Part 14

SAR. [_Aside to GESLER_] They’re like each other.

GES. Yet I see no sign Of recognition[509] to betray the link Unites a father and his child.

SAR. My lord, I am sure it is his father. Look at them. It may be A preconcerted[510] thing ’gainst such a chance, That they survey each other coldly thus.

GES. We shall try. Lead forth the caitiff.[511]

SAR. To a dungeon?

GES. No; into the court.

SAR. The court, my lord?

GES. And send To tell the headsman[512] to make ready. Quick! The slave shall die!—You marked the boy?

SAR. I did. He started—’tis his father.

GES. We shall see. Away with him!

TELL. Stop!—Stay!

GES. What would you?

TELL. Time!—a little time to call my thoughts together.

GES. Thou shalt not have a minute.

TELL. Some one, then, to speak with.

GES. Hence with him!

TELL. A moment!—Stop! Let me speak to the boy.

GES. Is he thy son?

TELL. And if He were, art thou so lost to nature as To send me forth to die before his face?

GES. Well, speak with him. Now, Sarnem, mark them well.

TELL. Thou dost not know me, boy—and well for thee Thou dost not. I’m the father of a son About thy age. Thou, I see, wast born like him, upon the hills; If thou shouldst ’scape thy present thraldom, he May chance to cross thee; if he should, I pray thee Relate to him what has been passing here, And say I laid my hand upon thy head, And said to thee,—if he were here, as thou art, Thus would I bless him. May’st thou live my boy, To see thy country free, or die for her, As I do! [_ALBERT weeps._

SAR. Mark! he weeps.

TELL. Were he my son, He would not shed a tear. He would remember The cliff where he was bred, and learned to scan A thousand fathoms’ depth of nether[513] air; Where he was trained to hear the thunder talk, And meet the lightning, eye to eye, where last We spoke together, when I told him death Bestowed the brightest gem that graces life, Embraced for virtue’s sake. He shed a tear! No; were he by, I’d talk to him, and his cheek Should never blanch, nor moisture dim his eye,— I’d talk to him—

SAR. He falters!

TELL. ’Tis too much! And yet it must be done! I’d talk to him—

GES. Of what?

TELL. The mother, tyrant, thou dost make A widow of. I’d talk to him of her. I’d bid him tell her, next to liberty, Her name was the last my lips pronounced. And I would charge him never to forget To love and cherish her, as he would have His father’s dying blessing rest upon him.

SAR. You see, as he doth prompt, the other acts.

TELL. [_Aside._] So well he bears it, he doth vanquish me. My boy! my boy! O, for the hills, the hills— To see him bound along their tops again, With liberty.

SAR. Was there not all the father in that look?

GES. Yet, ’tis ’gainst nature.

SAR. Not if he believes To own the son would be to make him share The father’s death.

GES. I did not think of that! [_To TELL._] ’Tis well The boy is not thy son. I’ve destined him To die along with thee.

TELL. To die? For what?

GES. For having braved my power, as thou hast. Lead them forth.

TELL. He’s but a child.

GES. Away with them!

TELL. Perhaps an only child.

GES. No matter.

TELL. He may have a mother.

GES. So the viper hath; And yet, who spares it for the mother’s sake?

TELL. I talk to stone. I talk to it as though ’Twere flesh; and know ’tis none. I’ll talk to it No more. Come my boy! I taught thee how to live—I’ll show thee how to die.

[501] U-SURPˊ-ER, one who seizes that to which he has no right.

[502] COMEˊ-LI-NESS, grace; beauty.

[503] CONˊ-SCIOUS-NESS, the perception of one’s own thoughts and feelings.

[504] The mountaineers.

[505] AVˊ-A-LANCHE, a vast body of snow, ice, or earth sliding down the side of a mountain.

[506] VOUCH-SAFEˊ, condescend to grant or permit.

[507] VENGEˊ-ANCE, punishment in retaliation for an injury.

[508] FLEDGˊ-LING, a young bird.

[509] REC-OG-NIˊ-TION, act of knowing again; acknowledgment.

[510] PRE-CON-CERTˊ-ED, arranged beforehand.

[511] CAIˊ-TIFF, a villain; a knave.

[512] HEADSˊ-MAN, one who beheads.

[513] NETHˊ-ER, lower.

