Chapter 22

20. We reached the "Rhode Island;" ropes were flung over her side, and caught with a death-grip. Some lost their hold, were washed away, and again dragged in by the boat's crew. What chance had one whose right arm hung a dead weight, when strong men with their two hands, went down before him? He caught at a rope, found it impossible to save himself alone, and then for the first time said,--"I am injured; can any one help me?" Ensign Taylor, at the risk of his own life, brought the rope around his shoulder in such a way that it could not slip, and he was drawn up in safety.

21. In the mean time, the whale-boat, which had nearly caused our destruction, had reached the side of the "Monitor;" and now the captain said, "It is madness to remain here longer: let each man save himself." For a moment, he descended to the cabin for a coat, and his faithful servant followed to secure a jewel-box, containing the accumulated treasure of years. A sad, sorry sight it was! In the heavy air the lamps burned dimly, and the water, waist-deep, splashed sullenly against the sides of the wardroom. One lingering look, and he left the "Monitor's" cabin forever!

22. Time was precious; he hastened to the deck, where, in the midst of a terrible sea, Lieutenant Greene nobly held his post. He seized the rope from the whale-boat, wound it about an iron stanchion, then around his wrists, and, by this means, was drawn aboard the boat. Thus, one by one, watching their time between the waves, the men filled in, and, at last, after making all effort for others, and none for themselves, Captain Bankhead and Lieutenant Greene took their places in the boat The gallant Brown pushed off, and soon laid his boat-load safe upon the "Rhode Island's" deck.

23. Here the heartiest and most tender reception met us. Our drenched clothing was replaced by warm and dry garments, and all on board vied with each other in acts of kindness. The only one who had received any injury, Surgeon Weeks, [Footnote: The writer of this account.] was carefully attended to, the dislocated arm set, and the crushed fingers amputated, by the gentlest and most considerate of surgeons, Dr. Webber, of the "Rhode Island."

24. For an hour or more we watched, from the deck of the steamer, the lonely light upon the "Monitor's" turrets; a hundred times we thought it gone forever,--a hundred times it reappeared, till, at last, about two o'clock, Wednesday morning, December 31st, it sank, and we saw it no more. An actor in the scenes of that wild night, when the "Monitor" went down, relates the story of her last cruise. _Her_ work is now over. She lies a hundred fathoms deep under the stormy-waters off Cape Hatteras; but she has made herself a name, which will not soon be forgotten by the American people.

QUESTIONS.--1. When and where was the Monitor lost? 2. What signal service had she rendered? 3. Who was the writer of this account?

* * * * *

LESSON XC.

RE SPON SI BIL' I TIES, obligations. LA' TENT, secret; hidden. IN IQ' UI TY, wickedness. EF FECT' IVE, powerful; efficient. REC' TI TUDE, right. PEN' E TRA TIVE, entering; piercing. MAL' ICE, ill-will; hatred. CHIV' AL RY, heroism; valor. WAN' TON LY, wastefully. SHEEN, brightness. SHIM' MER, glitter; gleam. RE VER' SION, future possession. IN SID' I OUS, crafty; deceitful. A THWART', across. SUS' TE NANCE, food; support. IM POS' ED, laid on; assigned.

DUTIES AND RESPONSIBILITIES OF WOMAN.

GAIL HAMILTON.

1. Oh, if this latent power could be aroused! If woman would shake off this slumber, and put on her strength, her beautiful garments, how would she go forth conquering and to conquer! How would the mountains break forth into singing, and the trees of the field clap their hands! How would our sin-stained earth arise and shine, her light being come, and the glory of the Lord being risen upon her!

2. One can not do the _world's_ work; but one can do _one's_ work. You may not be able to turn the world from iniquity; but you can, at least, keep the dust and rust from gathering on your own soul. If you can not be directly and actively engaged in fighting the battle, you can, at least, polish your armor and sharpen your weapons, to strike an effective blow when the hour comes. You can stanch the blood of him who has been wounded in the fray,--bear a cup of cold water to the thirsty and fainting,--give help to the conquered, and smiles to the victor.

3. You can gather from the past and the present stores of wisdom, so that, when the future demands it, you may bring forth from your treasures things new and old. Whatever of bliss the "Divinity that shapes our ends" may see fit to withhold from you, you are but very little lower than the angels, so long as you have the

"Godlike power to do,--the godlike aim to know."

