Part 11
"Those were strange words," said Theophilus to one of his friends, as they were about to leave the court; "but these Christians are not like other people." "Their obstinacy is altogether surprising," rejoined his friend; "death itself will never make them waver. But who is this, Theophilus?" he continued, as a young boy came up to them, of such singular beauty that the eyes of all were fixed upon him with wonder and admiration. He seemed not more than ten years old; his golden hair fell on his shoulders, and in his hand he bore four roses, two white and two red, and of so brilliant a color and rich a fragrance that their like had never before been seen. He held them out to Theophilus. "These flowers are for you," said he; "will you not take them?" "And whence do you bring them, my boy?" asked Theophilus. "From Dorothy," he replied, "and they are the sign you even now asked for." "Roses, and in winter time!" said Theophilus, as he took the flowers; "yea, and such roses as never blossomed in any earthly garden. Prefect, your task is not yet ended; your sword has slain one Christian, but it has made another; I, too, profess the faith for which Dorothy died."
Within another hour, Theophilus was condemned to death by the enraged Prefect; and on the spot where Dorothy had been beheaded, he too poured forth his blood, and obtained the crown of martyrdom.
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CÆSAREA (s[)e]s [.a] r[=e]' [.a]), an ancient city of Palestine. It is celebrated as being the scene of many events recorded in the New Testament.
Memory Gem:
Virtue treads paths that end not in the grave.
_A line from Lowell's "0de."_
[Illustration:]
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_69_
TO A BUTTERFLY.
I've watched you now a full half hour Self-poised upon that yellow flower; And, little butterfly, indeed I know not if you sleep or feed. How motionless!--not frozen seas More motionless!--and then What joy awaits you, when the breeze Hath found you out among the trees, And calls you forth again!
This plot of orchard ground is ours; My trees they are, my sister's flowers; Here rest your wings when they are weary; Here lodge as in a sanctuary! Come often to us, fear no wrong; Sit near us on the bough! We'll talk of sunshine and of song, And summer days, when we were young; Sweet childish days, that were as long As twenty days are now!
_Wordsworth_.
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SELF-POISED, balanced.
What is a sanctuary? In the Temple at Jerusalem, what was the Holy of Holies? Why are the sanctuaries of Catholic churches so supremely holy?
Why are "sweet childish days" as long "As twenty days are now?"
Tell what you know of the author's life.
Memorize the poem.
[Illustration:]
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_70_
re tort' ed quizzed in cred' i ble man u fac' ture sat' ire vi o lin' ist com pre hend' me lo' di ous ly hu' mor ex hib' it a chieve' ments for' ests
THE PEN AND THE INKSTAND.
In the room of a poet, where his inkstand stood upon the table, it was said, "It is wonderful what can come out of an inkstand. What will the next thing be? It is wonderful!"
"Yes, certainly," said the Inkstand. "It's extraordinary--that's what I always say," he exclaimed to the pen and to the other articles on the table that were near enough to hear. "It is wonderful what a number of things can come out of me. It's quite incredible. And I really don't myself know what will be the next thing, when that man begins to dip into me. One drop out of me is enough for half a page of paper; and what cannot be contained in half a page?
"From me all the works of the poet go forth--all these living men, whom people can imagine they have met--all the deep feeling, the humor, the vivid pictures of nature. I myself don't understand how it is, for I am not acquainted with nature, but it certainly is in me. From me all things have gone forth, and from me proceed the troops of charming maidens, and of brave knights on prancing steeds, and all the lame and the blind, and I don't know what more--I assure you I don't think of anything."
"There you are right," said the Pen; "you don't think at all; for if you did, you would comprehend that you only furnish the fluid. You give the fluid, that I may exhibit upon the paper what dwells in me, and what I would bring to the day. It is the pen that writes. No man doubts that; and, indeed, most people have about as much insight into poetry as an old inkstand."
"You have but little experience," replied the Inkstand. "You've hardly been in service a week, and are already half worn out. Do you fancy you are the poet? You are only a servant; and before you came I had many of your sorts, some of the goose family, and others of English manufacture. I know the quill as well as the steel pen. Many have been in my service, and I shall have many more when _he_ comes--the man who goes through the motions for me, and writes down what he derives from me. I should like to know what will be the next thing he'll take out of me."
"Inkpot!" exclaimed the Pen.
