoping thereby to faciliate the conclusions of a treaty. 
 
 The King gazed upon the suppliants kneeling at his feet, 
 deputies from the proud city which had kept him more 
 than a year at her gates, fleshless, almost fainting, they 
 still bore on their features the traces of the haughty past. 
 
 The fighting men marched out, not more than sixty-four 
 French and ninety English. 
 
 October 28th, the treaty was signed by which the King 
 granted life and property to the inhabitants of the town 
 who were then in it, and the right to exercise their religion 
 in La Rochelle. 
 
41 6 TRA VELS 
 
 When he entered the city a ghastly picture presented 
 itself. In a few days a change had come. The wild fury 
 of the fighting men was gone. They were now "skele- 
 tons, empty shadows, breathing corpses." 
 
 A short time before, "one saw in the streets," says 
 Arceve, " nothing but semblances of dying people, who 
 seemed to defend against death the remains of a body 
 shrivelled by the severest diet. Motives of liberty and 
 religion, those powerful motives which afford much 
 strength to the soul, enabled them still to rely upon their 
 courage for that which their bodily strength refused. In 
 feeble and expiring voice, they exhorted their rulers to 
 continue the defense, and their last sigh was for their 
 country's safety. The city was soon nothing but a glooiny 
 habitation where desolation reigned. Entire families 
 perished at once, and their houses served as their tombs, 
 for there were none to carry them out. The living were 
 only wan and emaciated spectres, animated by a breath 
 which they owed only to the torch of death." 
 
 The conquerer of his own best subjects, on marching 
 through the streets, saw on every hand the perfected work 
 of that horrible state of things just described, a dead 
 city, graveless because there was no one with strength 
 enough left to bury his dead. We may wonder if in these 
 deathbed scenes, nature still possessed the full power of 
 sensation. Did the husbands, wives, parents, children, 
 and lovers feel their misery in proportion to its apparent 
 intensity, or did kind nature furnish some anodyne in those 
 hours of unspeakable torture ? May God save the world 
 from the repetition of such horrors ! I dare not allow 
 my imagination to pursue the subject. 
 
 But who were those unfortunate people ? Wicked 
 wretches and criminals deserving what they received.'' 
 
RAVENNA 417 
 
 No ; they were the salt of the earth, gentle, kind, and 
 loving, true to the king and their country, cultivated, con- 
 scientious, patriotic citizens, whose crime was, that they 
 refused to yield their long-enjoyed charter, and oft-re- 
 newed rights ; but more than that, because they were the 
 children of God, and loved the divine word and followed 
 its precepts, and as a consequence were condemning 
 judges, a scorching fire burning the miserable hypocrite, 
 the so-called priests of a debased religion. 
 
 The cruelty of the conqueror, at least for a time, ceased 
 at the fall of La Rochelle, but what a blot on the history 
 of France, what a miserable blunder to drive away its best 
 and most skilled citizens, to the advantage of other na- 
 tions. 
 
 Let us remember that at the time of this memorable 
 siege, our own Pilgrim fathers were struggling in the 
 wilds of Plymouth, striving to build up a free state si:ch as 
 degenerate France was eager to drive from its shores. 
 
 RAVENNA. 
 
 ON the eastern shore of Italy, not far from Venice, is 
 situated an interesting and very ancient city. Its 
 history reaches back far into the dim historic twilight of 
 the past. It might have had an existence before ^neas 
 landed on the Italian Peninsula ; and glorious days and 
 heroic adventures, once their heritage, for want of a histo- 
 rian, are lost and forgotten. 
 
 How little of the world's history do we know. Only a 
 few^ glimmers out of the evening shadows, while the story 
 of continents for thousands of years has dissolved into 
 night. No doubt in all this rubbish of the lost years there 
 
41 8 TRA VELS 
 
 must have been noble men and women, and souls worthy 
 to be remembered, that must forever remam as though 
 they had not been. 
 
 Some think the first inhabitants of Ravenna came from 
 Thessaly, but who can say when ? In the course of un- 
 counted time the Etruscans were there — that strange people 
 who have left their footprints on many and widely scat- 
 tered places in the Roman dominion, which even her 
 younger and more advanced civilization could never oblit- 
 erate. How we would like to know more about them ! but 
 their tombs are voiceless. Almost 200 years before Christ 
 they yielded to the Romans, unwillingly, of course, but it 
 was their destiny. They were destroyed, or they melted 
 away into that people ; but they, in their time, also fell 
 into the hands of the destroyer, and long ago the last pure 
 Roman blood ceased to flow, and a mongrel race in time 
 became the inheritor. 
 
 In early days Ravenna had many attractions, no doubt. 
 Now it is a kind of dead Venice. Then it had some of the 
 peculiarities of the former city ; its lagoons, islands, canals, 
 its palaces, warehouses, its great ships and the light gon- 
 dolas that silently threaded its complicated, watery streets, 
 a means of communication for business or pleasure. It 
 was a strange city, perhaps, but it was only a Venice 
 twenty centuries older than the one we dream about. 
 
 Augustus chose it for a naval station. In its convenient 
 harbor 250 ships could ride at anchor in safety. It was a 
 busy place in those days, alive with the buzz and stir of 
 commerce. 
 
 Perhaps, unobserved by the inhabitants, causes were 
 then at work that in time — it might be centuries — would 
 bring its ruin. The mainland, near, was a broad, flat plain, 
 deposited by the waters flowing from the hills. The small 
 
J? A VENN A 
 
 419 
 
 rivers, Ronco and Latnone, found an exit there into the 
 sea. Barriers of islands, as generations passed, showed a 
 tendency to join the shore. The streams came sometimes 
 gently, but were often aroused by the winter torrents, al- 
 ways, however, laden with sand from the Apennines or 
 far-off Alps, unloading in the harbors and canals, trans- 
 forming the islands into sand hills, and in the end changing 
 an ancient Venice into an inland town, far from the sea 
 and desolate. 
 
 In the process of time a port called Classis was built, 
 miles away, where the vessels at length stopped. A long 
 line of houses connecting the two was called Cassarea, and 
 the three, as the years passed on, became practically one. 
 The harbor and Ctesarea, pursued by the conquering 
 enemy, early fell into decay, and Ravenna continued only 
 as the capital of the province Flaminic. 
 
 Some writers knew how to grumble in those early days 
 as well as now, for they fotind the water muddy and the 
 city infested with gnats. It was not strange that they were 
 irritated by such tormentors, for they were too small to 
 allow a chance for vengeance. But the ill-natured remark 
 that " they had frogs to their citizens" evidently showed 
 that the Italian love for the beautiful had not begtm its de- 
 velopment. None but rude souls would speak disparag- 
 ingly of the sweet music flowing from those melodious 
 batrachian throats. 
 
 The great coast changes probably took place after the 
 age of Augustus and before the time of Theodoric, or be- 
 fore the end of the fifth century. 
 
 But the change was great. Not far away is the famous 
 forest, dim and dark now, but in the time of Augustus the 
 great imperial fleet of 250 ships, without fear of sand, wind, 
 ro rocks, rode confidingly at anchor. There it swung 
 
420 
 
 TRA VELS 
 
 around with every changing wind, and, like a thing of life, 
 with unvarying pertinacity, faced the disturbing element. 
 
 In its glorious days Ravenna was called one of the two 
 cities in the world. Rome was, of course, the first — no 
 other could be the second. As it was the strongest fortress 
 in the empire, emperors fled thither for protection. When 
 the Eternal City trembled on its foundation, fearing trait- 
 ors within or enemies without, when its old walls were tot- 
 tering that for a thousand years had laughed at all the 
 world, Ravenna was in her glory. 
 
 For a hundred or more years previous to the fifth century 
 the ears of the Roman people had often been startled by 
 the rumor of a strange people who, in the far-off East, had 
 suddenly come to notice. They cared little for home or 
 native land, but had a strong passion for plunder, and 
 loved to roam over the world. They invaded and plun- 
 dered a portion of the Chinese Empire, whither some of 
 their families had wandered, as if guided by some invisible 
 impulse. Some, far around by the north, and others by 
 the south, came unexpectedly upon the Roman Empire. 
 Among them were Goths, Huns, Allimani, etc., all Ger- 
 manic nations with the exception of the Huns, who were a 
 race of Tartars. 
 
 On the death of Theodosius, as if a restraint once exer- 
 cised upon them was gone, they rose like hungry beasts let 
 loose upon a coveted prey, and Rome was the object of their 
 search for pleasure or revenge. For centuries Rome had 
 ruled them in Gaul, Germany, and other parts of the trans- 
 Alpine world. Other fresh hordes had come from the 
 mother land of nations, had mingled with them and 
 strengthened them. Many had been in the Roman legions, 
 and, being there taught the art of war, turned now against 
 their teachers and conquerors. They were formidable in 
 
RAVENNA 421 
 
 their numbers, physical strength, and bravery. Rome, old 
 Rome by the Tiber, was weak, degraded, and effeminate. 
 That warlike virtue that made her the conqueror of the 
 world was all gone now. There were still brave men 
 there, but the body politic, though a kind of Christianity 
 had been engrafted upon it, was weak, selfish, cowardly, 
 and without character. It was of little use for a brave 
 general to appear ; he would have few to sustain him, and 
 treachery was lurking everywhere to betray. The time, 
 perhaps, had come, too, for vengeance to require satisfac- 
 tion for all the blood she had spilled and the misery she 
 had caused during long centuries by her cruel, causeless 
 ambition, and well the debt was paid. These rude warriors 
 may have felt only the impulse of their wild natures, but 
 they were, nevertheless, obeying the avenging nemesis. 
 
