Part 7
6. Sometimes he pitches from the summit of a tree, begins his song as soon as he gets upon the wing, and flutters tremulously[162] down to the earth, as if overcome with ecstasy[163] at his own music. Sometimes he is in pursuit of his paramour;[164] always in full song, as if he would win her by his melody; and always with the same appearance of intoxication[165] and delight.
7. Of all the birds of our groves and meadows, the Bobolink was the envy of my boyhood. He crossed my path in the sweetest weather, and the sweetest season of the year, when all Nature called to the fields, and the rural[166] feeling throbbed in every bosom; but, when I, luckless urchin, was doomed to be mewed[167] up, during the livelong day, in a school-room, it seemed as if the little varlet[168] mocked at me, as he flew by in full song, and sought to taunt me with his happier lot. O, how I envied him! No lessons, no tasks, no schools; nothing but holiday, frolic, green fields, and fine weather.
[146] RI’-VALS, strives to excel.
[147] ES-TI-MA’-TION, opinion; esteem.
[148] DE-SCRIP’-TION, account.
[149] BLIGHT, blast; destroy.
[150] DIS-SOLV’-ING, melting.
[151] GE’-NI-AL, fruitful; productive.
[152] IN’-TER-VAL, space between.
[153] TUR’-TLE, species of dove.
[154] FO’-LI-AGE, leaves collectively.
[155] CLUS’-TER-ED. growing in bunches.
[156] EN-AM’-EL-ED, inlaid; variegated.
[157] REV’-EL-RY, festive mirth; jollity.
[158] SENS-I-BIL’-TY, delicate feeling.
[159] PERCH’-ES, alights.
[160] SUC-CES’-SION, series.
[161] RAP’-TUR-OUS, joyful; thrilling.
[162] TREM’-U-LOUS-LY, tremblingly.
[163] EC’-STA-SY, excessive joy.
[164] PAR’-A-MOUR, lover.
[165] IN-TOX-I-CA’-TION, high excitement.
[166] RU’-RAL, pertaining to the country.
[167] MEW’-ED, shut up; confined.
[168] VAR’-LET, scamp; rascal.
XX.—THE BOBOLINK.—CONTINUED.
1. Farther observation and experience have given me a different idea of this little feathered voluptuary,[169] which I will venture to impart, for the benefit of my school-boy readers, who may regard him with the same unqualified envy and admiration which I once indulged.
2. I have shown him only as I saw him at first, in what I may call the poetical part of his career, when he, in a manner, devoted himself to elegant pursuits and enjoyments, and was a bird of music, and song, and taste, and sensibility, and refinement. While this lasted, he was sacred from injury; the very school-boy would not fling a stone at him, and the merest rustic[170] would pause to listen to his strain.
3. But mark the difference. As the year advances, as the clover-blossoms disappear, and the spring fades into summer, his notes cease to vibrate[171] on the ear. He gradually gives up his elegant tastes and habits, doffs his poetical and professional suit of black, assumes a russet,[172] or rather a dusky garb, and enters into the gross enjoyments of common, vulgar birds.
4. He becomes a _bon vivant_, a mere gormand;[173] thinking of nothing but good cheer, and gormandizing on the seeds of the long grasses, on which he lately swung and chanted so musically. He begins to think there is nothing like “the joys of the table,” if I may be allowed to apply that convivial[174] phrase to his indulgences. He now grows discontented with plain, every-day fare, and sets out on a gastronomical[175] tour, in search of foreign luxuries.[176]
5. He is to be found in myriads[177] among the reeds of the Delaware, banquetting[178] on their seeds; grows corpulent[179] with good feeding, and soon acquires the unlucky renown of the Ortolan.[180] Wherever he goes, _pop! pop! pop!_ the rusty firelocks of the country are cracking on every side; he sees his companions falling by thousands around him; he is the _reed-bird_, the much-sought for tit-bit of the Pennsylvanian epicure.[181]
6. Does he take warning and reform? Not he! He wings his flight still farther south in search of other luxuries. We hear of him gorging[182] himself in the rice swamps; filling himself with rice almost to bursting; he can hardly fly for corpulency. Last stage of his career, we hear of him spitted by dozens, and served up on the table of the gormand, the most vaunted[183] of southern dainties, the _rice-bird_ of the Carolinas.