Late in the evening the poet came home. He had been to a concert, where he had heard a famous violinist, with whose admirable performances he was quite enchanted. The player had drawn a wonderful wealth of tone from the instrument; sometimes it had sounded like tinkling water-drops, like rolling pearls, sometimes like birds twittering in chorus, and then again it went swelling on like the wind through the fir trees.
The poet thought he heard his own heart weeping, but weeping melodiously, like the sound of woman's voice. It seemed as though not only the strings sounded, but every part of the instrument.
It was a wonderful performance; and difficult as the piece was, the bow seemed to glide easily to and fro over the strings, and it looked as though every one might do it. The violin seemed to sound of itself, and the bow to move of itself--those two appeared to do everything; and the audience forgot the master who guided them and breathed soul and spirit into them. The master was forgotten; but the poet remembered him, and named him, and wrote down his thoughts concerning the subject:
"How foolish it would be of the violin and the bow to boast of their achievements. And yet we men often commit this folly--the poet, the artist, the laborer in the domain of science, the general--we all do it. We are only the instruments which the Almighty uses: to Him alone be the honor! We have nothing of which we should be proud."
Yes, that is what the poet wrote down. He wrote it in the form of a parable, which he called "The Master and the Instrument."
"That is what you get, madam," said the Pen to the Inkstand, when the two were alone again. "Did you not hear him read aloud what I have written down?"
"Yes, what I gave you to write," retorted the Inkstand. "That was a cut at you, because of your conceit. That you should not even have understood that you were being quizzed! I gave you a cut from within me--surely I must know my own satire!"
"Ink-pipkin!" cried the Pen.
"Writing-stick!" cried the Inkstand.
And each of them felt a conviction that he had answered well; and it is a pleasing conviction to feel that one has given a good answer--a conviction on which one can sleep; and accordingly they slept upon it. But the poet did not sleep. Thoughts welled up from within him, like the tones from the violin, falling like pearls, rushing like the storm-wind through the forests. He understood his own heart in these thoughts, and caught a ray from the Eternal Master. To _Him_ be all the honor!
_Hans Christian Andersen._
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PIPKIN, a small pipe; a small jar made of baked clay.
Write as many synonyms as you know, or can find, of the words _vivid, exhibit, comprehend_. Consult the dictionary.
What one word may you use instead of "laborer in the domain of science?"
Seek in your dictionary the definition of the word _parable_. Relate one of our Lord's parables.
By means of the prefixes and suffixes that you have learned, form as many words as you can from the following: man, do, late, loud, art, room, blind, easy, heart, humor, vivid, maiden, famous, service, furnished.
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_71_
THE WIND AND THE MOON.
Said the Wind to the Moon, "I will blow you out. You stare in the air Like a ghost in a chair, Always looking what I am about, I hate to be watched; I'll blow you out."
The Wind blew hard, and out went the Moon. So, deep on a heap Of clouds, to sleep Down lay the Wind and slumbered soon, Muttering low, "I've done for that Moon."
He turned in his bed; she was there again! On high in the sky, With her one ghost eye, The Moon shone white and alive and plain. Said the Wind, "I will blow you out again."
The Wind blew hard, and the Moon grew dim. "With my sledge and my wedge I have knocked off her edge. If only I blow right fierce and grim, The creature will soon be dimmer than dim."
He blew and he blew, and she thinned to a thread: "One puff more's enough To blow her to snuff! One good puff more where the last was bred, And glimmer, glimmer, glum, will go the thread."
He blew a great blast, and the thread was gone, In the air nowhere Was a moonbeam bare; Far off and harmless the shy stars shone; Sure and certain the Moon was gone!
The Wind he took to his revels once more; On down, in town, Like a merry-mad clown, He leaped and holloed with whistle and roar,-- "What's that?" The glimmering thread once more!
He flew in a rage--he danced and he blew; But in vain was the pain Of his bursting brain; For still the broader the moon-scrap grew, The broader he swelled his big cheeks, and blew.
Slowly she grew, till she filled the night, And shone on her throne In the sky alone, A matchless, wonderful, silvery light, Radiant and lovely, the Queen of the Night.
Said the Wind: "What a marvel of power am I! With my breath, good faith! I blew her to death-- First blew her away right out of the sky, Then blew her in; what a strength am I!"
But the Moon she knew nothing about the affair; For, high in the sky, With her one white eye, Motionless, miles above the air, She had never heard the great Wind blare.
_George MacDonald._
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DOWN (7th stanza), a tract of sandy, hilly land near the sea.
GLIMMER, fainter.
GLUM, dark, gloomy.
