Part 3

A self-made man, indeed! then we owe no honor to such; The genuine self-made man you cannot honor too much; But be sure what you make _is_ a man—with a heart, and a soul, and a mind, Not merely a pile of dollars, that goes, leaving nothing behind.

LABOR.

REV. ORVILLE DEWEY.

To _some_ field of labor, mental or manual, every idler should fasten, as a chosen and coveted theater of improvement. But so he is not impelled to do, under the teachings of our imperfect civilization. On the contrary, he sits down, folds his hands, and blesses himself in his idleness. This way of thinking is the heritage of the absurd and unjust feudal system under which serfs labored, and gentlemen spent their lives in fighting and feasting. It is time that this opprobrium of toil were done away. Ashamed to toil, art thou? Ashamed of thy dingy work-shop and dusty labor-field; of thy hard hand scarred with service more honorable than that of war; of thy soiled and weather-stained garments, on which Mother Nature has embroidered, midst sun and rain, midst fire and steam, her own heraldic honors? Ashamed of these tokens and titles, and envious of the flaunting robes of imbecile idleness and vanity? It is treason to nature; it is impiety to Heaven; it is breaking Heaven’s great ordinance. TOIL, I repeat—_toil_, either of the brain, of the heart, or of the hand, is the only true manhood, the only true nobility.

THE HOLY PLACE.

MARY FRANCES BUTTS.

The people came to the priest, “Good father,” said they, “We love the holy altar Where we kneel to pray; We would ’broider a cloth Of fine silk and wool To cover the altar, For our hearts are full.”

“My children,” said the priest, “When the heart is full, Spend not its treasure In fine silk and wool. Listen, my children, Do you hear a moan? ’Tis the poor man waiting, Sick and alone.

“His darlings ask in vain For a piece of bread; And what thinks the Lord?” The good priest said. “The tender-hearted Christ Would be very wroth Should you leave his poor For an altar-cloth.

“He blesses the holy altar Where we kneel to pray; But in the silence I hear him say: “Seek me, my children, In works of grace; Where you comfort a heart Is the holy place.”

A DISCOURSE OF BUDDHA.

EDWIN ARNOLD.

Herewith a broken beam of Buddha’s lore, One raylet of his glorious gift of light, Rose-gleam which lingers when the sun is down Such space that men may find a path thereby. A priest questioned him: “‘Which is Life’s chief good, Master?’ And he spake:

“‘Shadows are good, when the high sun is flaming, From whereso’er they fall; Some take their rest beneath the holy temple, Some by the prison wall.

“‘The king’s gilt palace roof shuts off the sunlight, So doth the dyer’s shed! Which is the chiefest shade of all the shadows?’ ‘They are alike!’ one said.

“‘So is it,’ quoth he, ‘with all shows or living; As shadows fall, they fall! Rest under, if ye must, but question not Which is the best of all.

“‘Yet in the forest some trees wave with fragrance Of fruit and bloom o’erhead; And some are evil, bearing fruitless branches Whence poisonous air is spread.

“‘Therefore, though all be shows, seek, if ye must, Right shelter from life’s heat; Lo! these do well who toil for wife and child Threading the burning street.

“‘Good is it helping kindred! good to dwell Blameless and just to all; Good to give alms, with good-will in the heart, Albeit the store be small!

“‘Good to speak sweet and gentle words, to be Merciful, patient, and mild; To hear the law and keep it, leading days Innocent, undefiled.

“‘These the chief goods—for evil by its like Ends not, nor hate by hate; By love hate ceaseth, by well-doing ill, By knowledge life’s dark state.

“‘Look! yonder soars an eagle! mark those wings Which cleave the blue, cool skies! What shadow needeth that proud Lord of Air To shield his fearless eyes?

“‘Rise from this life! lift upon new-spread pinions Heart free and great as his! The eagle seeks no shadow, nor the wise Greater or lesser bliss!’”