4. You can be forming habits of self-reliance, sound judgment, perseverance, and endurance, which may, one day, stand you in good stead. You can so train yourself to right thinking and right acting, that uprightness shall be your nature, truth your impulse. His head is seldom far wrong, whose heart is always right. We bow down to mental greatness, intellectual strength, and they are divine gifts; but _moral rectitude_ is stronger than they. It is irresistible,--always in the end triumphant.

5. There is in _goodness_ a penetrative power that nothing can withstand. Cunning and malice melt away before its mild, open, steady glance. Not alone on the fields where chivalry charges for laurels, with helmet and breastplate and lance in rest, can the true knight exultingly exclaim,

"My strength is as the strength of ten, Because my heart is pure;"

but wherever man meets man, wherever there is a prize to be won, a goal to be reached. Wealth, and rank, and beauty, may form a brilliant setting to the diamond; but they only expose more nakedly the false glare of the paste. Only when the king's daughter is all glorious within, is it fitting and proper that her clothing should be of wrought gold.

6. From the great and good of all ages rings out the same monotone. The high-priest of Nature, the calm-eyed poet who laid his heart so close to hers, that they seemed to throb in one pulsation, yet whose ear was always open to the "still sad music of humanity," has given us the promise of his life-long wisdom in these grand words:--

"True dignity abides with him alone Who, in the silent hour of inward thought, Can still suspect and still revere himself."

7. Through the din of twenty rolling centuries, pierces the sharp, stern voice of the brave old Greek: "_Let every man, when he is about to do a wicked action, above all things in the world, stand in awe of himself, and dread the witness within him._" All greatness, and all glory, all that earth has to give, all that Heaven can proffer, lies within the reach of the lowliest as well as the highest; for He who spake as never man spake, has said that the very "kingdom of God is within you."

8. Born to such an inheritance, will you wantonly cast it away? With such a goal in prospect, will you suffer yourself to be turned aside by the sheen and shimmer of tinsel fruit? With earth in possession, and Heaven in reversion, will you go sorrowing and downcast, because here and there a pearl or ruby fails you? Nay, rather forgetting those things which are behind, and reaching forth unto those which are before, _press forward_!

9. Discontent and murmuring are insidious foes; trample them under your feet. Utter no complaint, whatever betide; for complaining is a sign of weakness. If your trouble can be helped, _help it_; if not, _bear it_. You can be whatever you _will_ to be. Therefore, form and accomplish worthy purposes.

10. If you walk alone, let it be with no faltering tread. Show to an incredulous world

"How grand may be Life's might, Without Love's circling crown."

Or, if the golden thread of love shine athwart the dusky warp of duty, if other hearts depend on yours for sustenance and strength, give to them from your fullness no stinted measure. Let the dew of your kindness fall on the evil and the good, on the just and on the unjust.

11. Compass happiness, since happiness alone is victory. On the fragments of your shattered plans, and hopes, and love,--on the heaped-up ruins of your past, rear a stately palace, whose top shall reach unto heaven, whose beauty shall gladden the eyes of all beholders, whose doors shall stand wide open to receive the way-worn and weary. Life is a burden, but it is imposed by God. What you _make_ of it, it will _be_ to you, whether a millstone about your neck, or a diadem upon your brow. _Take it up bravely, bear it on joyfully, lay it down triumphantly._

QUESTIONS.--1. What are some of the duties of women? 2. What is said of goodness? 3. What was the adage of the old Greek? 4. What is said of discontent and murmuring?

* * * * *

LESSON XCI.

ID' I OT, one devoid of reason. HOR' RI BLE, awful; dreadful. WOE' FUL, afflicted. HAR' ROW, disturb; harass. PRE SERVE', safely keep. SOOTH, fact; truth. SPOIL' ED, stripped; plundered. YEARN' ING, longing. IN SUF' FER A BLE, intolerable. CAN' TON, district; region. PAS TIME, amusement; diversion. ES PI' ED, saw; discovered. MOUNT AIN EER', dweller on a mountain. BRAWN' Y, strong; firm. FAG OTS, bundles of sticks. AUG MENT', increase; make larger. BEA' CON, signal-fire. BE TIDE', happen; befall.

SCENE FROM WILLIAM TELL.

J. SHERIDAN KNOWLES.

_Emma._ I never knew a weary night before! I have seen the sun a dozen times go down, And still no William,--and the storm was on, Yet have I laid me down in peace to sleep, The mountain with the lightning all a-blaze, And shaking with the thunder,--but to-night Mine eyes refuse to close, (_sl._) The old man rests: Pain hath outworn itself, and turned to ease. How deadly calm's the night! (_''_) What's that? I'm grown An idiot with my fears. I do not know,-- The avalanche! Great Power that hurls it down, Watch o'er my boy, and guide his little steps! What keeps him? 'tis but four hours' journey hence: He'd rest; then four hours back again. _What keeps him?_ Erni would sure be found by him,--he knows The track, well as he knows the road to Altorf!