 The Alps raised their barrier peaks high in the clouds, 
 and shut the gateways with ice, but the Goth and the Hun 
 found a way, and rivers of barbarians flowed down upon 
 the once cultivated fields, more desolating than the lava 
 streams of her own volcanoes. 
 
 Attilla, Alasic, Genseric, and others destroyed cities, vil- 
 lages, vineyards, and all that was attractive, and Rome fell 
 many times, to be plundered by her ancient vassals. 
 
 The imagination is not able to picture the horrors of that 
 century of broadspread desolation. Stillicho and others 
 fought, but they lived in a corrupt age, where it was dan- 
 gerous to be great. 
 
 In the midst of all this, Ravenna, upon her islands and 
 morasses, heard, indeed, the tramp of the destroying 
 armies, but was safe from their bloody, plundering hands, 
 for in those days her peculiar situation and the strength of 
 her fortifications prevented a direct attack. Honorius, a 
 Roman emperor, fearing a general catastrophe, fled to this 
 
422 TRA VELS 
 
 Stronghold, and was safe, but, in saving himself, he ignobly 
 sneaked away, leaving the imperial city to its fate. 
 
 A few weak successors occupied his place. The strange 
 historic drama of " Placidia" was played, and Theodoric, 
 the Goth, became the conqueror and king of Italy, and the 
 empire of the West was at an end. 
 
 The reign of Theodoric was good for Italy, and during 
 those thirty-three years she enjoyed unaccustomed pros- 
 perity, protection, and the encouragement of industry. 
 
 The barbarians then seemed better than the so-called 
 Christians. It seemed as though a strange transformation 
 of character had taken place. The barbarian was really a 
 better man than the Christian, but the latter was then only 
 so in name ; it was a kind of political religion — the name 
 without the reality. Some were no doubt sincere, but 
 their standard was low ; it was a kind of party sentiment, 
 not a renewed holy life, far below the gospel of the Divine 
 Son. We must not forget that the world at large at that 
 time did not have the Scriptures beyond a few selections. 
 What should we be if so deprived of our daily food? 
 Christianity, as a life, had a long, not very hopeful exist- 
 ence, and a death struggle ten ot- more centuries before 
 reaching the standard of to-day. 
 
 The great Goth, perhaps, was not a good man, but he did 
 many good things, and with his reign began a phase of civ- 
 ilization better than he found — a strange glimmering in a 
 dark night, an unexpected brightness where none was 
 hoped for. 
 
 Theodoric became master of Italy A. D.493 by the assas- 
 sination of his rival, Odoacer, an act of treachery that will 
 forever blacken his name. After a reign of thirty-three 
 years, he died in 525 A. D. 
 
 Whatever might have been the real character of the 
 
RA VENNA 423 
 
 Gothic king, his rule was, for the most part, a blessing to 
 the people. Italy during that time enjoyed a peace and 
 prosperity such as it had, perhaps, never known before or 
 since. He knew how to rule the wild Goth and the weak, 
 treacherous, degenerate Roman. They lived together in 
 peace, if they did not love each other. Rights were pro- 
 tected, and almost universal prosperity was enjoyed. He 
 was an Arian, and for that reason disliked by the Roman 
 Catholics, but he was too strong and too wise to permit any 
 difference of opinions on religious subjects to interrupt 
 the peace of the country. Contrary to charges made 
 against him, he admired Roman art and protected her mon- 
 uments. In many respects he was one of the best rulers 
 who ever sat on the throne of the world's imperial city. 
 
 If he had lived long enough, or if his successors had been 
 like him until his many-tongued people had melted down 
 into one of symmetrical character, the history of Italy, and, 
 perhaps, the world, might have been a far different story. 
 
 With all his wisdom, he is to be charged with the murder 
 of Boethius, and Symmachus, and a shadow rested on his 
 last da3^s. 
 
 Ravenna, until the eighth centurj-, was regarded as the 
 seat of government and capital of Italy. 
 
 Soon after the death of Thedoric, Liutprand, the Lom- 
 bard, made an unwelcome visit and took Classe. 
 
 In 540 it was again united to the Roman Empire. 
 
 Ravenna was afterwards subdued by force or treachery, 
 and the ruin of the Gothic kingdom accomplished. 
 
 A. D. 768-814, Carlo Magno came and carried off many 
 of its art treasures to set them up again in some structure 
 of his own in Aix-la-Chapelle. 
 
 Century after century rolled away, and Ravenna — its 
 glory gone — owned the authority of one and another domi- 
 
424 TRA VELS 
 
 nant power, perhaps Venetian or papal, and once for a 
 time it became a republic, showing a longing for some- 
 thing better in the midst of its political degradation. 
 
 Its glorious days were the era of Theodoric, when it was 
 one of the two capitals of the world. Of what might have 
 happened there in the old Roman days, only glimpses can 
 now be gathered, but in its Gothic period there was a sud- 
 den bursting out of glory, unlike anything in its past or in 
 its subsequent days, but it was destined with the succeed- 
 ing centuries to pass away. 
 
 Its architecture from the fourth to the eighth century is 
 of great interest. " Ravenna is the only city where we are 
 met at every step by the work of Christian emperors, 
 Gothic kings, and Byzantine exarchs of those strange, 
 dark, and unhappy centuries in which the old world was 
 shaping into the new. Ravenna has these monuments al- 
 most to herself," — churches and basilicas, unattractive 
 outside, but glorious within. Many of the campaniles 
 were added by a later age. 
 
 " The eye dwells with genuine delight on the long, un- 
 broken rows of pillars and arches, their marble shafts, 
 floriated capitals, sometimes the work of Christian crafts- 
 men, sometimes the spoil of heathendom, pressed into the 
 service of the sanctuary." There were void spaces in the 
 walls, " but the rude spaces thus left are filled up by those 
 wonderful mosaic paintings which look down upon us as 
 fresh as they were 1,300 years before."* 
 
 The visitors of to-day will find interesting squares with 
 ancient associations. The Piazzo Maggiore, in the center 
 of the town, said to correspond with the ancient Forum 
 Senatorum, is adorned with two lofty granite columns, 
 
 * Freeman. 
 
J? A VENN A 
 
 425 
 
 erected by the Venetians in 1483, surmounted with statues 
 of SS. ApoUinaris and Vitalis, with bas-relief by Pietro 
 Lombardo ; also a statue of Pope Clement XII (1738) and a 
 colonnade of eight columns of granite, said to belong to a 
 basilica erected or restored by Theodoric. Perhaps the 
 objects of greatest interest will be the churches — some 
 very old, of the days of Roman glory, and some of later 
 years. A few of these will be noticed. 
 
 The Baptistery (Battisturo degli Ortodosse), probably 
 founded 396 A. D., octagonal in form, with a series of ar- 
 cades in the interior, rising one above the other. The cu- 
 pola is decorated with mosaics of the fifth century, the 
 most ancient in Ravenna. The font, very large, is of white 
 marble of the fifth century. 
 
 The Archiepiscopal palace possesses a chapel of the fifth 
 century, with mosaics, etc. , entirely in their original con- 
 dition. There can be seen the church of S. Niccoli, built 
 in 768 ; St. Agata, in fifth century ; S. Francesco, in 540 ; 
 St. Vitale, of the time of Justinian, an imitation of the 
 church of St. Sophia in Constantinople, and the model for 
 the cathedral in Aix-la-Chapelle, rich in mosaics. S. 
 Nazario is the mausoleum of Galla Placidia, daughter of 
 Theodosius and mother of Valentinian III, whose history 
 might be woven into a most exciting tale. The church is 
 in the form of a Latin cross, 46 x 39, with a dome adorned 
 with beautiful mosaics. The sarcophagus of Galla Pla- 
 cidia, behind the altar, was formerly enriched with plates 
 of silver. The empress sitting on a throne was formerly 
 to be seen in the interior, but her remains were accident- 
 ally destroyed by fire in 1577. The remains of several 
 kings and emperors found also a resting place under this 
 dome. 
 
 27 
 
426 TRA VELS 
 
 Here are the sole monuments of emperors of ancient 
 Rome that still remain in their original position. 
 
 S. Maria in Cosmedin, once a baptistery, was adorned 
 with mosaics of the sixth century. 
 
 S. Apollinaris Nuoro, a basilica erected about 500 by 
 Theodoric, as an Arian cathedral, and contains twenty- 
 four columns brought from Constantinople. The walls of 
 the nave are adorned with interesting mosaics. 
 
 We will not stop at the palace of Theodoric longer than 
 to say that, after his death, it was occupied by the exarchs 
 and the Lombard kings. Later still, it was plundered by 
 Charlemagne, and by his order its art treasures and the 
 columns were removed to Germany. 
 
 The Rotunda, the mausoleum of Theodoric, is outside 
 the city. It is decagonal in shape, with a flat dome thirty- 
 six feet in diameter. It is now half under water. 
 
 These are only a few out of the many buildings at least 
 1,200 years old, peculiar in their structure, and in history 
 going back far into the past. 
 
 La Pineta, the pine forest of Ravenna, one of the most 
 ancient and extensive in Italy, extolled by Dante, Boccac- 
 cio, and others, begins just beyond the church of S. Apol- 
 linaris, and extends many miles along the road to Rimini, 
 growing where once was a harbor where the fleet of Au- 
 gustus could ride at anchor. 
 
 Ravenna, the ancient Venice, long ago lost its glory. It 
 had a dim history in the far-off past — we cannot tell how 
 glorious. A rival of Rome, one of the two great cities in 
 the world, an asylum for emperors when the Eternal City 
 had become weak. In historic times it enjoyed a few cen- 
 turies of peculiar grandeur. One of the greatest Italian 
 kings reigned there, and Italy, after a long age of discord 
 and insecurity, in his reign rested in peace and prosperity. 
 