* * * * *

We are unwilling walkers. We are not innocent and simple-hearted enough to enjoy a walk. We have fallen from that state of grace which capacity to enjoy a walk implies. It cannot be said that as a people we are so positively sad or morose as that we are vacant of that sportiveness of animal spirits that characterized our ancestors, and that springs from full and harmonious life,—a sound heart in accord with a sound body. A man must invest himself near at hand, and in common things, and be content with a steady and moderate return, if he would know the blessedness of a cheerful heart, and the sweetness of a walk over the round earth. This is a lesson the American has yet to learn,—capability of amusement on a low key.—JOHN BURROUGHS.

* * * * *

To fill the youthful mind with lofty and noble ideas, to stock the memory with the richest vocabulary, and to acquire a wide command of our grand English language, we have nothing better, except the Bible, than the plays of Shakespeare.

Extracts from Shakespeare once thoroughly committed to memory are never forgotten. Many of the world’s great orators and statesmen were wont to commit and recite passages from Shakespeare. Edmund Burke made Shakespeare his daily study, while Erskine, it is said, could have held conversation on every subject in the phrases of the great dramatist. Rufus Choate was familiar with every line of Shakespeare. Daniel Webster never tired of repeating passages from the same author. The genial Dr. Holmes tells us that Wendell Phillips, Motley the historian, and himself, when boys, used to declaim Antony’s oration on holiday afternoons over the prostrate form of some younger playmate.

SPARROWS.

ADELINE D. T. WHITNEY.

Little birds sit on the telegraph wires, And chitter and flitter and fold their wings. Maybe they think that for them and their sires Stretched always on purpose, those wonderful strings; And perhaps the thought that the world inspires _Did_ plan for the birds among other things.

Little birds sit on the slender lines, And the news of the world runs under their feet: How value rises and now declines, How kings with their armies in battle meet; And all the while, ’mid the soundless signs, They chirp their small gossipings, foolish and sweet.

Little things light on the lines of our lives— Hopes and joys and acts of to-day; And we think that for these the Lord contrives, Nor catch what the hidden lightnings say; Yet from end to end his meaning arrives, And his word runs underneath all the way.

Is life only wires and lightning, then, Apart from that which about it clings? Are the thoughts and the works and the prayers of men Only sparrows that light on God’s telegraph strings— Holding a moment and gone again? Nay: he planned for the birds with the larger things!

* * * * *

But, above all, where thou findest ignorance, stupidity, brute-mindedness—attack it, I say; smite it wisely, unweariedly, and rest not while thou livest and it lives; but smite, smite in the name of God! The highest God, as I understand it, does audibly so command thee: still audibly, if thou have ears to hear. He, even He, with his unspoken voice, is fuller than any Sinai thunders, or syllabled speech of whirlwinds; for the SILENCE of deep eternities, of worlds beyond the morning stars, does it not speak to thee? The unborn ages; the old graves, with their long moldering dust, the very tears that wetted it, now all dry—do not these speak to thee what ear hath not heard? The deep death-kingdoms, the stars in their never-resting courses, all space and all time, proclaim it to thee in continual silent admonition. Thou, too, if ever man should, shalt work while it is called to-day; for the night cometh, wherein no man can work.—THOMAS CARLYLE.

THE STORMING OF STONY POINT.

(July 16, 1779.)

ELAINE GOODALE.

The wonder of midnight, now pregnant with wars, Skies mellow and fruitful, all trembling with stars, The ripe, yellow planet, poised low in the west, The smooth-flowing river, with stars on its breast; These murmur of Wayne, Mad Anthony Wayne,— He has life-blood to lose, he has glory to gain!

The low-lying marshes, where, silent and stern, Twelve hundred are creeping through bog-grass and fern, With fireflies for lanterns; while, black-throated still, The cannon are cold in the fort on the hill,— These whisper of Wayne, Mad Anthony Wayne, Every sense up in arms, every nerve on the strain.

The noiseless approach, and the desperate close; The flash of the steel, and the blood as it flows; The hero, once wounded, who cries,—“I shall win! Let me die in the fort! Men, carry me in!” These tell us of Wayne, Mad Anthony Wayne, With nerves hard as iron, despising the pain!

The red flag of morning, displayed in the skies, Brings a stern look of joy to the conqueror’s eyes,— Those eyes that flashed full on his chief (so they tell),— “What! storm Stony Point? You may bid me storm hell!” We’ll believe it of Wayne, Mad Anthony Wayne, The bravest of foes, and the peer of his slain!