7. Such is the story of the once musical and admired, but finally sensual[184] and persecuted[185] Bobolink. It contains a _moral_, worthy the attention of all little birds and little boys, warning them to keep to those refined and intellectual[186] pursuits, which raised him to such a pitch of popularity, during the early part of his career; but to eschew[187] all tendency to that gross and dissipated[188] indulgence, which brought this mistaken little bird to an untimely end.
[169] VO-LUPˊ-TU-A-RY, one given to pleasure.
[170] RUSˊ-TIC, dweller in the country.
[171] VIˊ-BRATE, quiver.
[172] RUSˊ-SET, reddish brown.
[173] GORˊ-MAND, glutton.
[174] CON-VIVˊ-I-AL, festal; social.
[175] GAS-TRO-NOMˊ-IC-AL, pertaining to good eating.
[176] LUXˊ-U-RIES, dainties.
[177] MYRˊ-I-ADS, tens of thousands.
[178] BANˊ-QUET-TING, feasting.
[179] CORˊ-PU-LENT, fleshy; fat.
[180] ORˊ-TO-LAN, delicate, small bird.
[181] EPˊ-I-CURE, one given to luxury.
[182] GORGˊ-ING, swallowing greedily.
[183] VAUNTˊ-ED, boasted.
[184] SENSˊ-U-AL, luxurious.
[185] PERˊ-SE-CU-TED, harassed; vexed.
[186] IN-TEL-LECTˊ-U-AL, mental.
[187] ES-CHEWˊ, avoid; shun.
[188] DISˊ-SI-PA-TED, loose; abandoned.
XXI.—WHO IS MY NEIGHBOR?
1. Thy neighbor? It is he whom thou Hast power to aid[189] and bless, Whose aching heart, or burning brow Thy soothing[190] hand may press.
2. Thy neighbor? ’Tis the fainting poor, Whose eye with want is dim, Whom hunger sends from door to door— Go thou, and succor[191] him.
3. Thy neighbor? ’Tis that weary[192] man, Whose years are at their brim, Bent low with sickness, cares and pain— Go thou, and comfort him.
4. Thy neighbor? ’Tis the heart bereft[193] Of every earthly gem: Widow[194] and orphan helpless left— Go thou, and shelter them.
5. Whene’er thou meet’st a human form Less favored[195] than thine own, Remember ’tis thy neighbor worm, Thy brother or thy son.
6. Oh! pass not, pass not heedless by; Perhaps, thou canst redeem The breaking heart from misery— Go, share thy lot with him.
[189] AID, help; assist.
[190] SOOTHˊ-ING, solacing.
[191] SUCˊ-COR, help; relieve.
[192] WEAˊ-RY, tired; fatigued.
[193] BE-REFTˊ, deprived.
[194] WIDˊ-OW, a woman whose husband is dead.
[195] FAˊ-VOR-ED, benefitted.
XXII.—PORTRAIT OF A VIRTUOUS AND ACCOMPLISHED WOMAN.
FENELON.
1. Antiope is mild, simple, and wise; her hands despise not labor; she foresees things at a distance; she provides against contingencies[196] she knows when it is proper to be silent; she acts regularly and without hurry; she is continually employed, but never embarrassed,[197] because she does every thing in its proper season.
2. The good order of her father’s house is her glory, it adds greater luster[198] to her than beauty. Though the care of all lies upon her, and she is charged with the burden of reproving,[199] refusing, retrenching[200] (things which make almost all women hated), yet she has acquired the love of all the household; and this, because they do not find in her either passion, or conceitedness,[201] or levity, or humors as in other women. By a single glance of her eye, they know her meaning, and are afraid to displease her.