RA VENN A 
 
 427 
 
 He was, indeed, a barbarian from beyond the Alps, but yet 
 greater and wiser than most who were children of the 
 proudest of cities. The fierce, wild warriors of the North 
 and the inheritors of the conquerors of the world, however 
 diverse and antagonistic in all their tastes, rested and la- 
 bored in peace. 
 
 If the better spirit of Theodoric had continued in his suc- 
 cessors, who can tell what might have been the conse- 
 quence to the rest of the world. A Germanic civilization 
 might have pervaded the entire peninsula. The long, dis- 
 mal period of Italian dark ages might not have been a part 
 of history, and southern Italy to-day would not have been 
 a home of brigands, but its sunny hills and plains would be 
 smiling with the stability and character of the Teutonic 
 nations. But Theodoric died. He left a deep impression 
 on the minds of the northern people, and under the name of 
 Dietrich von Bern he was made to act an important part in 
 the great German national poem, the " Niebelungen-lied." 
 
 After a few centuries Ravenna ceased to be glorious. 
 The rivers brought down from the mountains their daily 
 loads of sand. The lagoons and canals were filled, slowly 
 but surely. The song of the gondolier ceased to be heard. 
 Instead of the islands was, at last, a level plain. The sea 
 had receded, and Ravenna, the former Venice, sat solitary 
 and dying, five miles from her mother, the sea, and heard 
 no more the waves of the far-off Adriatic. 
 
 A sad picture is now presented to the imagination. The 
 once mighty was shorn of its strength. With the depart- 
 ure of the sea had also gone her power and glory. A few 
 monuments with peculiar beauty still sparkled with mosaics 
 and indicated its former glory. But Ravenna sits like a lone 
 widow, as though musing sadly upon her wealth and her 
 companions, long departed. 
 
428 
 
 TRA VELS 
 
 The plain is flat and uninteresting, the mountains are in 
 the distance, but they bring not pleasant memories, for the 
 grains of sand worn from their sides have been insidious 
 foes, working day and night for centuries to complete her 
 destruction, and well they have succeeded. 
 
 Dante, after years of trouble and wandering, found a 
 home there, and there his bones rest to-day. The churches 
 and palaces of the Gothic period are interesting objects, 
 but the sad life of the great poet, deserted by his friends, 
 hunted by his enemies, saddened by his strange visions till 
 the boys in the streets pointed, in a half -whisper, to him as 
 the man who had been in hell, and the world knew him as 
 the saddest man who ever lived, adds an association by no 
 means the least interesting. 
 
 Perhaps it is fitting that the last thoughts of this paper 
 should be about the greatest of Italian poets, who for 
 some has a marvelous fascination, not alone for the beauty 
 and horror of the thoughts he gathered, but from the con- 
 viction, ever present, that he spoke in terrible earnestness 
 and seemed to believe all he sang, and, so far as bones and 
 tombs may be called a treasure, Ravenna possesses the 
 richest shrine of all the peoples who read the " Divino 
 Commedia. " 
 
 PERUGIA. 
 
 LEAVING the Eternal City and journeying nearly 
 toward the north, we pass over an intensely interest- 
 ing portion of the old Roman world, full of history of the 
 far-off, but entangled in the ever varying network of 
 romance and tales of love and tragedy of the middle ages, 
 a journey, to any observing person, replete with thrill- 
 ing interest. 
 
PERUGIA 
 
 429 
 
 The road interesting, the views picturesque, we would 
 like to linger pleasant hours ; but we suddenly find our- 
 selves, as though a curtain had been raised, approaching 
 the interesting and ancient city of Perugia. It is a good 
 illustration of some of the less known and peculiar cities 
 of Italy, such as no one would think of building to-day, 
 but that in troublous ages grew out of the demands of 
 the times. 
 
 In journeying through this old peninsula our wonder 
 and curiosity is often aroused by the sight — near or far 
 away — of some little city on the top of a steep, high hill, 
 sometimes almost a mountain, with narrow streets, if any, 
 its buildings closely packed together and clinging as 
 though glued to the top — away up in the sky. They 
 seem dark and unsightly, for they were once fortresses. 
 Many of them are in ruins, with no apparent connection 
 with the rest of the world, solemn memorials of departed 
 centuries. Sometimes indications of life may be seen, but 
 often we are reminded only of ruins or cemeteries. 
 
 They were probably the product of ancient times when 
 law was almost unknown, when the land was ruled by 
 many petty chiefs, each of whom was in constant fear 
 of being captured and enslaved by his neighbor. For 
 safety, he built his castle upon some precipitous hill, 
 because it would be more easily defended. The people, 
 for protection, built their cottages around him near his 
 walls, and thus in time there grew a little mutually-in- 
 terested colony, without much regard to beauty, gradually 
 becoming cemented together, rude indeed, but curious 
 monuments of old centuries and feudal society. 
 
 Perugia was a city of this description, but one of the 
 largest and one that has gone through many modernizing 
 changes and with many indications of prosperity. It 
 
430 
 
 TRA VELS 
 
 looked very picturesque as we approached it, rising some 
 1,550 feet above the Tiber, which passes by, not far 
 away, on its journey to receive from the ancient capital of 
 the world its load of mud, and to pour it into the sea at 
 Ostia. 
 
 It is quite a labor to go from the station, a distance of a 
 mile or more, by means of a zigzag road rising with many 
 turns, upward and upward, to the city gates, — some say 
 800 feet. The landscape extends farther and farther in its 
 beauty as we tug along, but our sympathies for the poor 
 horses who drag us up, causes a few drops of pain to fall 
 into our cup of pleasure. 
 
 Having entered the gates, for the city is still walled, as 
 in ancient times, a very curious picture is before us. The 
 plan, if plan it could be called, is marvelously irregular. 
 It lies upon the top of a hill or of several contiguous hills, 
 where men laid their foundations, not on account of any 
 idea of convenience or pleasantness, but, I presume, where- 
 ever they found a space to build upon. There is a kind of 
 nucleus in the center, or on the short principal street, froin 
 which long antennas-like, narrow pathways, sometimes 
 called streets, stretch away, I could not say in what 
 directions, — the whole somewhat resembling a spider. 
 
 The streets were, for the most part, very narrow and 
 often precipitous. Sometimes you would find a stairway 
 in your path, and again you would be led through a gate 
 to some uncertain region beyond. Once, fortified with my 
 guide-book and map, well studied beforehand, as was sup- 
 posed, I went out to visit the museum, etc. Starting from 
 the cathedral my course was down, through, up, hither 
 and yon, through narrow lanes, dreadfully compressed 
 and obscure, but with no doubt of ultimate success ; 
 withal greatly interested with this — to me — the queerest 
 
PERUGIA 431 
 
 of cities. Indeed, it would have been a delight to continue 
 this novel, obscure, and uncertain excursion for hours, but 
 for the value of time. I was pleased, but it seemed a long 
 time to wander about, and while thinking of what would 
 become of the rest of the city if so much time were de- 
 voted to this labyrinth, suddenly there came a sensation of 
 being lost, for, the buildings being high, I caught no 
 glimpse of the hill-tops that would have set me right. 
 But the mystery was at length solved, for on rising a 
 flight of steps I found myself safe and sound at my hotel 
 door that had been left about an hour before. After all, 
 there was a charm in this uncertainty, since my rambling 
 was all in the midst of very interesting objects. 
 
 After another study I was able to comprehend the out- 
 line and found the place before sought in vain. 
 
 Running in a nearly northerly direction was the princi- 
 pal street, the Corso, on the top of the main ridge upon 
 which this interesting city was built. At one end was the 
 gate at which I entered, climbing up slowly and painfully. 
 As you walk toward the north, not many parallel streets 
 were at the right or left before you descend to lower 
 ground. I located at the Albugo delta Posta near the 
 south end. Sauntering up and down one is struck with 
 the antiquated styles on all sides. Old palaces, once the 
 home of wealth, power, and pride, or strongholds of rival 
 lords or petty tyrants keeping up a show of limited royalty. 
 
 Sometimes patriotism and refinement had homes there, 
 but often, also, cruelty and crime. These venerable 
 palaces of old-time power are interesting, but yet sad 
 objects to contemplate. Every room or passageway may 
 have had its tale of nobleness or blood unrevenged. One 
 might, under the influence of an excited imagination, 
 seriously look around for the indelible blood spots on the 
 
432 
 
 TRA VELS 
 
 floor or walls, and almost hear the screams and groans, 
 and seem to stumble over some bleeding victim, for many 
 of these buildings, in their history, run back to feudal 
 times, when crime and cruelty seemed to belong to the 
 normal condition of the race. What tales these walls 
 might tell if they could speak ! and how fortunate are Ave 
 who live in younger centuries ! 
 
 Some of these rooms contain inasterly frescoes by 
 Perugini, Boufigli, Gian Mani, di Pisa (both), Sassoferrato, 
 and even Raphael had been there, and many others. 
 
 Some of the old palaces are closed, tenantless, and silent. 
 Some have been given over to common, even vulgar, 
 everyday uses, like old finery, that we sometimes feel 
 should have been burned rather than kept to be doomed to 
 disgrace and ridicule. 
 
 Many churches are scattered over the city, some of 
 which, in addition to their architectural beauty, contain 
 paintings of considerable interest. The cathedral of St. 
 Lorenzo, at the end of the Corso, standing on a high point 
 of the city, is somewhat imposing but heavy. 
 
 In front of it is a rather remarkable fountain adorned 
 with biblical figures executed by Nicolo and Giramida da 
 Pisa in 1 277-1 280. The thought that it has been standing, 
 and most of the time pouring out its streams of water for 
 600 years, partakes somewhat of a bewilderment, we feel 
 there is something in the world that is almost permanent 
 after all. 
 