HUMILITY.

ERNEST W. SHURTLEFF.

Sweet are the roses in the pasture lane, Like flakes of sunset dropped from some rich cloud— Oh, sweet, indeed, but not with sweetness vain; Nor is the pasture of their presence proud. Not for themselves they blossom, bud and nod— They spring to breathe to man the peace of God.

I never heard a songster’s lay that told Of aught but simple joy and grateful praise. The oriole, with throat aflame with gold, Dreams not he is a charm to mortal gaze; No bird to laud himself hath ever sung— His song is for the flowers he chirps among.

The sun that fills the skies with summer calms, The stars that light unmeasured depths of space Like distant suns that flash reflected charms, When on the night Jehovah turns his face— All these in humbleness their glory wear, Grateful, not proud, because Heaven made them fair.

O vaunting man, go ponder on these things! Think—what is glory in thy Makers view? Who wins the passing praise the cold world sings Not always earns the praise of Heaven too. Thou mayst through life thy name with gods enroll, Yet bear rebuke of angels in thy soul.

Oh, to be simple in the lives we lead! To know that what we hold is not our own! The lily is as modest as the weed, The mountain humble as the broken stone. Since man is proud, how wise it is, how just, That death should come to teach us we are dust!

WHAT OF THAT?

Tired? Well, what of that? Didst fancy life was spent on beds of ease, Fluttering the rose-leaves scattered by the breeze? Come, rouse thee! work while it is called day! Coward, arise! go forth upon thy way.

Lonely? And what of that? Some must be lonely; ’tis not given to all To feel a heart responsive rise and fall, To blend another life into its own; Work may be done in loneliness. Work on!

Dark? Well, and what of that? Didst fondly dream the sun would never set? Dost fear to lose thy way? Take courage yet. Learn thou to walk by faith, and not by sight; Thy steps will guided be, and guided right.

Hard? Well, what of that? Didst fancy life one summer holiday, With lessons none to learn, and naught but play? Go, get thee to thy task! Conquer or die! It must be learned; learn it, then, patiently.

* * * * *

Knowledge has in our time triumphed, and is still triumphing, over prejudice and over bigotry. The civilized and Christian world is fast learning the great lesson that difference of nation does not imply necessary hostility, and that all contact need not be war. The whole world is becoming a common field for intellect to act in. Energy of mind, genius, power, wheresoever it exists, may speak out in any tongue, and the world will hear it.—DANIEL WEBSTER.

THE OLD FOLKS IN THE NEW SCHOOL-HOUSE.

Things ain’t now as they used to be A hundred years ago, When schools were kept in private rooms Above stairs or below; When sturdy boys and rosy girls Romped through the drifted snow, And spelled their duty and their “abs,” A hundred years ago.

Those old school-rooms were dark and cold When winter’s sun ran low; But darker was the master’s frown, A hundred years ago; And high hung up the birchen rod, That all the school might see, Which taught the boys obedience As well as Rule of Three.

Though ’twas but little that they learned, A hundred years ago, Yet what they got they ne’er let slip,— ’Twas well whipped in, you know. But now the times are greatly changed, The rod has had its day, The boys are won by gentle words, And girls by love obey.

The school-house now a palace is, And scholars, kings and queens; They master Algebra and Greek Before they reach their teens. Where once was crying, music sweet Her soothing influence sheds; Ferules are used for beating time, And not for beating heads.

Yes, learning was a ragged boy, A hundred years ago; With six weeks schooling in a year, What could the urchin do? But now he is a full-grown man, And boasts attainments rare; He’s got his silver slippers on, And running everywhere.

THE BARBAROUS CHIEF.

ELLA WHEELER WILCOX.

There was a kingdom known as the Mind, A kingdom vast, as fair, And the brave King Brain had the right to reign In royal splendor there. Oh! that was a beautiful, beautiful land Which unto this king was given; It was filled with everything good and grand, And it reached from earth to heaven.

But a savage monster came one day, From over a distant border; He made war on the king and usurped his sway, And set everything in disorder. He mounted the throne, which he made his own, And the kingdom was sunk in grief, There was sorrow and shame from the hour he came— _Ill Temper_, the barbarous chief.

