Chapter 29

Deep into that darkness peering, Long I stood there, wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals Ever dared to dream before; But the silence was unbroken, And the stillness gave no token, And the only word there spoken Was the whispered word, "Lenore!" This I whispered, and an echo Murmured back the word, "Lenore!" Merely this, and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, All my soul within me burning, Soon again I heard a tapping, Something louder than before. "Surely," said I, "surely, that is Something at my window lattice; Let me see then, what thereat is, And this mystery explore-- Let my heart be still a moment, And this mystery explore;-- 'Tis the wind, and nothing more."

Open here I flung the shutter. When, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a stately Raven Of the saintly days of yore; Not the least obeisance made he; Not a minute stopped or stayed he, But, with mien of lord or lady, Perched above my chamber door-- Perched upon a bust of Pallas Just above my chamber door-- Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling My sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum Of the countenance it wore, "Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, Thou," I said, "art sure no craven, Ghastly, grim, and ancient Raven, Wandering from the nightly shore, Tell me what thy lordly name is On the night's Plutonian shore!" Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

Much I marveled this ungainly Fowl to hear discourse so plainly, Though its answer little meaning-- Little relevancy bore; For we can not help agreeing That no living human being Ever yet was blest with seeing Bird above his chamber door-- Bird or beast upon the sculptured Bust above his chamber door, With such name as "Nevermore."

But the Raven, sitting lonely On that placid bust, spoke only That one word, as if his soul in That one word he did outpour. Nothing farther then he uttered, Not a feather then he fluttered, Till I scarcely more than muttered, "Other friends have flown before-- On the morrow he will leave me, As my Hopes have flown before." Then the bird said, "Nevermore."

Startled at the stillness broken By reply so aptly spoken, "Doubtless," said I, "what it utters Is its only stock and store, Caught from some unhappy master Whom unmerciful Disaster Followed fast and followed faster Till his songs one burden bore-- Till the dirges of his Hope that Melancholy burden bore Of 'Never--nevermore.' "

But the Raven still beguiling All my sad soul into smiling, Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in Front of bird, and bust, and door; Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking Fancy unto fancy, thinking What this ominous bird of yore-- What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, Gaunt, and ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking "Nevermore."

This I sat engaged in guessing, But no syllable expressing To the fowl whose fiery eyes now Burned into my bosom's core; This and more I sat divining, With my head at ease reclining On the cushion's velvet lining That the lamplight gloated o'er, But whose velvet violet lining, With the lamplight gloating o'er She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, Perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by Seraphim, whose footfalls Tinkled on the tufted floor. "Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee-- By these angels he hath sent thee Respite--respite and nepenthe [1] From thy memories of Lenore! Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, And forget this lost Lenore!" Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

[Transcriber's Note 1: nepenthe--A drug to relieve grief, by blocking memory of sorrow or pain.]

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!-- Prophet still, if bird or devil!-- Whether Tempter sent, or whether Tempest tossed thee here ashore, Desolate, yet all undaunted, On this desert land enchanted-- On this home by Horror haunted-- Tell me truly, I implore-- Is there--is there balm in Gilead? Tell me--tell me, I implore!" Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil,-- Prophet still, if bird or devil!-- By that heaven that bends above us, By that God we both adore, Tell this soul with sorrow laden, If, within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden Whom the angels name Lenore-- Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, Whom the angels name Lenore." Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Be that word our sign of parting, Bird or fiend," I shrieked, upstarting; "Get thee back into the tempest And the night's Plutonian shore! Leave no black plume as a token Of that lie thy soul hath spoken! Leave my loneliness unbroken!-- Quit the bust above my door! Take thy beak from out my heart, and Take thy form from off my door!" Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

And the Raven, never flitting, Still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas Just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming Of a demon's that is dreaming, And the lamplight o'er him streaming Throws his shadow on the floor; And my soul from out that shadow, That lies floating on the floor, Shall be lifted--nevermore!

NOTES.--Pallas, or Minerva, in ancient mythology, was the goddess of wisdom.

Plutonian, see note on Pluto, page 242.

Gilead is the name of a mountain group of Palestine, celebrated for its balsam or balm made from herbs. It is here used figuratively.

Aidenn is an Anglicized and disguised spelling of the Arabic form of the word Eden: it is here used as a synonym for heaven.

CX. A VIEW OF THE COLOSSEUM. (389)

Orville Dewey, 1794-1882, a well known Unitarian clergyman and author, was born in Sheffield, Massachusetts, graduated with distinction at Williams College in 1814, and afterward studied theology at Andover. For a while he was assistant to Dr. W. E. Channing in Boston, and later, was a pastor in New Bedford, New York City, and Boston. He made two or three voyages to Europe, and published accounts of his travels.

