Part 13

2. They pass mournfully by us, and they return no more. Two centuries ago, and the smoke of their wigwams,[451] and the fires of their councils rose in every valley, from the Hudson Bay to the farthest Florida, from the ocean to the Mississippi and the lakes. The shouts of victory and the war-dance rang through the mountains and glades. The thick arrows and the deadly tomahawk whistled through the forests; and the hunter’s trace and dark encampment startled the wild beasts in their lairs. The warriors stood forth in their glory. The young listened to the song of other days. The mothers played with their infants, and gazed on the scene with warm hopes of the future. The aged sat down, but they wept not: they should soon be at rest in finer regions, where the Great Spirit dwells, in a home prepared for the brave beyond the western skies.

3. Braver men never lived; truer men never drew the bow. They had courage, and fortitude, and sagacity, and perseverance beyond most of the human race. They shrank from no dangers, and they feared no hardships. If they had the vices of savage life, they had its virtues also. They were true to their country, their friends, and their homes. If they forgave not injury, neither did they forget kindness. If their vengeance was terrible, their fidelity and generosity were unconquerable also. Their love, like their hatred, stopped not this side of the grave.

4. But where are they? Where are the villagers and warriors and youth; the sachems and the tribes; the hunters and their families? They have perished; they are consumed. The wasting pestilence[452] has not alone done the mighty work. No, nor famine—nor war; there has been a mightier power; a moral canker, which has eaten into their heart cores—a plague, which the touch of the white man communicated—a poison which betrayed them to lingering ruin. The winds of the Atlantic fan not a single region which they may call their own. Already the last feeble remnant of their race are preparing for their journey beyond the Mississippi. I see them leave their miserable homes—the aged, the helpless, the men, and the warriors—“few and faint, yet fearless still.”

5. The ashes are cold upon their native hearths. The smoke no longer curls around their lowly cabins. They move on with slow, unsteady steps. The white man is upon their heels for terror or dispatch, but they heed him not. They turn to take a last look of their desolate villages. They cast a last glance upon the graves of their fathers. They shed no tears; they utter no cry; they heave no groans. There is something in their hearts which passes speech. There is something in their looks, not of vengeance or submission, but of hard necessity, which stifles both; which chokes all utterance; which has no aim or method. It is courage, absorbed by despair. They linger but a moment. Their look is onward.

6. They have passed the fatal stream. It shall never be repassed by them, no—never. Yet there lies not between us and them an impassable gulf. They know and feel that there is for them still one remove farther, not distant nor unseen. It is to the general burial-ground of their race.

7. Reason as we may, it is impossible not to read in such a fate much which we know not how to interpret; much of provocation to cruel deeds and deep resentments; much of apology for wrong and perfidy; much of pity, mingling with indignation; much of doubt and misgiving as to the past; much of painful recollections, much of dark forebodings.

[447] A-TROCˊ-I-TY, great wickedness.

[448] IN-VOL-UNˊ-TA-RY, not having will or choice; unwilling.

[449] DESˊ-TIN-ED, ordained; devoted.

[450] EX-TINCˊ-TION, destruction.

[451] WIGˊ-WAM, an Indian cabin or hut.

[452] PESTˊ-I-LENCE, plague; contagious or infectious disease.

LXII.—INDIAN NAMES.

SIGOURNEY.

1. Ye say, they all have passed away, That noble race and brave, That their light canoes have vanished From off the crested wave; That ’mid the forests where they roamed There rings no hunter’s shout; But their name is on your waters, You may not wash it out.

2. ’Tis where Ontario’s billow Like Ocean’s surge is curled, Where strong Niagara’s thunders wake The echo of the world; Where red Missouri bringeth Rich tributes from the West, And Rappahannock sweetly sleeps On green Virginia’s breast.

3. Ye say, their cone-like cabins, That clustered o’er the vale, Have fled away like withered leaves Before the autumn gale; But their memory liveth on your hills, Their baptism on your shore, Your everlasting rivers speak Their dialect of yore.

4. Old Massachusetts wears it Within her lordly crown, And broad Ohio bears it, Amid her young renown; Connecticut hath wreathed it Where her quiet foliage waves, And bold Kentucky breathes it hoarse, Through all her ancient caves.

5. Wachusett hides its lingering voice Within his rocky heart, And Alleghany graves its tone Throughout his lofty chart: Monadnock on his forehead hoar Doth seal the sacred trust; Your mountains build their monuments, Though ye destroy their dust.

LXIII.—THE FRIARS AND THE KNIGHT.

DIGBY.

Kenelm H. Digby is the author of several very valuable and interesting works. His “Mores Catholici,” “Broad Stone of Honor,” “Compitum,” and “Lover’s Seat,” prove him to be a writer of high culture and great research.