He threw down the castles of Love and Peace, He burned up the altars of prayers; He trod down the grain that was sowed by Brain, And planted thistles and tares. He wasted the storehouse of knowledge, and drove Queen Wisdom away in fright, And a terrible gloom like the cloud of doom Shadowed that land with night.

Then, bent on more havoc, away he rushed To the neighboring kingdom Heart, And the blossoms of kindness and hope he crushed, And patience was made to depart. And he even went on to the isthmus Soul, That unites the Mind with God, And its beautiful bowers and fragrant flowers With a reckless heel he trod.

Oh! to you is given this beautiful land Where the lordly Brain has sway— But the border ruffian is near at hand— And be on your guard, I pray. Beware of _Ill Temper_, the barbarous chief, He is cruel as Vice or Sin; He will certainly bring your kingdom grief, If once you let him in.

GROWTH.

HORACE MANN.

At first the mind cannot project itself outward, if we may so speak, even so far as the eye can reach. A child may see with the eye the outlines of a distant mountain long before his mind can, as it were, leap over the intervening space. But soon the mind attains a power of flight compared with which the space traveled by the keenest eye, aided by the best telescope, is nothing. The eye, indeed, can see the remote star, whose light, traveling since its creation at the rate of two hundred thousand miles a second, has but just reached the earth; but all this is only a hand-breadth compared with the depths in the abysses of space into which the adventurous mind plunges itself.

A BIRD’S MINISTRY.

MARGARET J. PRESTON.

From his home in an eastern bungalow, In sight of the everlasting snow Of the grand Himalayas, row on row, Thus wrote my friend:

“I had traveled far From the Afghan towers of Candahar, Through the sand-white plains of Sinde-Sagar;

“And once, when the daily march was o’er, As tired I sat in my tented door, Hope failed me, as never it failed before.

“In swarming city, at wayside fane, By the Indus’ bank, on the scorching plain, I had taught,—and my teaching all seemed vain.

“‘No glimmer of light [I sighed] appears; The Moslem’s fate and the Buddhist’s fears Have gloomed their worship this thousand years.

“‘For Christ and His truth I stand alone In the midst of millions; a sand-grain blown Against yon temple of ancient stone.

“‘As soon may level it!’ Faith forsook My soul, as I turned on the pile to look; Then rising, my saddened way I took

“To its lofty roof, for the cooler air; I gazed, and marveled;—how crumbled were The walls I had deemed so firm and fair!

“For, wedged in a rift of the massive stone, Most plainly rent by its roots alone, A beautiful peepul-tree had grown;

“Whose gradual stress would still expand The crevice, and topple upon the sand The temple, while o’er its work would stand

“The tree in its living verdure!—Who Could compass the thought?—The bird that flew Hitherward, dropping a seed that grew,

“Did more to shiver this ancient wall Than earthquake,—war,—simoon,—or all The centuries, in their lapse and fall!

“Then I knelt by the riven granite there, And my soul shook off its weight of care, As my voice rose clear on the tropic air:

“‘The living seeds I have dropped remain In the cleft; Lord, quicken with dew and rain, Then temple and mosque shall be rent in twain!’”

EXTRACT FROM A LETTER.

WILLIAM WIRT.

I want to tell you a secret. The way to make yourself pleasing to others, is to show that you care for them. The world is like the miller at Mansfield, “who cared for nobody, no, not he, because nobody cared for him.” And the whole world will serve you so if you give them the same cause. Let every one, therefore, see that you do care for them, by showing them what Sterne so happily calls “the small, sweet courtesies,” in which there is no parade; whose voice is to still, to ease; and which manifest themselves by tender and affectionate looks and little kind acts of attention, giving others the preference in every little enjoyment at the table, in the field, walking, sitting, or standing.

THE COAST-GUARD.

EMILY HUNTINGTON MILLER.

Do you wonder what I am seeing, In the heart of the fire, aglow Like cliffs in a golden sunset, With a summer sea below? I see, away to the eastward, The line of a storm-beat coast, And I hear the tread of the hurrying waves Like the tramp of the mailèd host.