_Melchtal_. Help! (_in his sleep_.)

_Emma_. What's the matter? Only the old man dreaming. He thinks again they're pulling out his eyes. I'm sick with terror! Merciful powers! what's this That fills my heart with horrible alarm? And yet it can not see.

_Melch_. (_waking_) Where am I?

_Emma_. Father!

_Melch_. My daughter, is it thou'! Thank Heaven, I'm here! Is't day yet'?

_Emma_. No'.

_Melch_. Is't far on the night'?

_Emma_. Methinks, about the turn on't.

_Melch_. Is the boy Come back'?

_Emma_. No', father'.

_Melch_. Nor thy husband'?

_Emma_. No'.

_Melch_. A woeful wife and mother have I made thee! Would thou hadst never seen me.

_Emma_. Father'!

_Melch_. Child'!

_Emma_. Methinks I hear a step !--I do! (_knocking_.) A knock!

_Melch_. 'Tis William!

_Emma_. No; it is not William's knock. (_Opens the door_.) I told you so. Your will?

_Enter_ STRANGER.

_Stran_. Seeing a light, I e'en made bold to knock, to ask for shelter; For I have missed my way.

_Emma_. Whence come you` friend'?

_Stran_. From Altorf.

_Emma_. Altorf'! Any news from thence'?

_Stran_. Ay`! News to harrow parents' hearts, and make The barren bless themselves that they are childless!

_Emma_. May Heaven preserve my boy!

_Melch_. What say'st thy news?

_Stran_. Art thou not Melchtal--he whose eyes, 'tis said, The tyrant has torn out'?

_Melch_. Yes`, friend', the same.

_Stran_. Is this thy cottage'?

_Melch_. No`; 'tis William Tell's.

_Stran_. 'Tis William Tell's--and that's his wife--Goodnight.

_Emma_. (_Rushing between him and the door_.) Thou stirr'st not hence until thy news be told!

_Stran_. My news! In sooth 'tis nothing thou would'st heed.

_Emma_. 'Tis something none should heed so well as I!

_Stran_. I must be gone,

_Emma_. Thou seest a tigress, friend, Spoiled of her mate and young, and yearning for them. Don't thwart her! Come, thy news! What fear'st thou, man? What more hath she to dread, who reads thy looks, And knows the most has come? Thy news! Is't bondage'?

_Stran_. It is.

_Emma_. Thank Heaven, it is not death! Of one--Or two?

_Stran_. Of two.

_Emma_. A father and a son, Is't not?

_Stran_. It is.

_Emma_. My husband and my son Are in the tyrant's power! There's worse than that! What's that is news to harrow parents' breasts. The which the thought to only tell, 'twould seem, Drives back the blood to thine?--Thy news, I say! Wouldst thou be merciful, this is not mercy! Wast thou the mark, friend, of the bowman's aim. Wouldst thou not hare the fatal arrow speed, Rather than watch it hanging in the string? Thou'lt drive me mad! Let fly at once!

_Melch_. Thy news from Altorf, friend, whatever it is!

_Stran_. To save himself and child from certain death, Tell is to hit an apple, to be placed Upon the stripling's head.

_Melch_. My child! my child! Speak to me! Stranger, hast thou killed her?

_Emma_. No! No`, father'. I'm the wife of William Tell; Oh, but to be a man!--to have an arm To fit a heart swelling with the sense of wrong! Unnatural--insufferable wrong! When makes the tyrant trial of his skill?

_Stran_. To-morrow.

_Emma_. Spirit of the lake and hill, Inspire thy daughter! On the head of him Who makes his pastime of a mother's pangs, Launch down thy vengeance by a mother's hand. Know'st the signal when the hills shall rise'? (_To Melchtal._)

_Melch_. Are they to rise'?

_Emma_. I see thou knowest naught.

_Stran_. Something's on foot! 'Twas only yesterday, That, traveling from our canton, I espied Slow toiling up a steep, a mountaineer Of brawny limb, upon his back a load Of fagots bound. Curious to see what end Was worthy of such labor, after him I took the cliff; and saw its lofty top Receive his load, which went but to augment A pile of many another.