LXX.—THE PRESUMPTION OF YOUTH.

ROLLIN.

Charles Rollin was born at Paris, January 30, 1661, and died September 14, 1741. His father, who was a cutler, intended him to follow his own trade; but through the kindness of a Benedictine monk, he was educated at the college of Plesseis. He afterward became Rector of the University of Paris. His “Ancient History,” a work of considerable merit, continues still to be republished and extensively read.

1. The young people of Athens, amazed at the glory of Themistocles,[514] of Cimon[515] of Pericles,[516] and full of a foolish ambition, after having received some lessons from the sophists,[517] who promised to render them very great politicians, believed themselves capable of every thing, and aspired to fill the highest places. One of them, named Glaucon, took it so strongly in his head that he had a _peculiar genius_ for public affairs, although he was not yet twenty years of age, that no person in his family, nor among his friends, had the power to divert him from a notion so little befitting his age and capacity.

2. Socrates, who liked him on account of Plato,[518] his brother, was the only one who succeeded in making him change his resolution. Meeting him one day, he accosted[519] him with so dexterous a discourse that he induced[520] him to listen. He had already gained much influence over him. “You have a desire to govern the republic?” said Socrates. “True,” replied Glaucon. “You can not have a finer design,” said the philosopher,[521] “since, if you succeed in it, you will be in a state to serve your friends, to enlarge your house, and to extend the limits of your native country.”

3. “You will become known not only in Athens but through all Greece, and it may be that your renown, like that of Themistocles, will reach even to the barbarous[522] nations. At last, you will gain the respect and admiration of everybody.” A beginning so flattering pleased the young man exceedingly, and he very willingly continued the conversation. “Since you desire to make yourself esteemed and respected, it is clear that you think to render yourself useful to the public.” “Assuredly.” “Tell me, then, I beseech you, what is the first service that you intend to render the state?”

4. As Glaucon appeared to be perplexed, and considered what he ought to answer,—“Probably,” replied Socrates, “it will be to enrich the republic, that is to say, to increase its revenues.” “Exactly so.” “And, undoubtedly, you know in what the revenues of the state consist, and the extent to which they may be increased. You will not have failed to make it a private study, to the end that if one source should suddenly fail, you may be able to supply its place immediately with another.” “I assure you,” answered Glaucon, “that this is what I have never thought of.”

5. “Tell me, at least, then, the necessary expenses of maintaining the republic. You can not fail to know of what importance it is to retrench[523] those which are superfluous[524].” “I confess to you that I am not more instructed with regard to this article than the other.” “Then it is necessary to defer till another time the design that you have of enriching the republic; for it is impossible for you to benefit the state while you are ignorant of its revenues and expenses.”

6. “But,” said Glaucon, “there is still another means that you pass over in silence; one can enrich a state by the ruin of its enemies.” “You are right,” replied Socrates; “but in order to do that, you must be the more powerful; otherwise you run the risk of losing that which you possess. So, he who speaks of undertaking a war, ought to know the power of both parties, to the end that if he finds his party the stronger, he may boldly risk the adventure; but, if he find it the weaker, he should dissuade the people from undertaking it.”

7. “But, do you know what are the forces of our republic, by sea and by land, and what are those of our enemies? Have you a statement of them in writing? You will do me the pleasure to allow me a perusal of it.” “I have none yet,” replied Glaucon. “I see, then,” said Socrates, “that we shall not make war so soon, if they intrust _you_ with the government; for there remain many things for you to know, and many cares to take.”

8. The sage mentioned many other articles, not less important, in which he found Glaucon equally inexperienced, and he pointed out how ridiculous they render themselves, who have the rashness to intermeddle with government, without bringing any other preparation to the task than _a great degree of self-esteem and excessive ambition_. “Fear, my dear Glaucon,” said Socrates, “fear, lest a too ardent desire for honors should blind you; and cause you to take a part that would cover you with shame, in bringing to light your incapacity,[525] and want of talent.”

9. The youth was wise enough to profit by the good advice of his instructor, and took some time to gain private information, before he ventured to appear in public. This lesson is for all ages.

[514] THE-MISˊ-TO-CLES, a celebrated Athenian statesman and military leader, was born about 514 before Christ.