What is a suffix? What does the suffix _less_ mean? Define _cloudless, matchless, motionless._
What class of people does Mr. Wind remind you of?
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_72_
mi' ter can'on car' di nal dis course' di' a logue cour'te ous ly
ST. PHILIP NERI AND THE YOUTH.
St. Philip Neri, as old readings say, Met a young stranger in Rome's streets one day, And being ever courteously inclined To give young folks a sober turn of mind, He fell into discourse with him, and thus The dialogue they held comes down to us.
_Saint_.--Tell me what brings you, gentle youth, to Rome? _Youth_.--To make myself a scholar, sir, I come. _St_.--And when you are one, what do you intend? _Y_.--To be a priest, I hope, sir, in the end. _St_.--Suppose it so; what have you next in view? _Y_.--That I may get to be a canon too. _St_.--Well; and what then? _Y_.-- Why then, for aught I know, I may be made a bishop. _St_.-- Be it so,-- What next? _Y_.-- Why, cardinal's a high degree; And yet my lot it possibly may be. _St_.--Suppose it was; what then? _Y_.-- Why, who can say But I've a chance of being pope one day? _St_.--Well, having worn the miter and red hat, And triple crown, what follows after that?
_Y_.--Nay, there is nothing further, to be sure, Upon this earth, that wishing can procure: When I've enjoyed a dignity so high As long as God shall please, then I must die.
_St_.--What! must you die? fond youth, and at the best, But wish, and hope, and may be, all the rest! Take my advice--whatever may betide, For that which _must be_, first of all provide; Then think of that which _may be_; and indeed, When well prepared, who knows what may succeed, But you may be, as you are pleased to hope, Priest, canon, bishop, cardinal, and pope.
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ST. PHILIP NERI, born in Florence, Italy, in 1515. Went to Rome in 1533, where he founded the "Priests of the Oratory," and where he died in 1595.
TRIPLE CROWN, the tiara; the crown worn by our Holy Father, the Pope.
Use correctly in sentences the words _canon, cannon, cañon._
NOTE.--It will prove interesting if one pupil reads the first six lines of the selection, and two others personate St. Philip and the Youth.
The whole selection might be given from memory.
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_73_
mag' ic sta' mens de sert' ed pet' als pic' tures dis cour' aged liq' uid sat' is fied per se ver' ance
THE WATER LILY.
There was once a little boy who was very fond of pictures. There were not many pictures for him to look at, for he lived long ago near a great American forest. His father and mother had come from England, but his father was dead now. His mother was very poor, but there were still a few beautiful pictures on the walls of her house.
The little boy liked to copy these pictures; but as he was not fond of work, he often threw his drawings away before they were half done. He said that he wished that some good fairy would finish them for him.
"Child," said his mother, "I don't believe that there are any fairies. I never saw one, and your father never saw one. Mind your books, my child, and never mind the fairies."
"Very well, mother," said the boy.
"It makes me sad to see you stand looking at the pictures," said his mother another day, as she laid her hand on his curly head. "Why, child, pictures can't feed a body, pictures can't clothe a body, and a log of wood is far better to burn and warm a body."
"All that is quite true, mother," said the boy.
"Then why do you keep looking at them, child?" but the boy could only say, "I don't know, mother."
"You don't know! Nor I, neither! Why, child, you look at the dumb things as if you loved them! Put on your cap and run out to play."
So the boy wandered off into the forest till he came to the brink of a little sheet of water. It was too small to be called a lake; but it was deep and clear, and was overhung with tall trees. It was evening, and the sun was getting low. The boy stood still beside the water and thought how beautiful it was to see the sun, red and glorious, between the black trunks of the pine trees. Then he looked up at the great blue sky and thought how beautiful it was to see the little clouds folding over one another like a belt of rose-colored waves. Then he looked at the lake and saw the clouds and the sky and the trees all reflected there, down among the lilies.
And he wished that he were a painter, for he said to himself, "I am sure there are no trees in the world with such beautiful leaves as these pines. I am sure there are no clouds in the world so lovely as these. I know this is the prettiest little lake in the world, and if I could paint it, every one else would know it, too."
But he had nothing to paint with. So he picked a lily and sat down with it in his hand and tried very hard to make a correct drawing of it. But he could not make a very good picture. At last he threw down his drawing and said to the lily:
"You are too beautiful to draw with a pencil. How I wish I were a painter!"