1. Two friars of Paris, traveling in the depth of winter, came, at the first hour of the night, fatigued, covered with mud, and wet with rain, to the gate of a house where they hoped to receive hospitality, not knowing that it belonged to a knight who hated all friars, and who for twenty years had never made his confession. The mother of the family replied to their petition, “I know not, good fathers, what to do. If I admit you under our roof, I fear my husband; and if I send you away cruelly in this tempestuous[453] night, I shall dread the indignation[454] of God. Enter, and hide yourselves till my husband returns from hunting, and has supped, for then I shall be able to supply you secretly with what is needful.”

2. Shortly, the husband returns, sups joyfully, but, perceiving that his wife is sad, desires to know the cause. She replies that she dares not disclose[455] it. Pressed and encouraged, she at length relates what has happened, adding, that she fears God’s judgment, seeing that His servants are afflicted with cold and hunger, while they are feasting at their ease. The knight, becoming more gentle, orders them to be led forth from their hiding-place, and to be supplied with food.

3. The poor friars came forth, and drew near the fire; and when he sees their emaciated[456] faces, humid[457] raiment,[458] and their feet stained with blood, the hand of the Lord is upon him, and from a lion he becomes a lamb. With his own hands he washes their feet, places the table, and prepares their beds, bringing in fresh straw. After the supper, with altered look and tone, he addresses the elder friar, and asks whether a shameless sinner, who hath not confessed since many years, can hope for pardon from God?

4. “Yea, in sooth,” replied the friar; “hope in the Lord, and do good, and he will deal with thee according to his mercy; for in whatever day the sinner repents, he will remember his iniquity no more.” The contrite host declares that he will not then defer any longer approaching the sacraments. “This very night,” said he, “I will unburden my conscience, lest my soul should be required of me.” The friar, however, little suspecting danger of death, advised him to wait till morning. All retired to rest; but during the night the friar became alarmed, rose, prostrated himself on the earth, and besought God to spare the sinner.

5. In the morning, however, the master of the house was found dead. The man of God, judging from what had passed, consoled the widow, declared that in his dreams he had been assured of the salvation of her husband; and the man was buried honorably, bells tolled, and Mass was sung, and the friars departed on their way.

6. It is to instances of this kind that St. Jerome alludes in his beautiful epistle to Lacta, where he says, “A holy and faithful family must needs sanctify its infidel chief. That man cannot be far from entering upon the career of faith, who is surrounded by sons and grandsons enlightened by the faith.”

[453] TEM-PESTˊ-U-OUS, very stormy.

[454] IN-DIG-NAˊ-TION, anger.

[455] DISˊ-CLOSE, to make known.

[456] E-MAˊ-CIA-TED, reduced to leanness, thin, wasted.

[457] HUˊ-MID, damp, moist.

[458] RAIˊ-MENT, clothing.

LXIV.—WHERE THERE’S A WILL THERE’S A WAY.

ELIZA COOK.

1. We have faith in old proverbs[459] full surely, For wisdom has traced[460] what they tell, And truth may be drawn up as purely From them, as it may from a “well.” Let us question the thinkers and doers, And hear what they honestly say, And you’ll find they believe, like bold wooers,[461] In “_Where there’s a WILL there’s a WAY_.”

2. The hills have been high for man’s mounting, The woods have been dense[462] for his ax, The stars have been thick for his counting, The sands have been wide for his tracks. The sea has been deep for his diving, The poles have been broad for his sway, But bravely he’s proved by his striving,[463] That “_Where there’s a WILL there’s a WAY_.”

3. Have ye vices that ask a destroyer, Or passions that need your control?[464] Let Reason become your employer, And your body be ruled by your soul. Fight on, though ye bleed at the trial, Resist with all strength that ye may, Ye may conquer Sin’s host by denial, For, “_Where there’s a WILL there’s a WAY_.”

4. Have ye poverty’s pinching to cope[465] with? Does suffering weigh down your might? Only call up a spirit to hope with, And dawn may come out of the night. Oh! much may be done by defying[466] The ghost[467] of Despair and Dismay, And much may be gained by relying[468] On “_Where there’s a WILL there’s a WAY_.”

5. Should you see afar off that worth winning,[469] Set out on a journey with trust, And ne’er heed though your path at beginning Should be among brambles[470] and dust. Though it is by footsteps ye do it, And hardships may hinder and stay, Keep a heart and be sure ye go through it, For, “_Where there’s a WILL there’s a WAY_.”

[459] PROVˊ-ERBS, sayings; maxims.

[460] TRACˊ-ED, shown; marked out.

[461] WOOˊ-ERS, suitors; lovers.

[462] DENSE, close; thick.

[463] STRIVˊ-ING, making efforts.

[464] CON-TROLˊ, restraint; government.