 Above or about the cathedral door, painted on a sign, 
 were the words, " Indulgenza plenaria," from which, ap- 
 parently, if I had in hand money enough and my mind 
 were so inclined, a complete forgiveness of my sins could 
 have been obtained, and for once I could have stood forth 
 under the eyes of heaven pure and holy as an angel, but. 
 
PERUGIA 433 
 
 unfortunately, I could not see what connections were possi- 
 ble between the clinking of my money into the priestly 
 coffers and the taint on my soul, that long experience had 
 taught me to be as scarlet. 
 
 From many points of the outer wall most interesting 
 views could be had of the surrounding country. The 
 height above the valley of the Tiber is said to be 1,550 feet, 
 which is about twice the elevation of our "Tower." Just 
 what is meant by the "height above the Tiber" I do 
 not know, but think Perugia is somewhat higher than our 
 much-loved resort. There is some resemblance in their 
 outlook, except that while our favorite is on a continuous 
 range, Perugia is more nearly an isolated peak. 
 
 You can look down on a beautiful landscape, artistically 
 laid out, it would seem, as you might expect in the land 
 where even the ragged peasant has a love for the beau- 
 tiful. 
 
 Nothing was unsightly, but there were green fields, varie- 
 gated with cultivated farms, painted with soft eye-healing 
 tints and dotted with villages and homes, not rugged and 
 unharmonious as in our own modern home, but softened 
 down by the rain and storms of centuries, and ornamented 
 by moss and dust, that added the last artistic touch to a 
 real landscape. 
 
 The time spent in looking down from the various open 
 spaces on the walls upon this old, historic, interesting 
 natural picture, was an unspeakable delight, and some of 
 the thrills of pleasure still linger. 
 
 It might be difficult to tell what these mountain people 
 live upon. 'Tis said they manufacture woolens, silks, wax 
 candles, liquors, etc. I was somewhat amused at their 
 unpretending market-place — nothing but a place, for it 
 was out in the open air, — between two buildings, by the 
 
434 
 
 TEA VELS 
 
 Corso. There sat a number of women on the ground 
 selling their goods that lay in piles at their feet. Among 
 them were pyramids of cocoons, small, yellow, and beauti- 
 ful. Doubtless they had been brought from the country 
 where they were raised by those who offered them for 
 sale. Had I been an artist a subject would have been 
 borrowed from some of those groups. 
 
 This is the home of Perugino, born in Piore about 1446. 
 His real name was Vannocci, but he borrowed the name 
 of the city of his adoption. His paintings are always 
 prominent, and almost every collection has one of them, 
 or more. His spirit seems to hover about this old moun- 
 tain city, and thinking of him we constantly seem to see 
 his peculiar faces. Probably they are not of a high order 
 of art ; critics say his excellences are in his faces, and that 
 the rest of the figure was often defective. It is said " the 
 cord that echoes so powerfully in Perugino is the expres- 
 sion of soul carried to enthusiastic devotions, in heads of 
 the tenderest, purest, youthful beauty." Another says, 
 "he seems to carry to their deepest depths the expression 
 of self-sacrifice, of holy grief." 
 
 Many would laugh at the faces of Perugino, and they are 
 no doubt far behind modern masters in artistic beauty and 
 excellence, yet granting their faults of many kinds, they 
 have left on my memory stronger impressions than the 
 pictures of many of the acknowledged princes of art. 
 
 A second attempt was made to find the university. 
 Passing through the Asco di Augusto, one of the remains 
 of former times, and a connection between the upper and 
 lower city, descending by stairways, sudden turns and 
 dark passages, bewildering but very interesting, sailing by 
 compass, the desired road was found to the sought-for 
 ancient seat of learning. 
 
 There was much here to interest, prominently — a 
 
PERUGIA 435 
 
 botanic garden, scientific collection, a museum of Etruscan 
 and Roman antiquities, and a picture gallery. One might 
 spend days here without exhausting a tithe of what might 
 be seen, and feels sorely the mockery of two or three hours. 
 The traveler learns to submit to the unavoidable, and turns 
 away obediently, when he must, but oftentimes with con- 
 cealed regret and indignation at the never unlocked 
 shackles with which the condition of life on this ball of 
 ours holds us fast. 
 
 Perugia (Perusia) was one of the twelve confederate 
 cities of Etruria. The known history of old Italian towns 
 is brought down to us only by its connection with Rome, 
 and as Perugia is first mentioned in her annals, 310 years, 
 B. C, beyond that date all must be conjecture. Neverthe- 
 less, there must have been a long period of Hfe, perhaps 
 for centuries, in which occurred great and noble deeds, it 
 may be nobler than any of historic years. The Etruscans 
 were a remarkable people. Their monuments, though 
 they seem to have been long buried, prove the possession 
 of great knowledge and power. How often we have 
 looked wonderingly upon those long rows of vases in the 
 museums of the old world, with their strange devices, and 
 indications of uncommon skill! They who made them 
 could have made other wonderful things, and, no doubt 
 did, but, not being placed in preserving tombs, they were 
 long ago ground up into dust, and thus returned to the 
 soil from whence they were taken, and so the tortured 
 material, at last, attained its everlasting rest. There let it 
 rest in peace, for we have not time to worm into old and 
 musty rolls. Perusia came into conflict with Rome and 
 was unable to contend with such a vigorous enemy, — per- 
 haps itself then in a state of decHne, after a long, interest- 
 ing, but now lost history. Octavius and Antony, in later 
 years, fought some of their battles under its walls. 
 
436 77?^ VELS 
 
 In the sixth century, when the power and organization 
 of Rome was gone, when the old Romans, with their warHke 
 virtues, had all died out, and their places had been filled 
 by others they once called slaves and barbarians, and the 
 peninsula was torn and distracted by enemies at home and 
 hordes from beyond the Alps, a day of retribution came, 
 such as, in time, all nations may expect, as the price of 
 crime. The Goth Totilla knocked at her gates, not in 
 those pleasant tones that bring a note of welcome, but 
 with sounds and manner that speak of terror, ruin, and 
 death. This was no welcome, but defiant preparations, 
 brave resolves, but no doubt also many trembling hands 
 and faint hearts. These rude warriors from beyond the 
 Alpine snows were resolved to win, cost what it might. 
 The walls were thick, and from its situation, 800 feet above 
 the plain, they knew it would be a strong fortress, with 
 great power of resistance. They sat down before it — 
 around it. Their camp was placed in the best position for 
 observation, resistance, and successful attack. Their 
 marauding and robber bands searched every hill and 
 valley — now so delightful to the eye. The cottagers' 
 home and the villas of the rich with their vineyards and 
 olive groves, met a common ruin. The picture was one of 
 desolation, hateful, for the desolators were still there, 
 reaping the harvest. Sad indeed, would be the picture, 
 when seen from the battlement, if we could transform its 
 present beauty into what it might have been in those days 
 of terror ! 
 
 Months pass — they have not gone — years — they do 
 not intend to go. The climate is milder than up by the 
 Danube. T he productions of the earth grow abundantly, 
 life is easy here, they have reached a kind of promised land. 
 
 Seven years — and still the dreaded, hated scourge is 
 there. They have resisted bravely, but those enfeebled 
 
PERUGIA 437 
 
 Romans were no matcli for the hardy warriors of the 
 north. The end is coming. The provisions are exhausted. 
 The fighting men, one after another, have been sacrificed 
 in combat out of the gates, or struggling upon the walls, or 
 by some well directed missile. Princely blood had flowed, 
 and noble deeds have been done in all these years. They 
 have suffered all the terrors of the siege, looking down 
 upon the wild barbarians coiling around them like a ser- 
 pent. 
 
 At last, the fated hour came. There was no power 
 longer to resist. Perugia was taken, sacked, destroyed. 
 I will leave it to your imagination to fill otit the details of 
 the tragedy. 
 
 It rose again from its ashes and participated in many 
 wars in the dark ages. It suffered in the struggles of the 
 Guelphs and Ghibellines, and was tortured by conflicts, 
 sieges, and endless carnage till the modern time of i860. 
 
 Notwithstanding all the terrible experiences of this city 
 for about twenty-two centuries, it rises there to-day, in its 
 beauty, its outline unchanged and unchangeable, but time 
 has softened its rough corners, and used its artistic pencil 
 or graving tool on many once unsightly structures, and 
 made them beautiful. The landscape is spread out before 
 us in almost unequaled beauty, ornamented with hamlets, 
 villages, and distant hills, and roses, and all the numerous 
 sisterhood of flowers, look up bright and smiling, though 
 the mother earth had a hundred times been baptized with 
 fire and blood. 
 
 I left this peculiar city with regret, though my journey 
 would be along Lago Trasimeno, famous for the battle 
 gained by Hannibal over the Romans, and before night I 
 should be in Fiorenza, the envy of Italy, the city of art and 
 beauty, whose very name is flowers. 
 
o 
 
 i&)ccM0\on to QYlon^e Cat>o. 
 
 May JO, iSjj. 
 
 N the 30th of May, 1873, with two persons whose ac- 
 quaintance had been made in Rome, whom I will 
 call Brown and Prince — both Americans — I started for a 
 day's excursion among the Alban Hills. 
 