As he said these words he felt the flower move. He looked, and the cluster of stamens at the bottom of the lily-cup glittered like a crown of gold. The dewdrops which hung upon the stamens changed to diamonds before his eyes. The white petals flowed together, and the next moment a beautiful little fairy stood on his hand. She was no taller than the lily from which she came, and she was dressed in a robe of the purest white.
"Child, are you happy?" she asked.
"No," said the boy in a low voice, "because I want to paint and I cannot."
"How do you know that you cannot?" asked the fairy.
"Oh, I have tried a great many times. It is of no use to try any more."
"But I will help you."
"Oh," said the boy. "Then I might succeed."
"I heard your wish, and I am willing to help you," said the fairy. "I know a charm which will give you success. But you must do exactly as I tell you. Do you promise to obey?"
"Spirit of a water lily!" said the boy, "I promise with all my heart."
"Go home, then," said the fairy, "and you will find a little key on the doorstep. Take it up and carry it to the nearest pine tree; strike the trunk with it, and a keyhole will appear. Do not be afraid to unlock the door. Slip in your hand, and you will bring out a magic palette. You must be very careful to paint with colors from that palette every day. On this depends the success of the charm. You will find that it will make your pictures beautiful and full of grace.
"If you do not break the spell, I promise you that in a few years you shall be able to paint this lily so well that you will be satisfied; and that you shall become a truly great painter."
"Can it be possible?" said the boy. And the hand on which the fairy stood trembled for joy.
"It shall be so, if only you do not break the charm," said the fairy. "But lest you forget what you owe to me, and as you grow older even begin to doubt that you have ever seen me, the lily you gathered to-day will never fade till my promise is fulfilled."
The boy raised his eyes, and when he looked again there was nothing in his hand but the flower.
He arose with the lily in his hand, and went home at once. There on the doorstep was the little key, and in the pine tree he found the magic palette. He was so delighted with it and so afraid that he might break the spell that he began to work that very night. After that he spent nearly all his time working with the magic palette. He often passed whole days beside the sheet of water in the forest. He painted it when the sun shone on it and it was spotted all over with the reflections of fleeting white clouds. He painted it covered with water lilies rocking on the ripples. He painted it by moonlight, when but two or three stars in the empty sky shone down upon it; and at sunset, when it lay trembling like liquid gold.
So the years passed, and the boy grew to be a man. He had never broken the charm. The lily had never faded, and he still worked every day with his magic palette.
But no one cared for his pictures. Even his mother did not like them. His forests and misty hills and common clouds were too much like the real ones. She said she could see as good any day by looking out of her window. All this made the young man very unhappy. He began to doubt whether he should ever be a painter, and one day he threw down his palette. He thought the fairy had deserted him.
He threw himself on his bed. It grew dark, and he soon fell asleep; but in the middle of the night he awoke with a start. His chamber was full of light, and his fairy friend stood near.
"Shall I take back my gift?" she asked.
"Oh, no, no, no!" he cried. He was rested now, and he did not feel so much discouraged.
"If you still wish to go on working, take this ring," said the fairy. "My sister sends it to you. Wear it, and it will greatly assist the charm."
He took the ring, and the fairy was gone. The ring was set with a beautiful blue stone, which reflected everything bright that came near it; and he thought he saw inside the ring the one word--"Hope."
Many more years passed. The young man's mother died, and he went far, far from home. In the strange land to which he went people thought his pictures were wonderful; and he had become a great and famous painter.
One day he went to see a large collection of pictures in a great city. He saw many of his own pictures, and some of them had been painted before he left his forest home. All the people and the painters praised them; but there was one that they liked better than the others. It was a picture of a little child, holding in its hands several water lilies.
Toward evening the people departed one by one, till he was left alone with his masterpieces. He was sitting in a chair thinking of leaving the place, when he suddenly fell asleep. And he dreamed that he was again standing near the little lake in his native land, watching the rays of the setting sun as they melted away from its surface. The beautiful lily was in his hand, and while he looked at it the leaves became withered, and fell at his feet. Then he felt a light touch on his hand. He looked up, and there on the chair beside him stood the little fairy.
"O wonderful fairy!" he cried, "how can I thank you for your magic gift? I can give you nothing but my thanks. But at least tell me your name, so that I may cut it on a ring and always wear it."
"My name," replied the fairy, "is Perseverance."
_Jean Ingelow._
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[Illustration:]
Name the different objects you see in the picture. What did the artist desire to tell? What is the central object? Where is the scene of the picture placed? What time of the day and of the year does it show?
Describe the boy. How old is he? What impresses you most about him?