"Discourses on Human Life," "Discourses on the Nature of Religion," "Discourses on Commerce and Business," are among his published works. His writings are both philosophical and practical; and, as a preacher, he was esteemed original, earnest, and impressive. ###

On the eighth of November, from the high land, about fourteen miles distant, I first saw Rome; and although there is something very unfavorable to impression in the expectation that you are to be greatly impressed, or that you ought to be, or that such is the fashion; yet Rome is too mighty a name to be withstood by such or any other influences. Let you come upon that hill in what mood you may, the scene will lay hold upon you as with the hand of a giant. I scarcely know how to describe the impression, but it seemed to me as if something strong and stately, like the slow and majestic march of a mighty whirlwind, swept around those eternal towers; the storms of time, that had prostrated the proudest monuments of the world, seemed to have left their vibrations in the still and solemn air; ages of history passed before me; the mighty procession of nations, kings, consuls, emperors, empires, and generations had passed over that sublime theater. The fire, the storm, the earthquake, had gone by; but there was yet left the still, small voice like that at which the prophet "wrapped his face in his mantle."

I went to see the Colosseum by moonlight. It is the monarch, the majesty of all ruins; there is nothing like it. All the associations of the place, too, give it the most impressive character. When you enter within this stupendous circle of ruinous walls and arches, and grand terraces of masonry, rising one above another, you stand upon the arena of the old gladiatorial combats and Christian martyrdom; and as you lift your eyes to the vast amphitheater, you meet, in imagination, the eyes of a hundred thousand Romans, assembled to witness these bloody spectacles. What a multitude and mighty array of human beings; and how little do we know in modern times of great assemblies! One, two, and three, and, at its last enlargement by Constantine, more than three hundred thousand persons could be seated in the Circus Maximus!

But to return to the Colosseum; we went up under the conduct of a guide upon the walls and terraces, or embankments, which supported the ranges of seats. The seats have long since disappeared; and grass overgrows the spots where the pride, and power, and wealth, and beauty of Rome sat down to its barbarous entertainments. What thronging life was here then! What voices, what greetings, what hurrying footsteps upon the staircases of the eighty arches of entrance! And now, as we picked our way carefully through the decayed passages, or cautiously ascended some moldering flight of steps, or stood by the lonely walls--ourselves silent, and, for a wonder, the guide silent, too--there was no sound here but of the bat, and none came from without but the roll of a distant carriage, or the convent bell from the summit of the neighboring Esquiline.

It is scarcely possible to describe the effect of moonlight upon this ruin. Through a hundred lonely arches and blackened passageways it streamed in, pure, bright, soft, lambent, and yet distinct and clear, as if it came there at once to reveal, and cheer, and pity the mighty desolation. But if the Colosseum is a mournful and desolate spectacle as seen from within--without, and especially on the side which is in best preservation, it is glorious. We passed around it; and, as we looked upward, the moon shining through its arches, from the opposite side, it appeared as if it were the coronet of the heavens, so vast was it--or like a glorious crown upon the brow of night.

I feel that I do not and can not describe this mighty ruin. I can only say that I came away paralyzed, and as passive as a child. A soldier stretched out his hand for "un dona," as we passed the guard; and when my companion said I did wrong to give, I told him that I should have given my cloak, if the man had asked it. Would you break any spell that worldly feeling or selfish sorrow may have spread over your mind, go and see the Colosseum by moonlight.

NOTES.--The Colosseum (pro. Col-os-se'um) was commenced by the Roman emperor Vespasian, and was completed by Titus, his son, 79 A.D. Its construction occupied but three years, notwithstanding its size; a great part of its walls are standing today.

The Circus Maximus was an amphitheater built by Tarquin the Elder about 600 B. C.

Constantine. See note on page 175.

The Esquiline is one of the seven hills upon which Rome is built. Un dona, an Italian phrase meaning a gift or alms.

CXI. THE BRIDGE. (392)

I stood on the bridge at midnight, As the clocks were striking the hour, And the moon rose o'er the city, Behind the dark church tower.

I saw her bright reflection In the waters under me, Like a golden goblet falling And sinking into the sea.

And far in the hazy distance Of that lovely night in June, The blaze of the flaming furnace Gleamed redder than the moon.

Among the long, black rafters The wavering shadows lay, And the current that came from the ocean Seemed to lift and bear them away;

As, sweeping and eddying through them, Rose the belated tide, And, streaming into the moonlight, The seaweed floated wide.

And like those waters rushing Among the wooden piers, A flood of thoughts came o'er me That filled my eyes with tears

How often, oh, how often, In the days that had gone by, I had stood on that bridge at midnight And gazed on that wave and sky!

How often, oh, how often, I had wished that the ebbing tide Would bear me away on its bosom O'er the ocean wild and wide.

For my heart was hot and restless, And my life was full of care, And the burden laid upon me Seemed greater than I could bear.