 We were not long in passing the wall beyond which was 
 the Campagna, famous for the events that had occurred on 
 it, and for the fearful malaria that was supposed to be lin- 
 gering on every hillock and hiding in every dell. It was 
 not very interesting, we thought. An undulating plain, 
 spreading far away, with many deep gullies, devoid of 
 beauty. Near the city were some pleasant streets and 
 solitary houses, but along the railway there was little to 
 interest. The land did not seem to be rich, and a sense of 
 desolation oppressed us, heightened by the knowledge of 
 what had once been there. Twenty-three hundred or 
 more years ago it was covered with flourishing farms and 
 an industrious, thriving population. Then came an era of 
 huge estates, driving the small owners away. With the 
 emperors it grew worse, and many parts became marshes. 
 Claudius and Nero tried to improve it, and many villas 
 were built, introducing an era of improvement ; but the 
 invading barbarians occupied it, and the ruin became com- 
 plete. In the middle ages it Avas dotted all over with the 
 baronial castles of several rival families of Rome. Some 
 attempts were made to drain it and improve the sanitary 
 
EXCURSION TO MONTE CAVO 
 
 439 
 
 condition of the soil, but without much success ; and now 
 it is a field of desolation, and we breathe freer when the 
 hills are reached. Long lines of aqueducts are, from time 
 to time, seen, like troops of elephants marching across the 
 plain towards the Eternal City. 
 
 The only pleasant thing is the sight of the Alban Hills, 
 a few miles beyond, and other groups at the left, farther 
 away ; and we feel an inexpressible longing to escape from 
 that place of unmarked graves, where men have been 
 buried for 2, 500 years. 
 
 How these neglected plains have resounded with the 
 tramp of armies, victors and vanquished, and been crim- 
 soned with rivers of human blood, the result of unworthy 
 struggles, long torturing this ancient peninsula ! Happy 
 fields may have been there all these years, but yet it has 
 been the trysting place of bandits and assassins, the reck- 
 less, selfish, and the cruel. 
 
 At length the cars stop at Casette. Having been fore- 
 warned — not very generously, it must be confessed — I 
 took possession of the outside front seat on the omnibus 
 that was to convey us to Albano, two and a half miles. It 
 was worth my effort, for it gave me unobstructed views of 
 Castello Savelli, in ruins, on the right, and La Turri on the 
 left, and of Ariccia, with its ancient castle and imposing 
 viaduct. 
 
 The Alban Mountain, that we must now begin to climb, 
 is circular in its outline, an ancient volcano, with indica- 
 tions of several craters. The largest of all is the highest, 
 and spreads out into the so-called Campo d'Annibale. 
 Lake Albano lies in its lap, part way up, and Nemi farther 
 to the right. 
 
 Our day's journey will first be on the sides of this moun- 
 tain, taking a somewhat irregular route seeking the sum- 
 
440 EXCURSION TO MONTE CA VO 
 
 mit, meanwhile casting our eyes to the right or left as in- 
 teresting objects or views present themselves. 
 
 Albano is an interesting, characteristic town, with all 
 the peculiarities of an old Italian city. In imperial times 
 it was a place for summer residence. Some emperors had 
 villas or palaces there, and out of pride or fear built strong 
 fortifications, while humbler nobles built humbler villas. 
 The remains of an amphitheatre are still to be seen. We 
 may reasonably imagine it to have been a favorite place 
 for Romans, when, then as now, everyone felt, for reasons 
 of health or love of excitement, the necessity of going 
 somewhere. Then the streets, palaces, and groves re- 
 sounded with sounds of gaiety, and, perhaps, exhibited all 
 the follies of a corrupt imperial society. 
 
 A short time was spent in bargaining for mules to carry 
 us up to the summit of Monte Cavo. 
 
 The entire population, apparently, had a holiday. The 
 little square seemed to be the general gathering place, in 
 which not much space was left unoccupied. It was a 
 strange crowd, with dark faces and darker eyes, and some- 
 times with rather picturesque costumes. Men, women, 
 and children of all ages and conditions mingled with un- 
 checked carelessness. They had come out, perhaps, to see 
 the strange, rude specimens of humanity from far away — 
 they did not know whence. 
 
 My animal was at length selected. I do not know by 
 what rule of choice, for I know almost nothing about those 
 meditative animals. Apparently he was a favorite in the 
 crowd, for a boy put his arms around his neck, and, with 
 evident emotion, addressed him as " mio caro asino." 
 These were not unpleasant words in their sounds; besides, 
 they were encouraging, settling the reputation of the ani- 
 mal with whom I was to have a rather familiar acquaint- 
 
EXCURSION TO MONTE CA VO 
 
 441 
 
 ance the next eight hours. I tried to admire him, too, but 
 at this distance of time the recollection of that part of the 
 excursion is less vivid than some other things. I did not 
 admire the saddle that was fastened on the animal's back 
 with ropes, nor did the reins, being made of the same ma- 
 terial, impress me as being of the best conceivable taste. 
 It was a mystery also to me that the bridle had no bit, but 
 the strap — no, the rope — went around his long, dignified 
 nose, which, no doubt, he greatly preferred. Whether 
 this arrangement was due to the preference of the animal, 
 or to some other reason, was not stated in the contract. 
 
 My comrades were Mr. B., a merchant from the West, 
 and Mr. P. , a student in a somewhat famous college in this 
 country. When the preparations were all made, and we 
 were all sitting on our noble steeds like experienced cava- 
 liers, our guide clapped his hands, shouted, and ran. The 
 animals began to run, too, and the assembled citizens 
 joined in the clapping and shouting — no doubt intended 
 as an honored " good-by." 
 
 The sensation of riding on that strange little animal, 
 with an unaccustomed progressive motion, was very ri- 
 diculous ; but we resolved to make the best of it, although 
 it was not a trot, nor a canter, but a run. Very soon there 
 was a cry of " Stop ! whoa ! " Mr. B. was on the ground ; 
 his saddle fastenings had proved insufficient. We are 
 stopped to rearrange. The rope was drawn tighter and 
 others added. Again, at the clapping of hands, away we 
 went, but in a few moments Mr. P. went through the 
 same experience ; and very shortly after I was obliged to 
 call upon our engineer for like professional assistance. 
 
 All things at last in working order, we ran at no digni- 
 fied pace, with the guide on foot running and shouting at 
 the top of his voice. It was a kind of John Gilpin race, and 
 28 
 
442 
 
 EXCURSION TO MONTE CA VO 
 
 we should have been overcome by the ridiculousness of 
 our adventure if all our thoughts and faculties had not 
 been required to keep our position on our animated steeds. 
 We could not make many objective investigations, but I 
 remember that for awhile we scud along a beautiful road 
 under a row of trees, that in ordinary circumstances might 
 have been very agreeable, with interesting outlooks. 
 This road was a part of the far-famed Appian Way. 
 
 In due time we reached the level of the Alban Lake — a 
 most interesting sheet of water, quietly resting in a basin 
 on the side of the mountain ; once, no doubt, a crater of a 
 now silent volcano, that belched forth its fire and thunder 
 when the world was younger than now. Six hundred feet 
 in shortest diameter is a small lake, but when we realize 
 its depth — one thousand feet, reaching down lower than 
 the surface of the sea — it seems as though only a few 
 feet more would open communication with the sea of 
 rock-melting fires, now waiting a chance to burst forth 
 and desolate all that is fair and beautiful in this attractive 
 place. 
 
 The outlook over the Campagna was delightful, as we 
 walked along the smooth road on the margin of the lake, 
 past Castle Gondolfo, the home of the Sarelli family in 
 the middle ages, and of the Popes of later times. 
 
 On the east side of the lake was the site of Alba Longa, 
 a prehistoric city, said to have been built by the son of 
 ^neas, and was the ancient capital of the Latin League. 
 It was the traditional home of the Roman people. 
 
 Strange emotions come rushing through our minds at 
 the sound of those names, with their many associations. 
 We seemed to be boys again, marching to school with our 
 great Virgil in hand, and with dreams of Troy, Dido, 
 Pater ^neas, and Juno, and a host of gods and heroes 
 
EXCURSION TO MONTE CAVO 
 
 443 
 
 that filled our minds with images that never quite faded 
 out. These stories may have been mere pictures of the 
 imagination, but the poet was — is — a reality. Oh, to be 
 a boy again just for a day ! But the exact site of Alba 
 Longa was lost a thousand years ago. No matter, Virgil 
 still lives. Not far from here, between Gondolfo and 
 Albano, was one of the grand villas of Domitian. 
 
 Higher we climb, and the landscape widens accordingly, 
 every moment giving us new thoughts for which we had 
 no words. Up yonder on the brink of the great crater of 
 Campo d'Annibale, so steep we almost wonder why it does 
 not fall, hangs the small town of Rocca di Papa (2,500 
 inhabitants). The streets are narrow, and often very pre- 
 cipitous. The houses are huddled together, as if room 
 was the most costly commodity to be thought of. It must be 
 an interesting place for a short residence, but a long time 
 would seem to be intolerable, if deprived of some of the 
 delightful views with which some favored localities have 
 been endowed. 
 
 After dinner for man and beast — I have forgotten what 
 we were able to get — our party began its last climb to 
 the summit of Monto Albano (Monte Cavo) along a some- 
 what circuitous route, in a narrow but well-built piece of 
 old Roman road, in excellent condition — said to be the 
 best preserved specimen in existence to-day. It was a 
 novel, delightful ride, rising higher and higher, with new 
 views ever to be gained and admired, till at last we are at 
 the highest point — 3,200 feet — crowned not by a temple, 
 but by a monastery, that we cared not the least about. 
 We knew that, but in our hearts we thought of the old 
 temple of Jupiter Latiaris, of no mean dimensions — 254 
 feet by 127 — now, alas! covered and disgraced by an un- 
 sightly white, barnlike building. Though in no respect a 
 
444 
 
 EXCURSION TO MONTE CA VO 
 
 worshiper of the displaced gods, I felt a kind of indigna- 
 tion for the imagined sacrilege. It would have been a 
 strange pleasure to enter that dwelling-place of the dead 
 deity ; and, gaining some inspiration from the trophies 
 hanging around the shrine and the long walls, to recall 
 some of the events that occurred in the dim distance of 
 two, perhaps of three, thousand years. It was the re- 
 ligious capital of the ancient Latin nations, leagued to- 
 gether against a new, stronger power, destined to over- 
 turn, perhaps to annihilate, them. The history is meager 
 and uncertain, but there were there, no doubt, brave men 
 and patriots, as well as cowards and traitors ; and hearts 
 were glad or sad according to circumstances, as to-day. I 
 hope their spirits found a better place to rest than Aeneas 
 is said to have found in his visit to the dismal world 
 below. 
 