[465] COPE, strive; contend.

[466] DE-FYˊ-ING, daring; outbraving.

[467] GHOST, specter; apparition.

[468] RE-LYˊ-ING, trusting; depending.

[469] WINˊ-NING, getting; gaining.

[470] BRAMˊ-BLES, prickly shrubs.

LXV.—NOW, TO-DAY.

ADELAIDE A. PROCTOR.

1. Arise! for the day is passing, And you lie dreaming on; Your brothers are cased in armor,[471] And forth to the fight are gone! A place in the ranks awaits you; Each man has some part to play; The Past and the Future are nothing In the face of stern TO-DAY.

2. Arise from your dreams of the Future— Of gaining some hard-fought field, Of storming[472] some airy[473] fortress,[474] Or bidding some giant yield; Your future has deeds of glory, Of honor, (God grant it may!) But your arm will never be stronger, Or needed as _now_—TO-DAY.

3. Arise! if the Past detain[475] you, Her sunshines and storms forget; No chains so unworthy to hold you As those of a vain regret; Sad or bright, she is lifeless ever; Cast her phantom[476] arms away, Nor look back, save to learn the lesson Of a nobler strife TO-DAY.

4. ARISE! for the day is passing! The sound that you scarcely hear, Is the enemy marching to battle! _Rise!_ RISE! for the foe is near! Stay not to sharpen your weapons, Or the hour will strike at last, When, from dreams of a coming battle, You may wake to find it past!

[471] ARMˊ-OR, defensive arms.

[472] STORMˊ-ING, taking by assault.

[473] AIRˊ-Y, fanciful; visionary.

[474] FORˊ-TRESS, fort; strong hold.

[475] DE-TAINˊ, hinder; keep back.

[476] PHANˊ-TOM, specter; ghost-like.

LXVI.—PATRIOTISM AND CHRISTIANITY.

CHATEAUBRIAND.

1. But it is the Christian religion that has invested[477] patriotism[478] with its true character. This sentiment led to the commission of crime among the ancients, because it was carried to excess; Christianity has made it one of the principal affections in man, but not an exclusive[479] one. It commands us above all things to be just; it requires us to cherish the whole family of Adam, since we ourselves belong to it, though our countrymen have the first claim to our attachment.

2. This morality was unknown before the coming of the Christian law-giver, who had been unjustly accused of attempting to extirpate[480] the passions: God destroys not his own work. The Gospel is not the destroyer of the heart, but its regulator. It is to our feelings what taste is to the fine arts; it retrenches all that is exaggerated, false, common, and trivial.[481] It leaves all that is fair, and good, and true. The Christian religion, rightly understood, is only primitive[482] nature washed from original[483] pollution.[484]

3. It is when at a distance from our country that we feel the full force of the instinct by which we are attached to it. For want of the reality, we try to feed upon dreams; for the heart is expert in deception, and there is no one who has been suckled at the breast of a woman but has drunk of the cup of illusion.[485] Sometimes it is a cottage which is situated like the paternal habitation; sometimes it is a wood, a valley, a hill, on which we bestow some of the sweet appellations[486] of our native land. Andromache gives the name of Simois to a brook. And what an affecting object is this little rill, which recalls the idea of a mighty river to her native country! Remote from the soil which gave us birth, nature appears to us diminished, and but the shadow of that which we have lost.

4. Another artifice of the love of country is to attach a great value to an object of little intrinsic worth, but which comes from our native land, and which we have brought with us into exile. The soul seems to dwell even upon the inanimate things which have shared our destiny: we remain attached to the down on which our prosperity has slumbered, and still more to the straw on which we counted the days of our adversity. The vulgar have an energetic expression, to describe the languor which oppresses the soul when away from our country. “That man,” they say, “is home-sick.”

5. A sickness it really is, and the only cure for it is to return. If, however, we have been absent for a few years, what do we find in the place of our nativity? How few of those whom we left behind in the vigor of health are still alive! Here are tombs where once stood palaces; there rise palaces where once stood tombs. The paternal field is overgrown with briers, or cultivated by the plow of a stranger; and the tree beneath which we frolicked in our boyish days has disappeared.

6. Were we asked, what are those powerful ties which bind us to the place of nativity, we should find some difficulty in answering the question. It is, perhaps, the smile of a mother, of a father, of a sister; it is, perhaps, the recollection of an old preceptor[487] who instructed us, and of the young companions of our childhood; it is, perhaps, the care bestowed upon us by a tender nurse or by some aged domestic, so essential a part of the household; finally, it is something most simple, and, if you please, trivial,—a dog that barked at night in the fields, a nightingale that returned every year to the orchard, the nest of the swallow over the window, the village clock that appeared above the trees, the churchyard yew, or the Gothic tomb. Yet these simple things demonstrate the more clearly the reality of a Providence, as they could not possibly be the source of patriotism, or of the great virtues which it begets, unless by the appointment of the Almighty himself.