3. The orders she gives are precise; she commands nothing but what can be performed; she reproves with kindness, and in reproving encourages. Her father’s heart reposes upon her as a traveler, fainting beneath the sun’s sultry rays, reposes himself upon the tender grass under a shady tree.
4. Antiope is a treasure worth seeking in the most remote corners of the earth. Neither her person nor her mind is set off with vain ornaments; and her imagination, though lively, is restrained by her discretion. She never speaks but through necessity; and when she opens her mouth, soft persuasion and simple graces flow from her lips. When she speaks, every one is silent; and she is heard with such attention, that she blushes, and is almost inclined to suppress[202] what she intended to say; so that she is rarely ever heard to speak at any length.
[196] CON-TINˊ-GEN-CIES, chances, casual events, possibilities.
[197] EM-BARˊ-RASSED, perplexed, confused.
[198] LUSˊ-TER, brightness, splendor, brilliancy.
[199] RE-PROVEˊ, to censure to one’s face, to reprimand.
[200] RE-TRENCHˊ, to lessen, to curtail.
[201] CON-CEITˊ-ED-NESS, pride, vanity.
[202] SUP-PRESSˊ, to restrain, to conceal.
XXIII.—THE WORK OF TO-DAY.
CHARLES MACKAY.
1. If Fortune with a smiling face, Strew roses on our way, When shall we stoop to pick them up? _To-day_, my friend, _to-day_. But should she frown with face of care. And talk of coming sorrow, When shall we grieve if grieve[203] we must? _To-morrow_, friend, _to-morrow_.
2. If those who’ve wronged us, own their fault, And kindly pity pray, When shall we listen, and forgive? _To-day_, my friend, _to-day_. But, if stern[204] Justice urge[205] rebuke,[206] And warmth from Memory borrow, When shall we chide,[207] if chide we dare? _To-morrow_, friend, _to-morrow_.
3. If those to whom we owe a debt, Are harmed unless we pay, When shall we struggle to be just? _To-day_, my friend, _to-day_. But, if our debtor[208] fail our hope, And plead his ruin thorough,[209] When shall we weigh his breach[210] of faith? _To-morrow_, friend, _to-morrow_.
4. For virtuous[211] acts, and harmless joys, The minutes will not stay; We’ve always time to welcome them, _To-day_, my friend, _to-day_. But care, resentment,[212] angry words, And unavailing sorrow, Come far too soon, if they appear _To-morrow_, friend, _to-morrow_.
[203] GRIEVE, mourn, sorrow.
[204] STERN, severe, rigid.
[205] URGE, press, impel.
[206] RE-BUKEˊ, reproof, reprehension.
[207] CHIDE, blame, reproach.
[208] DEBTˊ-OR, one that owes.
[209] THORˊ-OUGH, complete, perfect.
[210] BREACH, non-fulfillment, violation.
[211] VIRˊ-TUOUS, morally good.
[212] RE-SENTˊ-MENT, retaliation.
XXIV.—THE AVARICIOUS MILLER.
GOLDSMITH.
Oliver Goldsmith was born in 1731, at Pallasmore, County of Longford, Ireland, and died in 1774. The works of Goldsmith are more popular to-day than those of any English author of the Eighteenth Century. He was equally successful as a novelist and a poet. His “Vicar of Wakefield”, “Traveller,” and “Deserted Village” are each models of excellence in their way. His essays, also, have rare merit.
1. Whang, the miller, was naturally avaricious;[213] nobody loved money better than he, or more respected those that had it. When people would talk of a rich man in company, Whang would say, “_I_ know him very well; _he_ and _I_ have been very long acquainted; _he_ and _I_ are intimate.”[214]
2. But, if a poor man was mentioned, he had not the least knowledge of the man; he might be very well, for aught _he_ knew; but he was not fond of making many acquaintances, and loved to choose his company.