 What a delightful spot ! The great plain and the hills 
 far and near are the same. The Lakes Albano and Nemi 
 are spread out below, part way down, as then. There are 
 Ariccio and Genzano of a later date, still celebrated for 
 the beauty of their women. We did not go there, but 
 were disposed to smile at the simplicity of our informant, 
 who knew not what might be found in the new world over 
 the great sea. 
 
 If the day should be clear, one could see far off the 
 ships, islands, and dancing waves of the blue Medi- 
 terranean. According to tradition, it was on this com- 
 manding height that "cruel Juno," in all her imperial 
 haughtiness, sat and watched the contest between the 
 Trojans and Latins, never satisfied with the sad fate of 
 the unfortunate fugitives, whom she had pursued on many 
 seas with undiminished hate. How fortunate that all 
 those gods and goddesses have departed from our sphere, 
 
EXCURSION TO MONTE CA VO 
 
 445 
 
 and left us poor mortals in peace at last ! The entrance 
 by the dark lake of Avernus is apparently closed, and it is 
 to be hoped that those useless and troublesome person- 
 ages are strongly locked in and down, confining them, 
 though ever so reluctantly, to the sober realms below. 
 
 Sometimes a returning, though victorious, general was 
 refused the honor of a triumph in Rome by the Senate or 
 people — perhaps very unjustly, for the people were 
 fickle-minded ; but he, not willing to forego his honors 
 and supposed rights, nothing daunted, marched with his 
 legions up the triumphal road and deposited his trophies 
 in the now demolished temple of Jupiter. The notice of 
 five such demonstrations are to be found. Among the 
 leaders were C. Papinus Naso, B.C. 231, and Marcellus, 
 B.C. 211. Ordinarily a triumph is supposed to be incom- 
 plete without a multitude to applaud, but they had the 
 satisfaction of feeling that they had done what they 
 pleased, in spite of the proud ruler of the world. 
 
 It would have been a great pleasure to linger here and 
 feast the eye on the fairy landscape — marvelous in itself 
 — studying out the towns and locations still real, and in- 
 viting the imagination to re-people the surrounding hills 
 and the " broad Campagna sea " with the life of twenty- 
 five or more departed centuries ; but time still moves 
 here, and we must go. 
 
 It is an inhospitable place. No one will sell you any- 
 thing to appease your rising appetite, nor minister to your 
 other wants ; but they cannot shut out the landscape and 
 associations. 
 
 About this time our guide began to see some great ob- 
 jections to returning by way of Tusculum and Frascati, 
 according to agreement. "We have not time," he said; 
 "it was a difficult road to travel ; no one goes that way." 
 
446 EXCURSION TO MONTE CAVO 
 
 We, however, entertained quite different views on the 
 subject, and were equally determined on going. Some 
 loud and rather unbecoming talk occurred, fists were 
 stretched out into the astonished air, and as positive de- 
 mands and assertions were made by us in poor French. 
 Apparently the wrath was fearful, but secretly it was 
 comical ; and, being three to one, the guide was compelled 
 to submit, but with unconcealed disgust. 
 
 After a few last looks upon plain, mountain, and sea, 
 with emotions of sadness, because we should never look 
 out upon them again, we mounted our unwilling steeds 
 and started on the downward path, not so novel, but more 
 pleasant, because the desired landscape was always in 
 sight. 
 
 After awhile we left the Via Triumphalis, by which we 
 had ascended, and turned toward the north, across the 
 Campo d'Annibale. No Carthagenians were seen. If 
 their warlike spirits had lingered awhile, watching over 
 the spot where their bodies had fallen, they were all gone 
 now. Not a shield nor spear, not even a bone was left — 
 not very strange, for it was long ago that Hannibal pitched 
 his tent there. 
 
 Our noble animals, like the guides, seemed to be of the 
 opinion that a direct return to Albano would be desirable, 
 and showed their disappointment in a variety of ways 
 peculiar to themselves. On one occasion the road was 
 bordered by tall shrubs and trees thick with spreading 
 branches. My " Caro Asino" seemed to prefer the ex- 
 treme margin, and then I understood the reason for that 
 peculiar bridle — no doubt made after his own pattern, 
 consisting of rope fastened to his nose, without a bit. 
 You might, at first, suppose it was so made to enable him 
 to crop the tender leaves as he passed along, thus econo- 
 
EXCURSION TO MONTE CA VO 
 
 447 
 
 mizing time and fodder, something very dear to Italians. 
 That theory experience then told me was not the truth. 
 We could pull the rope and slacken his pace, but could 
 not change the direction, for pull which rein you might 
 choose, the effect on his nose was always about the same 
 — to retard — a result not sought. His intent was soon 
 evident — it was/V// — for the meek, amiable beast tried 
 to rub us off from his back by the aid of his friends the 
 bushes. He showed his inborn obstinacy, and we could 
 not turn him away. We were compelled to cling with our 
 feet to the docile animal to keep our position, and use our 
 hands to protect our faces from scratches and our gar- 
 ments from impending destruction. Had this state of 
 things continued long, I should not be here to-night, but 
 might have been scattered in minute fragments over the 
 ancient camp of Hannibal ; but the bushy road ended, as 
 all things will finally, and right, apparently, for once con- 
 quered. After a short run they settled down into a gentle 
 walk, as if to show the)'- only meant to play a joke. I 
 have ever since thought better of caro asino for this ex- 
 hibition of wit and intelligence, and the good grace with 
 which he submitted when it became evident that was the 
 only course left for him to pursue. 
 
 We descended from the higher point of the Alban Hills, 
 crossed a plain, and then rose to another moderate height 
 on the outer edge of the old crater to Tusculum, the 
 birthplace of the older Cato, and favorite residence of 
 Cicero. In the wars of the middle ages the city was de- 
 stroyed, and only scanty ruins now remain, but enough to 
 indicate the importance of that very ancient city. One 
 thought filled my mind — that this was once the home of 
 the great Roman orator. " Quosque tandem abutere Cati- 
 lina patientia nostra ? " was continually ringing in my ears, 
 
448 
 
 EXCURSION TO MONTE CAVO 
 
 and always and still returns with the thought of Tuscu- 
 lum. Here he lived, thought, studied, and wrote, strug- 
 gling up, out of heathenism, towards the great truths in- 
 herited by us. I care not for his weaknesses to-night, nor 
 his faults ; but choose to think of him as the second great 
 orator of the world, a great writer, and a great patriot, 
 considered in comparison with the best of his times. 
 Fortune was fickle with him. They say his tomb lies 
 near the Bay of Naples, but no one knows. Tusculum 
 has little for us to keep in mind except his name. 
 
 We descended the hill on the farther side, but after 
 wandering around awhile, found our guide had lost his 
 way ; but he found it, and led us safely to Frascati, where, 
 in the twilight, we took the cars for Rome. 
 
 At that time there was not much to be seen, it was too 
 dark ; but there was enough to think about. We were 
 riding over plains where the struggle of human life has 
 been long and terrible — a battle-field for heathenism, 
 Christianity, and falsehood, baptized in blood and fire, the 
 darkfest theatre of the dark ages — only now, in the nine- 
 teenth century, slightly glimmering with light and hope. 
 More yet, it is the festering place of a death-bearing fever, 
 blasting like the breath of its fabled Avernus, for dread 
 of which we fain would close the window and shut out 
 the pestilence-bearing air of evening, lest the poison 
 should stealthily penetrate our veins, and then our bones, 
 after a short burial, would be cast out, to add a few more 
 pounds of earth to the great, tombless, unmarked, weed- 
 bound cemetery of the Campagna. 
 
The object of this paper is to make some inquiries as to 
 the origin of our individual opinions in regard to the 
 great questions that interest the world at the present 
 time. 
 
 By way of introduction, let me relate a short history, 
 which will have its parallel in almost every village. 
 
 Mr. J D and Captain are respectable 
 
 citizens in the town of . They were not highly 
 
 educated, but men of some general intelligence, and re- 
 garded by their fellow-citizens as, socially, rather above 
 the others, and tacitly acknowledged to be the leaders of 
 their respective parties. Being comfortably provided 
 with the necessaries of life, they had time to devote to 
 the public affairs of the town, and one was sure to hold 
 some prominent office whenever his party was in power. 
 As in politics, so in social and religious circles, their in- 
 fluence was usually leading. 
 
 Each of these citizens had five sons. Of these, nine 
 out of the ten followed in the footsteps of their fathers, 
 believing as they believed, voting as they voted, and en- 
 tertaining the same preferences for their favorite religious 
 denomination. They were strong Democrats or Republi- 
 cans, Presbyterians, Methodists, or Episcopalians, as the 
 family choice had hitherto given expression. From their 
 early childhood, among their playfellows, they heard 
 with indignation any slur upon their party, and the possi- 
 bility of their being wrong was never entertained for a 
 moment. 
 