And up and down in the darkness, And over the frozen sand, I hear the men of the coast-guard Pacing along the strand, Beaten by storm and tempest, And drenched by the pelting rain, From the shores of Carolina To the wind-swept bays of Maine.

No matter what storms are raging, No matter how wild the night, The gleam of their swinging lanterns Shines out with a friendly light. And many a shipwrecked sailor Thanks God, with his gasping breath, For the sturdy arms of the surfmen That drew him away from death.

And so, when the wind is wailing, And the air grows dim with sleet, I think of the fearless watchers Pacing along their beat. I think of a wreck, fast breaking In the surf of a rocky shore, And the life-boat leaping onward To the stroke of the bending oar.

I hear the shouts of the sailors, The boom of the frozen sail, And the creak of the icy halyards Straining against the gale. “Courage!” the captain trumpets, “They are sending help from land!” God bless the men of the coast-guard, And hold their lives in His hand!

A TURKISH TRADITION.

’Tis said the Turk, when passing down An Eastern street, If any scrap of paper chance His eyes to greet,

Will never look away, like us, Unheedingly, Or pass the little fragment thus Regardless by,

But stop to pick it up because, Oh, lovely thought! The name of God may thereupon Perchance be wrought.

In every human soul remains, However dim, Some image of the Deity, Some trace of Him.

And how can we, then, any scorn As foul and dark, That bear, though frail and lowly, still That holy mark?

And since His impress is upon All nature seen, How can we aught disdain as common Or unclean?

_Interior._

“EYES THAT SEE NOT.”

ELLA JEWETT.

They tell us in the land of song, Where stately tower and palace rise, Though marbles breathe and canvas glows, Though tall cathedrals kiss the skies, The peasant, without thought or care, Walks on, nor heeds the beauty rare.

We murmur, “Oh, how blind is he! How destitute of mind and heart! ’Twere worth a fortune _once_ to view Italia’s treasured gems of art!” Behold the landscape at our feet! Was ever painting more complete?

No need to search for noble souls, Boccaccio’s tale, or Petrarch’s song; A hundred heroes in our midst Have learned to suffer and be strong,— Martyrs whose names will ne’er be known, Princes without a crown and throne.

Ah, blind and dull! Let us not chide The dwellers in far Italy, But rather draw the veil aside From our own eyes, that we may see, Lo! all that seemed but commonplace, Adorned with beauty and with grace!

LAMENTATION OF THE LUNGS.

Alas! has winter come again? Oh, how we dread the day! The sufferings we undergo the bravest might dismay. It is not that we fear the cold: had we a good supply Of proper nourishment, the blasts of Greenland we’d defy; But these poor bodies where we dwell have so impatient grown That, heedless of the common good, they’ve learned to slight their own. Not thinking that with fuel we our office would perform, And take in oxygen to keep the blood and all the body warm. So _down_ the window-sashes go and _up_ the _stoves_, until We starving lungs must labor hard our duty to fulfill. Perhaps our tabernacle moves to pitch its roving tent Within some crowded hall or church—no doubt with good intent; But little good the sweetest songs or best of sermons do To those who vainly strive to keep awake within their pew. For in that place of peace a deadly conflict we must wage, And friends sit calmly while their lungs in fiercest war engage. We struggle for a little air, while clamoring for more The surging flood each moment rolls like waves upon the shore. Clogged by impurities, in vain to us for help it cries, And then the brain and nerves grow dull, and dim the drooping eyes. But should a sufferer chance to rise and from the topmost raft Let in a little air, forthwith somebody _feels a draught_. And so we’re forced to get along the very best we can; Nor do the good that we might do for blundering, headstrong man.

_Phrenological Journal._

* * * * *

To read the English language well, to write with dispatch a neat, legible hand, and be master of the first rules of arithmetic, so as to dispose of at once, with accuracy, every question of figures which comes up in practice—I call this a good education. And if you add the ability to write pure grammatical English, I regard it as an excellent education. These are the tools. You can do much with them, but you are helpless without them. They are the foundation; and unless you begin with these, all your flashy attainments, a little geology, and all other ologies and osophies are ostentatious rubbish.—EDWARD EVERETT.