[515] CIˊ-MON, an illustrious Athenian general and statesman, born about the year 510 before Christ. He belonged to the aristocratic party of his time, and contributed to the banishment of Themistocles, the leader of the opposite party. He was also the political opponent of Pericles.

[516] PERˊ-I-CLES, an Athenian statesman, born about 495 before Christ.

He labored to make Athens the capital of all Greece, and the seat of art and refinement.

[517] SOPHˊ-ISTS, professed teachers of wisdom.

[518] PLAˊ-TO, a celebrated Greek philosopher, born in Athens about the year 495 before Christ. He was a pupil of Socrates.

[519] AC-COSTˊ-ED, addressed.

[520] IN-DUCˊ-ED, prevailed upon.

[521] PHI-LOSˊ-O-PHER, lover of wisdom.

[522] BARˊ-BA-ROUS, uncivilized.

[523] RE-TRENCHˊ, lessen; curtail.

[524] SU-PERˊ-FLU-OUS, extravagant; needless.

[525] IN-CA-PACˊ-I-TY, inability.

LXXI.—MARY MAGDALEN.

CALLANAN.

J. J. Callanan was born in Cork, Ireland, in 1795. He was an associate of Dr. Maginn, and, through him, became a contributor to “Blackwood’s Magazine.” He died in Lisbon in 1829.

1. To the hall of that feast came the sinful and fair; She heard in the city that Jesus was there; She marked not the splendor that blazed on their board, But silently knelt at the feet of her Lord.

2. The hair from her forehead, so sad and so meek, Hung dark o’er the blushes that burn’d on her cheek; And so still and so lowly she bent in her shame, It seemed as her spirit had flown from its frame.

3. The frown and the murmur went round through them all, That one so unhallowed should tread in that hall; And some said the poor would be objects more meet, For the wealth of the perfumes she showered at his feet.

4. She marked but her Saviour, she spoke but in sighs, She dared not look up to the heaven of his eyes; And the hot tears gushed forth at each heave of her breast, As her lips to his sandals she throbbingly pressed.

5. On the cloud after tempests, as shineth the bow, In the glance of the sunbeam, as melteth the snow, He looked on that lost one—her sins were forgiven; And Mary went forth in the beauty of heaven.

LXXII.—THE WEXFORD MASSACRE.

The Mayor and Governor offered to capitulate; but whilst their Commissioners were treating with Cromwell, an officer perfidiously opened the castle to the enemy; the adjacent wall was immediately scaled, and after a stubborn but unavailing resistance in the Marketplace, Wexford was abandoned to the mercy of the assailants. The tragedy so recently acted at Drogheda was renewed. No distinction was made between the defenceless inhabitants and the armed soldiers; nor could the shrieks and prayers of three hundred females, who had gathered around the great Cross, preserve them from these ruthless barbarians.—LINGARD’S HISTORY OF ENGLAND: New York Edition, vol. 10, p. 297.

1. They knelt around the Cross divine, The matron and the maid— They bowed before redemption’s sign And fervently they prayed— Three hundred fair and helpless ones, Whose crime was this alone— Their valiant husbands, sires, and sons, Had battled for their own.

2. Had battled bravely, but in vain— The Saxon won the fight; And Irish corses strewed the plain Where valor slept with Right. And now that man of demon guilt To fated Wexford flew— The red blood reeking on his hilt, Of hearts to Erin true!

3. He found them there—the young, the old— The maiden and the wife; Their guardians brave, in death were cold, Who dared for _them_ the strife— They prayed for mercy. God on high! Before Thy cross they prayed, And ruthless Cromwell bade them die To glut the Saxon blade.

4. Three hundred fell—the stifled prayer Was quenched in woman’s blood; Nor youth nor age could move to spare From slaughter’s crimson flood. But nations keep a stern account Of deeds that tyrants do; And guiltless blood to Heaven will mount, And heaven avenge it too.

LXXIII.—A PICTURE OF HUMAN LIFE.

JOHNSON.

Doctor Samuel Johnson, born 1709, died 1784, was distinguished as an essayist and lexicographer.

1. Obidah, the son of Abensina, left the caravansary[526] early in the morning, and pursued his journey through the plains of Indostan. He was fresh and vigorous with rest; he was animated with hope; he was incited by desire; he walked swiftly forward over the valleys, and saw the hills gradually rising before him.