450 INDIVIDUAL OPINIONS 
 
 Out of the ten sons one thought for himself. How or 
 when he began to act for himself will not be stated. We 
 may presume that he differed from the others in the 
 structure of his mind, that he was more thoughtful, that 
 he was interested in knowing the reasons of things. To 
 such a person the world would soon become a library and 
 life an instructor. He would then discover errors and in- 
 consistencies in the views of his respected parents and 
 brothers, and thus, slowly at first, but surely in the end, 
 the necessity of thinking for himself would be forced upon 
 him. 
 
 It is interesting to see how a little spark once intro- 
 duced into a young mind, for good or evil, will live, and 
 in the end glow like a furnace. 
 
 The questions to be briefly considered here may now be 
 stated. What is the origin of our individual opinions upon 
 the questions that interest society at the present day ? 
 In no respect involving the questions whether there is a 
 foundation for a religious belief, but assuming that, and 
 only inquiring why do men adopt the views of a particu- 
 lar party, sect, social reformer in preference to another ? 
 In the narrative, why did the nine hold to the opinions of 
 their fathers, and why did one differ ? 
 
 The families were alike respectable, and had nearly the 
 same opportunities for obtaining knowledge ; yet they 
 embraced different sides or views in political, religious, 
 and other questions of the day. Each seemed entirely 
 conscientious and perfectly sure of the rectitude of his 
 own position. There was only one rebel. He was a trouble 
 to his sire and an offense to his brothers. They could not 
 convince him, for he knew more than they did, and they 
 would not be convinced by him, however clear and strong 
 his arguments might have been ; moreover, they wondered 
 
INDIVIDUAL OPINIONS 
 
 451 
 
 how he could be so stupid, so obstinate as not to see the 
 force of their words. 
 
 Children before they can read feel themselves to be of 
 the same opinions and party as their father, just as natu- 
 rally as they wear his name ; and, having arrived at ma- 
 turity, many see no more reason for investigating- the 
 views he always had than the right to bear the paternal 
 appellation. Say to one of the Mr. Dobsons that his name 
 is not Dobson, and he will think you a fool. If you pro- 
 duce arguments and facts to prove what you say, it will 
 awaken his pity. He knows it is so, and he is right for 
 once ; but he will be just as positive about what he be- 
 lieves without the least foundation, simply because he be- 
 lieves, with no more reason in one case than in the other. 
 If you attempt to convince him, you will probably fail. 
 There seems to be no place for an argument or for the 
 exercise of his reason, for neither were used in the forma- 
 tion of his opinions — in truth, they were never formed, 
 and seem to belong to the feelings rather than the intel- 
 lect. 
 
 The nine brothers will probably be good citizens and 
 admired by their respective partisans, and each father 
 will pride himself in having a family of stable sons. The 
 rebel is a more interesting character. His mind has been 
 seeking for reasons and proofs, and has found that the 
 others — yes, he himself — are ignorant. Having awak- 
 ened to the propriety and possibility of searching into the 
 deeper workings of nature and life, a new world opens 
 before him, and a very fascinating world indeed. The 
 nine are stupid, and possibly safe ; he is progressive, it 
 may be in danger. He may move on soberly and wisely, 
 laying deep foundations, never again to be moved ; or, 
 dazzled by his first success, he may fly away like a comet 
 
452 INDIVIDUAL OPINIONS 
 
 into some far oflf, unknown, and, perhaps, unknowable 
 fields, from which he can never return to the solid ground 
 again. 
 
 In pursuing this subject we might gather minds into 
 two classes, viz., those whose opinions have been received 
 passively from parents or influential friends, and those 
 whose views are the result of personal investigation. 
 
 Of the nine sons with inherited beliefs we have little 
 more to say. The case is clear ; we may safely leave 
 them in their cradles, where they have ever been, mere 
 children, and where we shall be sure to find them if again 
 needed. The one, however, has tasted the sweets of 
 freedom and independent thought, and to him, as the 
 representative of a class, we may direct the few minutes 
 remaining. The young freedman, having cast off his 
 nursery clothes, spreads his wings boldly, and is quite 
 likely to go into wild extremes. He is free, indeed, but 
 all the old imperfections cling to him, and his untried am- 
 bition will, possibly, carry him into unexpected contests, 
 resulting, it may be, in mortifying discomfitures. To 
 such a person a wise friend would be a great blessing — 
 not to place him again in stocks, but to guide and aid. It 
 takes most young men a long time to learn how little 
 they know. 
 
 I do not intend to follow his history as an individual, 
 but to place him in a class — not large — of those who 
 honestly determine to form their opinions on the merits 
 of the case. That good resolution is beset with great diffi- 
 culties. There are certain mental qualities all are likely to 
 possess, in greater or less degree — enemies in our camp 
 — that weaken every effort after truth. That combina- 
 tion of circumstances that furnishes us with ready-made 
 opinions continues its power over us till the last in the 
 
INDIVIDUAL OPINIONS 453 
 
 form of prejudices, that we try to resist with more or less 
 success ; but it is an enemy that never neglects to lay for 
 us a stumbling-block. 
 
 How strangely obtuse is our mental vision when the 
 truth seems opposed to our self-interest ! How lightly we 
 pass over some things, and how long we linger on others ! 
 He is a remarkable man who will seek after truth to his 
 own hurt. With what indignation some men hear attacks 
 upon their opinions, whether right or wrong. Does any- 
 thing cut us more deeply than to question our knowl- 
 edge ? Friendships of many years may be lost by allud- 
 ing to the bad pronunciation of a word. 
 
 That honest men should differ is strange. Some will 
 doubt it. Is mathematics the only field in which reason- 
 ing is sure ? Ought not any number of men with sound 
 minds, having the same facts, free from all entangle- 
 ments, understood in the same sense, if they act honestly, 
 to come to the same conclusion? If that be true, then 
 what we most need to build upon is facts, foundation 
 truths, to be trusted without a doubt, and involved in no 
 obscurity. In this lies the difficulty. The facts we want 
 are not easily obtained by the mass of people. 
 
 For illustration, let us turn our attention to questions 
 in politics. We can read authors upon poHtical economy, 
 and find in them a vast amount of supposed facts, among 
 which there should be some grand foundation stones; 
 but they do not lead to the same conclusions. To arrive 
 at any certainty, then, we must go back to the sources 
 from which they drew, but they are scattered through 
 many volumes, or, more probably, out of our reach. We 
 must then trust to the testimony of one of the two classes 
 of writers. Which shall we choose? Inasmuch as they 
 differ, one only can be right, and as both are witnesses 
 
454 
 
 INDIVIDUAL OPINIONS 
 
 against whom there is no imputation of falsehood or ig- 
 norance, though it is certain that one is wrong, who can 
 tell which one ? Must not most men, then, choose 
 blindly ? We might, perhaps, form an opinion as to par- 
 ticular measures, but every step requires verification. 
 
 When the question is upon the qualifications, the char- 
 acter, and life of some candidate for office, the most ex- 
 traordinary statements will be made — positive affirma- 
 tions on the one side, and denials on the other. Both 
 writers are apparently sincere, but one of them utters a 
 lie. Which ? Who shall decide } The person who has in 
 store the files of all the important newspapers and printed 
 speeches and doings of public bodies for the last half cen- 
 tury, and has the time and patience to examine them, can 
 tell, but such persons are few. Many men are liars in 
 politics, but some are truth-tellers. Some have stored up 
 in their minds facts gleaned from year to year, and are 
 able to elaborate a belief, and have firm, well-founded 
 convictions, and walk in clear daylight ; but they are few, 
 comparatively. 
 
 In regard to religious opinions, no little hesitation is felt, 
 lest something, might be said that would be deemed irrev- 
 erent, or might wound the holiest and deepest sensibilities 
 of our nature. The picture here is pleasanter. In poli- 
 tics men are enemies, but in religion friends — at least, in 
 our day. As to points of belief in essential things, all 
 evangelical Protestants agree. They are traveling on the 
 same road, hoping to reach the same glorious result by 
 the same means. This concord is something to be ex- 
 pected, for here men reason from the same premises, and 
 should agree, for in this they will reason honestly, if ever. 
 False witnesses and false pleading will give no comfort in 
 that tribunal. 
 
INDIVIDUAL OPINIONS 45^ 
 
 In regard to the differences that distinguish the several 
 evangeHcal sects, some are matters of taste, not positively- 
 stated in the divine record. They might naturally and 
 innocently vary with the taste of the individual. But 
 there are certain doctrines and beliefs that each sect or 
 school of theology claims to find in the word of God. 
 The advocates of all are profoundly confident that they 
 are founded and abtmdantly substantiated in the holy- 
 Scriptures. They are so strong in their love of these 
 ■views that the denial of them is a cause of real distress, 
 and even some would go to the stake in their defense. 
 
 I have a profound respect for those persons who differ 
 from me in some of these points ; but it is this that con- 
 stitutes the dift'erence between sects, and so far as they 
 are antagonistic — be it said with reverence — one only can 
 be right ; the rest are in error. 
 
 Here, from the same sources of information, they have 
 arrived at different conclusions, more or less at variance. 
 How can this be ? Are they dishonest ? We will not en- 
 tertain such a thought for a moment ; rather believe they 
 have never given the subject a sufficiently deep and un- 
 prejudiced investigation, though most think they have. 
 How shall we escape the conclusion that their opinions, in 
 many cases at least, came from the same source from 
 which they learned their mother tongue ? 
 
 It is safe and delightful to rest by faith in the hands of 
 our Heavenly Father. We must trust a great deal to our 
 earthly parents and friends, but how blessed it would be 
 if all men could trust with the same safety, and in their 
 religious inheritance had received only pure gold ! 
 
 Among men who endeavor to think for themselves and 
 form their opinions upon the merits of the case, without 
 prejudice, the difference must be largely, if not entirely, 
 due to a want of knowledge on the subject. 
 