But now it has fallen from me, It is buried in the sea; And only the sorrow of others Throws its shadow over me.

Yet, whenever I cross the river On its bridge with wooden piers, Like the odor of brine from the ocean Comes the thought of other years.

And I think how many thousands Of care-encumbered men, Each bearing his burden of sorrow, Have crossed the bridge since then.

I see the long procession Still passing to and fro, The young heart hot and restless, And the old, subdued and slow!

And forever and forever, As long as the river flows, As long as the heart has passions, As long as life has woes;

The moon and its broken reflection And its shadows shall appear As the symbol of love in heaven, And its wavering image here. --Longfellow.

CXII. OBJECTS AND LIMITS OF SCIENCE. (394)

Robert Charles Winthrop, 1809-1894, was a descendant of John Winthrop, the first Governor of the Colony of Massachusetts Bay. He was born in Boston, studied at the public Latin School, graduated at Harvard in 1828, and studied law with Daniel Webster. Possessing an ample fortune, he made little effort to practice his profession. In 1834 he was elected to the Legislature of his native state, and was reelected five times; three years he was Speaker of the House of Representatives. In 1840 he was chosen to Congress, and sat as Representative for ten years. In 1847 he was chosen Speaker of the House. He also served a short time in the Senate. His published writings are chiefly in the form of addresses and speeches; they are easy, finished, and scholarly. As a speaker, Mr. Winthrop was ready, full-voiced, and self-possessed. ###

There are fields enough for the wildest and most extravagant theorizings, within man's own appropriate domain, without overleaping the barriers which separate things human and divine. Indeed, I have often thought that modern science had afforded a most opportune and providential safety valve for the intellectual curiosity and ambition of man, at a moment when the progress of education, invention, and liberty had roused and stimulated him to a pitch of such unprecedented eagerness and ardor. Astronomy, Chemistry, and, more than all, Geology, with their incidental branches of study, have opened an inexhaustible field for investigation and speculation. Here, by the aid of modern instruments and modern modes of analysis, the most ardent and earnest spirits may find ample room and verge enough for their insatiate activity and audacious enterprise, and may pursue their course not only without the slightest danger of doing mischief to others, but with the certainty of promoting the great end of scientific truth.

Let them lift their vast reflectors or refractors to the skies, and detect new planets in their hiding places. Let them waylay the fugitive comets in their flight, and compel them to disclose the precise period of their orbits, and to give bonds for their punctual return. Let them drag out reluctant satellites from "their habitual concealments." Let them resolve the unresolvable nebulae of Orion or Andromeda. They need not fear. The sky will not fall, nor a single star be shaken from its sphere.

Let them perfect and elaborate their marvelous processes of making the light and the lightning their ministers, for putting "a pencil of rays" into the hand of art, and providing tongues of fire for the communication of intelligence. Let them foretell the path of the whirlwind, and calculate the orbit of the storm. Let them hang out their gigantic pendulums, and make the earth do the work of describing and measuring her own motions.

Let them annihilate human pain, and literally "charm ache with air, and agony with ether." The blessing of God will attend all their toils, and the gratitude of man will await all their triumphs. Let them dig down into the bowels of the earth. Let them rive asunder the massive rocks, and unfold the history of creation as it lies written on the pages of their piled up strata. Let them gather up the fossil fragments of a lost Fauna, reproducing the ancient forms which inhabited the land or the seas, bringing them together, bone to his bone, till Leviathan and Behemoth stand before us in bodily presence and in their full proportions, and we almost tremble lest these dry bones should live again! Let them put nature to the rack, and torture her, in all her forms, to the betrayal of her inmost secrets and confidences. They need not forbear. The foundations of the round world have been laid so strong that they can not be moved.

But let them not think by searching to find out God. Let them not dream of understanding the Almighty to perfection. Let them not dare to apply their tests and solvents, their modes of analysis or their terms of definition, to the secrets of the spiritual kingdom. Let them spare the foundations of faith. Let them be satisfied with what is revealed of the mysteries of the Divine Nature. Let them not break through the bounds to gaze after the Invisible.

NOTES.--Orion and Andromeda are the names of two constellations.

The Leviathan is described in Job, chap. xli, and the Behemoth in Job, chap. xl. It is not known exactly what beasts are meant by these descriptions.

CXIII. THE DOWNFALL OF POLAND. (396)

O Sacred Truth! thy triumph ceased a while, And Hope, thy sister, ceased with thee to smile, When leagued Oppression poured to northern wars Her whiskered pandours and her fierce hussars, Waved her dread standard to the breeze of morn, Pealed her loud drum, and twanged her trumpet horn; Tumultuous horror brooded o'er her van, Presaging wrath to Poland--and to man!