2. As he passed along, his ears were delighted with the morning song of the bird of paradise, he was fanned by the last flutter of the sinking breeze, and sprinkled with dew by groves of spices; he sometimes contemplated the towering height of the oak, monarch of the hills; and sometimes caught the gentle fragrance of the primrose, eldest daughter of the spring: all his senses were gratified, and all care was banished from his heart.

3. Thus he went on till the sun approached his meridian,[527] and the increasing heat preyed upon his strength; he then looked round about him for some more commodious path. He saw, on his right hand, a grove that seemed to wave its shades as a sign of invitation: he entered it, and found the coolness and verdure irresistibly pleasant.

4. He did not, however, forget whither he was traveling, but found a narrow way, bordered with flowers, which appeared to have the same direction with the main road, and was pleased, that, by this happy experiment, he had found means to unite pleasure with business, and to gain the reward of diligence without suffering its fatigues. He, therefore, still continued to walk, for a time, without the least remission[528] of his ardor, except that he was sometimes tempted to stop by the music of the birds, whom the heat had assembled in the shade, and sometimes amused himself with plucking the flowers that covered the bank on either side, or the fruits that hung upon the branches.

5. At last, the green path began to decline from its first tendency, and to wind among hills and thickets, cooled with fountains, and murmuring with waterfalls. Here Obidah paused for a time, and began to consider whether it were longer safe to forsake the known and common track, but remembering that the heat was now in its greatest violence, and that the plain was dusty and uneven, he resolved to pursue the new path, which he supposed only to make a few meanders,[529] in compliance with the varieties of the ground, and to end at last in the common road.

6. Having thus calmed his solicitude, he renewed his pace, though he suspected he was not gaining ground. This uneasiness of his mind inclined him to lay hold on every new object, and give way to every sensation that might soothe or divert him. He listened to every echo, he mounted every hill for a fresh prospect, he turned aside to every cascade,[530] and pleased himself with tracing the course of a gentle river, that rolled among the trees, and watered a large region, with innumerable circumlocutions.[531]

7. In these amusements the hours passed away unaccounted, his deviations[532] had perplexed his memory, and he knew not toward what point to travel. He stood pensive[533] and confused, afraid to go forward, lest he should go wrong, yet conscious that the time of loitering was now past. While he was thus tortured with uncertainty, the sky was overspread with clouds, the day vanished from before him, and a sudden tempest gathered round his head.

8. He was now roused by his danger to a quick and painful remembrance of his folly; he now saw how happiness is lost when ease is consulted; he lamented the unmanly impatience that prompted him to seek shelter in the grove, and despised the petty curiosity that led him on from trifle to trifle. While he was thus reflecting, the air grew blacker, and a clap of thunder broke his meditation.[534]

9. He now resolved to do what remained yet in his power, to tread back the ground which he had passed, and try to find some issue, where the wood might open into the plain. He prostrated himself upon the ground, and commended his life to the Lord of nature.

10. He rose with confidence and tranquillity,[535] and pressed on with his saber in his hand; for the beasts of the desert were in motion, and on every hand were heard the mingled howls of rage and fear, and ravage[536] and expiration:[537] all the horrors of darkness and solitude surrounded him:—the wind roared in the woods, and the torrents tumbled from the hills.

11. Thus forlorn and distressed, he wandered through the wild, without knowing whither he was going, or whether he was every moment drawing nearer to safety or to destruction. At length, not fear but labor began to overcome him; his breath grew short, and his knees trembled, and he was on the point of lying down, in resignation to his fate, when he beheld, through the brambles, the glimmer of a taper. He advanced toward the light, and finding that it proceeded from the cottage of a hermit, he called humbly at the door, and obtained admission. The old man set before him such provisions as he had collected for himself, on which Obidah fed with eagerness and gratitude.

12. When the repast was over, “Tell me,” said the hermit, “by what chance thou hast been brought hither; I have been now twenty years an inhabitant of the wilderness, in which I never saw a man before.” Obidah then related the occurrences of his journey, without any concealment or palliation.[538]

13 “Son,” said the hermit, “let the errors and follies, the dangers and escapes of this day, sink deep into thy heart. Remember, my son, that human life is the journey of a day. We rise in the morning of youth, full of vigor, and full of expectation; we set forward with spirit and hope, with gayety and with diligence, and travel on awhile in the straight road of piety, toward the mansion of rest.