_Emma_. 'Tis by fire! Fire is the signal for the hills to rise! (_Rushes out_.)

_Melch_. Went she not forth!

_Stran_. She did,--she's here again, And brings with her a lighted brand.

_Melch_. My child, What dost thou with a lighted brand?

(_Re-enter_ EMMA _with a brand_.)

_Emma_. Prepare To give the signal for the hills to rise!

_Melch_. Where are the fagots, child, for such a blaze?

_Emma_. I'll find the fagots, father. (_Exit_.)

_Melch_. She's gone Again!

_Stran_. She is,--I think into her chamber.

_Emma_. (_Rushing in_.)--Father, the pile is fired!

_Melch_. What pile, my child!

_Emma_. The joists and rafters of our cottage, father!

_Melch_. Thou hast not fired thy cottage?--but thou hast; Alas, I hear the crackling of the flames!

_Emma_. Say'st thou, alas! when I do say, thank Heaven. Father, this blaze will set the land a-blaze With fire that shall preserve, and not destroy it. (_f_.) _Blaze on!_ BLAZE ON! Oh, may'st thou be a beacon To light its sons enslaved to liberty! How fast it spreads! A spirit's in the fire: It knows the work it does.--(_Goes to the door, and opens it_.) The land is free! Yonder's another blaze! Beyond that, shoots Another up!--Anon will every hill Redden with vengeance! Father, come! Whate'er Betides us, worse we're certain can't befall, And better may! Oh, be it liberty, Safe hearts and homes, husbands and children! Come,-- It spreads apace. (_ff_.) Blaze on--_blaze on_--BLAZE ON!

QUESTIONS.--1. What rule for the rising inflection on _father_? See Note I., page 32. 2. What rule for the falling inflection on _no_? See Rule I., page 28.

* * * * *

LESSON XCII.

HON' OR A BLE, noble; illustrious. IN' TEL LECT, mind; understanding. SCORE, account; motive. CLEV' ER, skillful; expert. SO' CIAL, familiar. CON FU' SION, fuss; tumult. CON DE SCEN' SION, loveliness; deference. COM PRE HEN' SION, understanding.

[Headnote 1: CROE SUS, a very wealthy king of ancient Lydia, in Asia Minor, was born about 591 before Christ.]

THE RICH MAN AND THE POOR MAN.

KHEMNITZER.

1. So goes the world`;--if wealthy, you may call _This_--friend, _that_--brother`;--friends and brothers all Though you are worthless, witless,--never mind it; You may have been a stable-boy,--what then? 'Tis _wealth_, my friends, makes _honorable_ men. You seek respect, no doubt, and you will find it.

2. But, if you are poor', heaven help you`! though your sire Had royal blood in him`, and though you Possess the intellect of angels too. 'Tis all in vain`;--the world will ne'er inquire On such a score`:--why should it take the pains? 'Tis easier to weigh purses`, sure, than brains'.

3. I once saw a poor fellow, keen and clever. Witty and wise`; he paid a man a visit, And no one noticed him', and no one ever Gave him a welcome`. "Strange`," cried I', "whence is it`?" He walked on this side', then on that`, He tried to introduce a social chat`; Now here', now there`, in vain he tried`; Some formally and freezingly replied, And some said by their silence,--"Better stay at home."

4. A rich man burst the door, As Croesus [Headnote 1] rich;--I'm sure He could not pride himself upon his wit`; And, as for wisdom, he had none of it`; He had what's better`,--he had wealth. What a confusion!--all stand up erect,-- These crowd around to ask him of his health; These bow in _honest_ duty and respect; And these arrange a sofa or a chair, And these conduct him there. "Allow me, sir, the honor`;"--Then a bow Down to the earth`.--_Is't_ possible to show Meet gratitude for such kind condescension`!

5. The poor man hung his head, And to himself he said, "This is indeed beyond my comprehension:" Then looking round, one friendly face he found, And said,--"Pray tell me why is wealth preferred "To wisdom?"--"That's a silly question, friend!" Replied the other,--"have you never heard. A man may lend his store Of gold or silver ore, But wisdom none can borrow, none can lend?"

QUESTIONS.--1. How do you account for the different inflections in the last line of the second verse? See page 31, Note I. 2. What rule for the falling inflection on _condescension_? See page 29, Note I.

* * * * *

LESSON XCIII.