3. Whang, however, with all his eagerness[215] for riches, was poor. He had nothing but the profits of his mill to support him; but, though these were small, they were certain: while it stood and went, he was sure of eating; and his frugality[216] was such, that he, every day, laid some money by; which he would, at intervals, count and contemplate with much satisfaction.
4. Yet still his acquisitions[217] were not equal to his desires; he only found himself above want, whereas he desired to be possessed of affluence.[218] One day, as he was indulging these wishes, he was informed that a neighbor of his had found a pan of money under ground, having dreamed of it three nights in succession.[219]
5. These tidings were daggers to the heart of poor Whang. “Here am I,” said he, “toiling and moiling[220] from morning till night for a few paltry farthings, while neighbor Thanks only goes quietly to bed, and dreams himself into thousands before morning. Oh, that I could dream like him! With what pleasure would I dig round the pan! How slyly would I carry it home! Not even my wife should see me! And then, oh the pleasure of thrusting one’s hands into a heap of gold up to the elbows!”
6. Such reflections only served to make the miller unhappy. He discontinued[221] his former assiduity;[222] he was quite disgusted[223] with small gains, and his customers began to forsake him. Every day he repeated the wish, and every night laid himself down in order to dream. Fortune, that was for a long time unkind, at last, however, seemed to smile upon his distress, and indulged[224] him with the wished-for vision.
7. He dreamed that under a certain part of the foundation of his mill, there was concealed a monstrous[225] pan of gold and diamonds, buried deep in the ground, and covered with a large flat stone. He concealed his good luck from every person, as is usual in money-dreams, in order to have the vision repeated the two succeeding[226] nights, by which he should be certain of its truth. His wishes in this, also, were answered; he still dreamed of the same pan of money, in the very same place.
8. Now, therefore, it was past a doubt; so, getting up early the third morning, he repaired, alone, with a mattock[227] in his hand, to the mill, and began to undermine[228] that part of the wall to which the vision directed. The first omen[229] of success that he met with was a broken ring; digging still deeper, he turned up a house-tile, quite new and entire.
9. At last, after much digging, he came to a broad, flat stone; but, then, it was so large, that it was beyond his strength to remove it. “_There_,” cried he in raptures to himself, “_there it is!_ under this stone, there is room for a very large pan of diamonds, indeed. I must even go home to my wife, and tell her the whole affair, and get her to assist me in turning it up.” Away, therefore, he goes, and acquaints his wife with every circumstance of their good fortune.
10. Her raptures, on this occasion, may easily be imagined;[230] she flew round his neck, and embraced him in an agony of joy. But these transports, however, did not allay their eagerness to know the exact sum; returning together to the place where Whang had been digging, there they found—not, indeed, the expected treasure—but the mill, their only support, undermined and fallen!
[213] AV-A-RIˊ-CIOUS, greedy after gain.
[214] INˊ-TI-MATE, close in friendship.
[215] EAˊ-GER-NESS, ardent desire.
[216] FRU-GALˊ-I-TY, wise economy.
[217] AC-QUI-SIˊ-TIONS, gains.
[218] AFˊ-FLU-ENCE, great wealth.
[219] SUC-CESˊ-SION, regular order.
[220] MOILˊ-ING, drudging; laboring.
[221] DIS-CON-TINˊ-U-ED, ceased.
[222] AS-SI-DUˊ-I-TY, untiring diligence.
[223] DIS-GUSTˊ-ED, greatly dissatisfied.
[224] IN-DULGˊ-ED, gratified.
[225] MONˊ-STROUS, very large.
[226] SUC-CEEDˊ-ING, following.
[227] MATˊ-TOCK, pick-ax.
[228] UN-DER-MINEˊ, dig under.
[229] Oˊ-MEN, sign; token.
[230] IM-AGˊ-IN-ED. conceived.
XXV.—THE DEATH OF THE LITTLE SCHOLAR.