14. “In a short time we remit our fervor, and endeavor to find some mitigation[539] of our duty, and some more easy means of obtaining the same end. We then relax our vigor, and resolve no longer to be terrified with crimes at a distance, but rely upon our own constancy,[540] and venture to approach what we resolve never to touch.

15. “We thus enter the bowers of ease, and repose in the shades of security. Here the heart softens, and vigilance[541] subsides;[542] we are then willing to inquire whether another advance cannot be made, and whether we may not, at least, turn our eyes upon the gardens of pleasure. We approach them with scruple and hesitation; we enter them, but enter timorous and trembling, and always hope to pass through them without losing the road of virtue, which we for awhile keep in our sight, and to which we propose to return. But temptation succeeds temptation, and one compliance prepares us for another; we in time lose the happiness of innocence, and solace[543] our disquiet with sensual[544] gratifications.

16. “By degrees we let fall the remembrance of our original intention, and quit the only adequate[545] object of rational desire. We entangle ourselves in business, immerge ourselves in luxury, and rove through the labyrinths[546] of inconstancy,[547] till the darkness of old age begins to invade us, and disease and anxiety obstruct our way. We then look back upon our lives with horror, with sorrow, with repentance; and wish, but too often vainly wish, that we had not forsaken the ways of virtue.

17. “Happy are they, my son, who shall learn from thy example not to despair, but shall remember, that though the day is past, and their strength is wasted, there yet remains one effort to be made; that reformation is never hopeless, nor sincere endeavors ever unassisted; that the wanderer may at length return, after all his errors; and that he who implores strength and courage from above, shall find danger and difficulty give way before him. Go now, my son, to thy repose; commit thyself to the care of Omnipotence;[548] and when the morning comes again to toil, begin anew thy journey and thy life.”

[526] CARˊ-A-VANˊ-SA-RY, a kind of inn or public house, in the East, where caravans rest at night, being a large square building, with an extensive area or yard in the middle.

[527] ME-RIDˊ-I-AN, mid-day; the point directly overhead; hence, the highest point, as of success, prosperity, or the like.

[528] RE-MISˊ-SION, the act of remitting, surrendering, or giving up; relaxation; decrease.

[529] ME-ANˊ-DERS, indirect or winding courses; turnings.

[530] CAS-CADEˊ, a small cataract or waterfall.

[531] CIRˊ-CUM-VO-LUˊ-TION, a turning or rolling round.

[532] DEˊ-VI-Aˊ-TION, a wandering from one’s course or way.

[533] PENˊ-SIVE, thoughtful, or sad.

[534] MEDˊ-I-TAˊ-TION, the revolving or turning of a subject in the mind; close or continued thought.

[535] TRAN-QUILˊ-LI-TY, peace; quiet; freedom from care or trouble.

[536] RAVˊ-AGE, violent ruin or destruction; havoc.

[537] EXˊ-PI-RAˊ-TION, a breathing out or expulsion of air from the lungs through the mouth or nose; the last act of breathing out; death.

[538] PALˊ-LI-Aˊ-TION, concealment of the worst circumstances of an offense; lessening by favorable description.

[539] MIT-I-GAˊ-TION, softening; making easier or milder.

[540] CONˊ-STAN-CY, the quality of being constant or steadfast; freedom from change; fixedness of mind.

[541] VIGˊ-I-LANCE, watchfulness.

[542] SUB-SIDESˊ, falls into a state of quiet; rests; ceases.

[543] SOLˊ-ACE, to cheer in grief; to comfort; to allay.

[544] SENSˊ-U-AL, lewd; pleasing to the senses.

[545] ADˊ-E-QUATE, equal; fully sufficient.

[546] LABˊ-Y-RINTH, a labyrinth, among the ancients, was a building made with many winding passages, so that a person could hardly avoid being lost. Hence, any difficult windings or ways; any thing that is much entangled or very perplexing.

[547] IN-CONˊ-STAN-CY, a want of fixedness or firmness of mind; unsteadiness; fickleness.

[548] OM-NIPˊ-O-TENCE, almighty power; God.

LXXIV.—THE DOUBTING HEART.

ADELAIDE A. PROCTOR.

FIRST VOICE.

1. Where are the swallows fled? Frozen and dead, Perchance, upon some bleak and stormy shore.

SECOND VOICE.