456 INDIVIDUAL OPINIONS 
 
 If the angels in Heaven were inquired of about some- 
 thing within their sphere of knowledge, would there ever 
 be more than one answer to the question ? Perhaps, there 
 might be a difference in taste — who can tell ? — but never 
 anything antagonistic. 
 
 In religion unbelievers of all grades are profoundly ig- 
 norant. Few investigate, but most try to maintain the 
 position they are in sympathy with by ridiculing their 
 opponents. The reasoning of young men who desire to 
 be free from religious restraint is only silly ; on any other 
 subject they would hide their faces with shame. 
 
 Scientific men are startling the world with new and strange 
 theories — so late in time, however, that they are no part 
 of our paternal inheritance. We are not much more inde- 
 pendent for that, because the investigations upon which 
 they are founded are, ordinarily, for the few, and the rest 
 must accept their teaching or remain in ignorance. Those 
 who have a relish for such studies will have a wide, fasci- 
 nating field of never-ending wonders ; we must leave them 
 to work out the results. But those who do not feel at- 
 tracted by the subject itself would do well to suspend 
 judgment. There may be a vast amount of truth mingled 
 with the error. A sifting of years may be necessary, but 
 in the end there will be real progress. 
 
 We might pursue this subject by glancing at some of 
 the social questions of the day. So far as they are new, 
 they will also have come to light since the fathers fell 
 asleep. How likely most men are to find out the views of 
 some favorite leader, and involuntarily think as he does ! 
 That may be well enough, but it is not manly or flattering 
 to our pride. 
 
 Those who have had patience to listen to this time have, 
 no doubt, seen that the object of this paper is to show 
 
INDIVIDUAL OPINIONS 457 
 
 that most persons on the subjects that interest mankind 
 receive their opinions from others ready-made — for the 
 most part, from those who teach them their mother tongue 
 and guide their childish years — with no more exercise of 
 reason in the one case than in the other. 
 
 To repeat what has before been said : If any number of 
 men, having taken into consideration the same facts, un- 
 derstood in the same sense, do not reach the same con- 
 clusion, is it not reasonable to infer that some of them 
 came with their opinions so firmly fixed that their minds 
 were barred against the reception of the truth? And 
 does not the fact that men continue to hold diverse beliefs 
 built upon the same foundations show that a large num- 
 ber, at least, cherish not the results of their own mental 
 operations, but are using an inheritance as truly descend- 
 ing to them as the paternal houses and lands. 
 
 In man's discussions pride so warps our judgment that 
 really the object sought in our heart of hearts is how to 
 win or to sustain our old position, and not to discover the 
 truth. Then it becomes quite natural to desire to cover 
 up what is troublesome and distort what is favorable. 
 
 Who form their opinions upon the merits of the case, 
 intelligently ? Not the nine sleepers we alluded to at the 
 beginning of this paper ; not the young person who, hav- 
 ing left home early, is influenced by some friend he likes, 
 and does as he does ; not the doubting politician, who, not 
 having original documents, adopts the belief of some 
 leading man ; not the religionist who follows in his father's 
 steps, or if he should once swing away, at last settles back 
 into the old groove, or a new one, because it is the way 
 ' some learned doctor whom he admires thinks ; not any 
 one who adopts the views of another person without 
 weighing the reasons. 
 29 
 
458 INDIVIDUAL OPINIONS 
 
 How many of the religious teachers of the Protestant 
 organizations know when and why they chose their own 
 denomination in preference to all others ? Some certainly, 
 but not all. But why have they not all come to the same 
 conclusion so far as the truths are concerned ? How can 
 there exist any difference, except in matters of taste, in- 
 volving no principle ? Mj^ respected teachers are honest 
 in this, but so are other teachers over the way yonder. 
 You think you are right ; so do they. But somebodj' is in 
 error. Who ? Who are they who, during the discussions 
 of a hundred years, have searched the storehouse of truth, 
 and yet, all the time, have had their eyes darkened by the 
 old, dry parchment of hereditary belief, and have closed 
 the precious volume with the consciousness that their 
 foundations were never so strong before ? Some. It may 
 be best, but it is a very unwelcome labor, as hntnan na- 
 ture is constituted, to work to prove that you are in error 
 — that the plank on which you stand w^ill not hold you. 
 
 If you ask a hundred voters why they belong to their 
 particular party, how many will be able to give an intelli- 
 gent answer } Some will, surely, but few. Some will tell 
 you that it is on account of their views upon the tariff, the 
 currency, public improvements, etc.; but to most these 
 names are empty sounds, so far as any real comprehension 
 of the subject is concerned. If you take out the above 
 topics, and every other worthy the consideration of a man 
 of sense, still, for the most part, the ranks will remain 
 firm. They will still be Democrats or Republicans, because 
 they are. 
 
 It is not intended by this to say that there are no solid 
 foundations for political actions ; on the contrary, there 
 are great principles founded upon theory and experience, 
 and worthy of the study of great minds, but it is believed 
 
INDIVIDUAL OPINIONS 459 
 
 that only a few any more than scratch the dust above the 
 earth that holds the ore, valuable, but deeply buried. 
 
 The tactics of political workers, at the time of our great 
 elections, while they appeal to the nobler sentiments of 
 our nature, also descend to those which are disgusting and 
 humiliating. How many times use is made of the lowest 
 motives — bribery, direct or indirect, promise of business, 
 assistance, or office, the low attractions of the grog-shop, 
 and to some who are too honest to yield to anything they 
 could offer the fact that their friend, Mr. So-and-So, wants 
 their vote, or the old party should be sustained. God 
 must help us if the nation's prosperity rests upon such a 
 miserable farce. 
 
 In the midst of all this confusion and blind clinging to a 
 belief, we know not why, some persons are right, but with 
 many of these it is not due to their wisdom ; so far as they 
 are concerned, it is an accident. There are a few who, by 
 patient investigation, a determination to overcome all 
 prejudices and all the promptings of self-interest and 
 pride, have founded their belief on the rock of truth, or 
 have examined the structure in which they were educated 
 and found that its pillars extended down to the immovable 
 granite. Such persons can enjoy a sensation of certainty 
 in themselves, and they are like great ships at anchor in 
 deep water, riding in peace, to which small boats, whose 
 plummet cannot reach the bottom, may throw out a line, 
 and wait in safety till the morning. There is little hope 
 of increasing the proportion of wise men so long as the 
 public taste prefers the light, vapory fiction of the day to 
 anything that requires effort. 
 
 Some good people will think that it is an evil to doubt 
 our foundations, and say : " They are all right. Why not 
 rest, and build higher?" That would be well if the 
 
46o INDIVIDUAL OPINIONS 
 
 strength of the foundations were acknowledged to be sure 
 by all, but at least one-half of the community believe 
 that the other half are in error. We believe that our 
 party, club, or denomination are right, and we have 
 worked well in it ; but so say our friends over the way, 
 and among them are wise, learned, patriotic, and self- 
 denying men. 
 
 We should not fear investigation. If we are right, it 
 will give us confidence. If we are wrong, we should be 
 glad to make the discovery. Error never did any man 
 any good, but is an ulcer that poisons, that should be 
 found, and made to yield to the surgeon's knife. 
 
 I have presumed too much upon your patience, and it is 
 time to close. As this paper is not a sermon, no detailed 
 application will be made ; but it seems to me that if men 
 would realize more clearly how ill-founded are the opin- 
 ions of many — perhaps of themselves — they would be in 
 a healthier condition, and more hopeful of improvement 
 in the future. Many noisy, boasting, disagreeable brawlers 
 would retire. Modest, conscientious men would speak 
 more tenderly to those of opposite beliefs, and, what is 
 better still, there would be a deeper searching for the 
 truth, and a strong desire and effort to judge without pre- 
 judice. It would not be the giving tip of any faith or 
 principle, but a firmer grasp upon all that was good. 
 
 If it be true that the stamp of our intellectual and moral 
 peculiarities is placed upon us very early in life, and is 
 seldom changed essentially in all our succeeding years, 
 what a terrible responsibility rests upon those who have 
 the training of the unfolding mind ! If the young being 
 grows up with graceful manners and nice sense of pro- 
 priety in all things, it is because it was so taught and seen 
 in his child-home. If he shall speak a pure, rounded, me- 
 
INDIVIDUAL OPINIONS 461 
 
 lodious language, it was learned at his mother's knee. In 
 the years of his manhood, whether he shall be pure and 
 noble, patriotic, enlightened, industrious, of this party or 
 that, of this sect or that, or a miserable prodigal, lower 
 than the beast, will, in most cases, depend upon what he 
 bore with him from the home of his youth. The spirit of 
 God may give him a new heart, but he will still be the 
 child of his parents, and the peculiarities that distinguish 
 him from other individuals will, for the most part, be the 
 result of their example and teaching, and will follow him 
 to the end — perhaps to eternity. 
 
 God pity the orphan who has had no guiding hand nor 
 loving heart to nourish the first impulses of good in his 
 little, susceptible soul ! Yes, pity those poor unfortu- 
 nates, worse than fatherless, whose homes are in the 
 midst of wickedness and degradation. 
 
 Those who are charged with the moulding of youthful 
 minds and character, if it is well done, may be comforted 
 with the thought that the good will never lose its power. 
 Years of wandering may follow, but there is something 
 within that cannot be blotted out. But alas for those 
 whose youth has been blasted by evil surroundings ! — like 
 the thistles that have found a lodgment in the otherwise 
 fair field of the husbandman, that will not be eradicated ; 
 so they carry in their hearts a snare, a poison, an enemy, 
 that God only can overcome. 
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
 lilillllllllllllillilll 
 
 016 165 830 3