DICKENS.
Charles Dickens died in 1870. He was the most popular English novelist of our day.
1. Without further preface, he conducted them into his little school-room, which was parlor and kitchen likewise, and told them they were welcome to remain under his roof till morning. The child looked round the room as she took her seat. The chief ornaments of the walls were certain moral sentences, fairly copied in good round text, and well-worked sums in simple addition and multiplication, evidently achieved[231] by the same hand, which were plentifully pasted around the room; for the double purpose, as it seemed, of bearing testimony to the excellence of the school, and kindling a worthy emulation in the bosoms of the scholars.
2. “Yes,” said the schoolmaster, observing that her attention was caught by these specimens, “that’s beautiful writing, my dear.” “Very sir,” replied the child, modestly; “is it yours?” “Mine!” he returned, taking out his spectacles, and putting them on, to have a better view of the triumphs so dear to his heart; “I couldn’t write like that nowadays. No: they are all done by one hand; a little hand it is; not so old as yours, but a very clever[232] one.”
3. As the schoolmaster said this, he saw that a small blot of ink had been thrown upon one of the copies; so he took a penknife from his pocket, and going up to the wall carefully scratched it out. When he had finished, he walked slowly backward from the writing, admiring it as one might contemplate[233] a beautiful picture, but with something of sadness in his voice and manner, which quite touched the child, though she was unacquainted with its cause.
4. “A little hand, indeed,” said the poor schoolmaster. “Far beyond all his companions, in his learning and his sports too. How did he ever come to be so fond of me! That I should love him is no wonder, but that he should love me—” And there the schoolmaster stopped, and took off his spectacles to wipe them, as though they had grown dim. “I hope there is nothing the matter, sir,” said Nell, anxiously.
5. “Not much, my dear,” returned the schoolmaster; “I hoped to have seen him on the green to-night. He was always foremost among them. But he’ll be there to-morrow.” “Has he been ill?” asked the child with a child’s quick sympathy.
6. “Not very. They said he was wandering in his head yesterday, dear boy, and so they said the day before. But that’s a part of that kind of disorder; it’s not a bad sign—not at all a bad sign.” The child was silent. He walked to the door, and looked wistfully out. The shadows of night were gathering, and all was still.
7. “If he could lean on somebody’s arm, he would come to me, I know,” he said, returning into the room.
“He always came into the garden to say good night. But perhaps his illness has only just taken a favorable turn, and it’s too late for him to come out, for it’s very damp, and there’s a heavy dew. It’s much better he shouldn’t come to-night.”
8. The next day, towards night, an old woman came tottering up the garden as speedily as she could, and meeting the schoolmaster at the door, said he was to go to Dame West’s directly, and had best run on before her. He and the child were on the point of going out together for a walk, and without relinquishing her hand, the schoolmaster hurried away, leaving the messenger to follow as she might.
9. They stopped at a cottage door, and the schoolmaster knocked softly at it with his hand. It was opened without loss of time. They passed into an inner room, where his infant friend, half-dressed, lay stretched upon a bed.
10. He was a very young boy; quite a little child. His hair still hung in curls about his face, and his eyes were very bright; but their light was of heaven, not earth. The schoolmaster took a seat beside him, and stooping over the pillow, whispered his name. The boy sprang up, threw his wasted arms around his neck, crying out that he was his dear, kind friend.
11. “I hope I always was. I meant to be, God knows,” said the poor schoolmaster. “Who is that?” said the boy, seeing Nell. “I am afraid to kiss her, lest I should make her ill. Ask her to shake hands with me.”
12. The sobbing child came closer up, and took the little languid hand in hers. Releasing his again after a time, the sick boy laid him gently down.
13. “You remember the garden, Harry,” whispered the schoolmaster, anxious to rouse him, for a dulness seemed gathering upon the child, “and how pleasant it used to be in the evening? You must make haste to visit it again, for I think the very flowers have missed you, and are less gay than they used to be. You will come soon, my dear, very soon now, won’t you?”