Warsaw's last champion, from her height surveyed, Wide o'er the fields a waste of ruin laid; "O Heaven!" he cried, "my bleeding country save! Is there no hand on high to shield the brave? Yet, though destruction sweep those lovely plains, Rise, fellow-men! our country yet remains! By that dread name, we wave the sword on high, And swear for her to live--with her to die!"

He said, and on the rampart heights arrayed His trusty warriors, few, but undismayed; Firm-paced and slow, a horrid front they form, Still as the breeze, but dreadful as the storm; Low murmuring sounds along their banners fly, Revenge or death--the watchword and reply; Then pealed the notes, omnipotent to charm, And the loud tocsin tolled their last alarm.

In vain, alas! in vain, ye gallant few! From rank to rank, your volleyed thunder flew! Oh, bloodiest picture in the book of time, Sarmatia fell, unwept, without a crime; Found not a generous friend, a pitying foe, Strength in her arms, nor mercy in her woe! Dropped from her nerveless grasp the shattered spear, Closed her bright eye, and curbed her high career; Hope, for a season, bade the world farewell, And Freedom shrieked as Kosciusko fell! --Thomas Campbell.

NOTES.--Kosciusko (b. 1746, d. 1817), a celebrated Polish patriot, who had served in the American Revolution, was besieged at Warsaw, in 1794, by a large force of Russians, Prussians, and Austrians. After the siege was raised, he marched against a force of Russians much larger than his own, and was defeated. He was himself severely wounded and captured.

Sarmatia is the ancient name for a region of Europe which embraced Poland, but was of greater extent.

CXIV. LABOR. (398)

Horace Greeley,1811-1872, perhaps the most famous editor of America, was born in Amherst, New Hampshire, of poor parents. His boyhood was passed in farm labor, in attending the common school, and in reading every book on which he could lay his hands. His reading was mostly done by the light of pine knots. At fifteen he entered a printing office in Vermont, became the best workman in the office, and continued to improve every opportunity for study. At the age of twenty he appeared in New York City, poorly clothed, and almost destitute of money. He worked at his trade for a year or two, and then set up printing for himself. For several years he was not successful, but struggled on, performing an immense amount of work as an editor. In 1841 he established the "New York Tribune," which soon became one of the most successful and influential papers in the country. In 1848 he was elected to Congress, but remained but a short time. In 1872 he was a candidate for the Presidency, was defeated, and died a few days afterward. Mr. Greeley is a rare example of what may be accomplished by honesty and unflinching industry. Besides the vast amount which he wrote for the newspapers, he published several books; the best known of which is "The American Conflict." ###

Every child should be trained to dexterity in some useful branch of productive industry, not in order that he shall certainly follow that pursuit, but that he may at all events be able to do so in case he shall fail in the more intellectual or artificial calling which he may prefer to it. Let him seek to be a doctor, lawyer, preacher, poet, if he will; but let him not stake his all on success in that pursuit, but have a second line to fall back upon if driven from his first. Let him be so reared and trained that he may enter, if he will, upon some intellectual calling in the sustaining consciousness that he need not debase himself, nor do violence to his convictions, in order to achieve success therein, since he can live and thrive in another (if you choose, humbler) vocation, if driven from that of his choice. This buttress to integrity, this assurance of self-respect, is to be found in a universal training to efficiency in Productive Labor.

The world is full of misdirection and waste; but all the calamities and losses endured by mankind through frost, drought, blight, hail, fires, earthquakes, inundations, are as nothing to those habitually suffered by them through human idleness and inefficiency, mainly caused (or excused) by lack of industrial training. It is quite within the truth to estimate that one tenth of our people, in the average, are habitually idle because (as they say) they can find no employment. They look for work where it can not be had. They seem to be, or they are, unable to do such as abundantly confronts and solicits them. Suppose these to average but one million able-bodied persons, and that their work is worth but one dollar each per day; our loss by involuntary idleness can not be less than $300,000,000 per annum. I judge that it is actually $500,000,000. Many who stand waiting to be hired could earn from two to five dollars per day had they been properly trained to work. "There is plenty of room higher up," said Daniel Webster, in response to an inquiry as to the prospects of a young man just entering upon the practice of law; and there is never a dearth of employment for men or women of signal capacity or skill. In this city, ten thousand women are always doing needlework for less than fifty cents per day, finding themselves; yet twice their number of capable, skillful seamstresses could find steady employment and good living in wealthy families at not less than one dollar per day over and above board and lodging. He who is a good blacksmith, a fair millwright, a tolerable wagon maker, and can chop timber, make fence, and manage a small farm if required, is always sure of work and fair recompense; while he or she who can keep books or teach music fairly, but knows how to do nothing else, is in constant danger of falling into involuntary idleness and consequent beggary. It is a broad, general truth, that no boy was ever yet inured to daily, systematic, productive labor in field or shop throughout the latter half of his minority, who did not prove a useful man, and was notable to find work whenever he wished it.