EX HI BI' TIONS, displays. CIR CUM SCRIB' ED, encompassed. NA' VIES, ships of war. ARM' A MENTS, forces equipped for war. IM PED' ED, hindered, obstructed. LE VI' A THAN, huge sea-monster. MAG NIF' I CENCE, grandeur. UN A BAT' ED, undiminished. RE SERV' ED, kept. EN TRANC' ED, enraptured. PROM' ON TO RY, headland. RE VEAL'ED, laid open. SYM' BOL, token; sign. AD A MAN TINE, exceedingly hard. AP PER TAIN' ING, belonging. TRANS FORM' ING, changing.

[Headnote 1: AC' TI UM is the ancient name of a promontory of Albania, in Turkey in Europe, near which was fought (B.C. 29) the celebrated naval battle that made Augustus Caesar master of the Roman world.]

[Headnote 2: SAL' A MIS, an island opposite Attica, in Greece, near which (B.C. 480) occurred the famous naval engagement which resulted in the defeat of the Persians.]

[Headnote 3: NAV A RI' NO is a seaport town on the southwestern coast of Greece. It was the scene of the memorable victory of the combined English, French, and Russian fleets over those of the Turks and Egyptians, gained on the 20th of October, 1827.]

[Headnote 4: TRA FAL GAR', a cape on the southwestern coast of Spain. It is famous for the great naval battle, fought in its vicinity, Oct. 21st, 1805, between the fleets of the French and Spanish on the one side, and the English, under Lord Nelson, on the other. The English were victorious, though Nelson was mortally wounded.]

GRANDEUR OF THE OCEAN.

WALTER COLTON.

1. The most fearful and impressive exhibitions of power known to our globe, belong to the ocean. The volcano, with its ascending flame and falling torrents of fire, and the earthquake, whose footstep is on the ruin of cities, are circumscribed in the desolating range of their visitations. But the ocean, when it once rouses itself in its chainless strength, shakes a thousand shores with its storm and thunder. Navies of oak and iron are tossed in mockery from its crest, and armaments, manned by the strength and courage of millions, perish among its bubbles.

2. The avalanche, shaken from its glittering steep, if it rolls to the bosom of the earth, melts away, and is lost in vapor; but if it plunge into the embrace of the ocean, this mountain mass of ice and hail is borne about for ages in tumult and terror; it is the drifting monument of the ocean's dead. The tempest on land is impeded by forests, and broken by mountains; but on the plain of the deep it rushes unresisted; and when its strength is at last spent, ten thousand giant waves still roll its terrors onward.

3. The mountain lake and the meadow stream are inhabited only by the timid prey of the angler; but the ocean is the home of the leviathan,--his ways are in the mighty deep. The glittering pebble and the rainbow-tinted shell, which the returning tide has left on the shore, and the watery gem which the pearl-diver reaches at the peril of his life, are all that man can filch from the treasures of the sea. The groves of coral which wave over its pavements, and the halls of amber which glow in its depths, are beyond his approaches, save when he goes down there to seek, amid their silent magnificence, his burial monument.

4. The islands, the continents, the shores of civilized and savage realms, the capitals of kings, are worn by time, washed away by the wave, consumed by the flame, or sunk by the earthquake; but the ocean still remains, and still rolls on in the greatness of its unabated strength. Over the majesty of its form and the marvel of its might, time and disaster have no power. Such as creation's dawn beheld, it rolleth now.

5. The vast clouds of vapor which roll up from its bosom, float away to encircle the globe: on distant mountains and deserts they pour out their watery treasures, which gather themselves again in streams and torrents, to return, with exulting bounds, to their parent ocean. These are the messengers which proclaim in every land the exhaustless resources of the sea; but it is reserved for those who go down in ships, and who do business in the great waters, to see the works of the Lord and His wonders in the deep.

6. Let one go upon deck in the middle watch of a still night, with naught above him but the silent and solemn skies, and naught around and beneath him but an interminable waste of waters, and with the conviction that there is but a plank between him and eternity, a feeling of loneliness, solitude, and desertion, mingled with a sentiment of reverence for the vast, mysterious and unknown, will come upon him with a power, all unknown before, and he might stand for hours entranced in reverence and tears.

7. Man, also, has made the ocean the theater of _his_ power. The ship in which he rides that element, is one of the highest triumphs of his skill. At first, this floating fabric was only a frail bark, slowly urged by the laboring oar. The sail, at length, arose and spread its wings to the wind. Still he had no power to direct his course when the lofty promontory sunk from sight, or the orbs above him were lost in clouds. But the secret of the magnet is, at length, revealed to him, and his needle now settles, with a fixedness which love has stolen as the symbol of its constancy, to the polar star.