14. The boy smiled faintly—so very, very faintly—and put his hand upon his friend’s gray head. He moved his lips, too, but no voice came from them, no, not a sound. In the silence that ensued, the hum of distant voices, borne upon the evening air, came floating through the open window.
15. “What’s that?” said the sick child, opening his eyes. “The boys at play upon the green.” He took a handkerchief from his pillow, and tried to wave it above his head. But the feeble arm dropped powerless down. “Shall I do it?” said the schoolmaster.
16. “Please wave it at the window,” was the faint reply. “Tie it to the lattice.[234] Some of them may see it there. Perhaps they’ll think of me, and look this way.”
17. He raised his head, and glanced from the fluttering signal to his idle bat, that lay, with slate and book, and other boyish property, upon a table in the room. And then he laid him down softly once more, and asked if the little girl were there, for he could not see her.
18. She stepped forward and pressed the passive hand that lay upon the coverlet. The two old friends and companions—for such they were, though they were man and child—held each other in a long embrace, and then the little scholar turned his face towards the wall, and fell asleep.
19. The poor schoolmaster sat in the same place, holding the small, cold hand in his, and chafing it. It was but the hand of a dead child. He felt that; and yet he chafed it still, and could not lay it down.
[231] A-CHIEVEDˊ, performed, completed, done.
[232] CLEVˊ-ER, skilful, dexterous, able.
[233] CON-TEM-PLATE, consider closely.
[234] LATˊ-TICE, a window blind or screen made by strips and bars crossing each other and forming open spaces like net work.
XXVI.—GOD, THE TRUE SOURCE OF CONSOLATION.
MOORE.
Thomas Moore was born in Dublin, Ireland, in 1779, and died in 1852. He was the sweetest and most brilliant lyric poet of his time. Many of his Irish melodies are unequaled for their sparkling gems of wit and fancy, and for deep and tender sentiment.
1. O Thou, who dry’st the mourner’s tear, How dark this world would be, If, when deceived and wounded here, We could not fly to Thee!
2. The friends, who in our sunshine live, When winter comes, are flown; And he who has but tears to give, Must weep those tears alone.
3. But Thou wilt heal the broken heart Which like the plants that throw Their fragrance from the wounded part, Breathes sweetness out of woe.
4. When joy no longer soothes or cheers, And e’en the hope that threw A moment’s sparkle o’er our tears, Is dimm’d and vanish’d too!
5. Oh! who could bear life’s stormy doom, Did not Thy wing of love Come brightly wafting through the gloom Our peace-branch from above!
6. Then, sorrow, touch’d by Thee, grows bright With more than rapture’s ray, As darkness shows us worlds of light, We never saw by day.
XXVII.—THE MARTYRDOM OF ST. AGNES.
DE VERE.
Aubrey De Vere is one of the most gifted and accomplished of living poets.
ANGELS.
1. Bearing lilies in our bosom, Holy Agnes, we have flown Missioned from the Heaven of Heavens Unto thee, and thee alone. We are coming, we are flying, To behold thy happy dying.
AGNES.
2. Bearing lilies far before you, Whose fresh odors, backward blown, Light those smiles upon your faces, Mingling sweet breath with your own, Ye are coming smoothly, slowly, To the lowliest of the lowly.
ANGELS.
3. Unto us the boon was given; One glad message, holy maid, On the lips of two blest spirits, Like an incense-grain was laid. As it bears us on like lightning, Cloudy skies are round us brightening.
AGNES.
4. I am here, a mortal maiden: If our father aught hath said, Let me hear His words and do them. Ought I not to feel afraid, As ye come, your shadows flinging O’er a breast, to meet them springing?
ANGELS.
5. Agnes, there is joy in Heaven; Gladness, like the day, is flung O’er the spaces never measured, And from every angel’s tongue Swell those songs of impulse vernal, All whose echoes are eternal.