[477] IN-VESTˊ-ED, clothed.

[478] PAˊ-TRI-OT-ISM, love of one’s country.

[479] EX-CLUˊ-SIVE, tending to exclude, or shut out.

[480] EXˊ-TIR-PATE, to root out, to destroy.

[481] TRIVˊ-I-AL, trifling, worthless.

[482] PRIM-I-TIVE, first, original.

[483] O-RIGˊ-I-NAL, primary, first.

[484] POL-LUˊ-TION, defilement corruption.

[485] IL-LUˊ-SION, error; false show, unreality.

[486] AP-PEL-LAˊ-TION, a name by which a thing is called.

[487] PRE-CEPTˊ-OR, a teacher.

LXVII.—BEST KIND OF REVENGE.

CHAMBERS.

1. Some years ago, a warehouseman in Manchester, England, published a scurrilous[488] pamphlet, in which he endeavored to hold up the house of Grant Brothers to ridicule. William Grant remarked upon the occurrence that the man would live to repent what he had done; and this was conveyed by some tale-bearer to the libeller, who said, “Oh, I suppose he thinks I shall some time or other be in his debt; but I will take good care of that.” It happens, however, that a man in business cannot always choose who shall be his creditors. The pamphleteer became a bankrupt, and the brothers held an acceptance[489] of his which had been indorsed[490] to them by the drawer, who had also become a bankrupt[491].

2. The wantonly libelled men had thus become creditors of the libeller! They had it in their power to make him repent of his audacity.[492] He could not obtain his certificate without their signature, and without it he could not enter into business again. He had obtained the number of signatures required by the bankrupt law, except one. It seemed folly to hope that the firm of “the brothers” would supply the deficiency.[493] What! they, who had cruelly been made the laughing stock of the public, forget the wrong and favor the wrong doer? He despaired. But the claims of a wife and children forced him at last to make the application. Humbled by misery, he presented himself at the counting house of the wronged.

3. Mr. William Grant was there alone, and his first words to the delinquent[494] were, “Shut the door, sir!” sternly uttered. The door was shut, and the libeller stood trembling before the libelled. He told his tale, and produced his certificate, which was instantly clutched by the injured merchant. “You wrote a pamphlet against us once!” exclaimed Mr. Grant. The supplicant expected to see his parchment thrown into the fire. But this was not its destination. Mr. Grant took a pen, and writing something upon the document, handed it back to the bankrupt. He, poor wretch, expected to see “rogue, scoundrel, libeller,” inscribed, but there was, in fair round characters, the signature of the firm.

4. “We make it a rule,” said Mr. Grant, “never to refuse signing the certificate of an honest tradesman, and we have never heard that you were anything else.” The tears started into the poor man’s eyes. “Ah,” said Mr. Grant, “my saying was true. I said you would live to repent writing that pamphlet. I did not mean it as a threat. I only meant that some day you would know us better, and be sorry you had tried to injure us. I see you repent of it now.” “I do, I do!” said the grateful man. “I bitterly repent it.” “Well, well, my dear fellow, you know us now. How do you get on? What are you going to do?” The poor man stated that he had friends who could assist him when his certificate was obtained. “But how are you off in the meantime?”

5. And the answer was, that, having given up every farthing to his creditors, he had been compelled to stint his family of even common necessaries, that he might be enabled to pay the cost of his certificate. “My dear fellow, this will not do; your family must not suffer. Be kind enough to take this ten-pound note to your wife from me. There, there, my dear fellow! Nay, don’t cry; it will be all well with you yet. Keep up your spirits, set to work like a man, and you will raise your head among us yet.” The overpowered man endeavored in vain to express his thanks: the swelling in his throat forbade words. He put his handkerchief to his face, and went out of the door crying like a child.

[488] SCURˊ-RIL-OUS, grossly abusive.

[489] AC-CEPTˊ-ANCE, a bill or draft accepted by the party on whom it is drawn, who thus becomes liable for its payment at the time stated in the draft.

[490] IN-DORSEDˊ, a bill or note is indorsed by the party, to whom it is made payable, or who may be the holder of it, writing his name across the back of it.

[491] BANKˊ-RUPT, a person who is unable to pay his debts.

[492] AU-DACˊ-I-TY, boldness; impudent presumption.

[493] DE-FIˊ-CIEN-CY, want.

[494] DE-LINˊ-QUENT, one who fails in his duty.

LXVIII—QUEEN ELIZABETH OF HUNGARY.

MONTALEMBERT.

1. Generosity to the poor, particularly that exercised by princes, was one of the most remarkable features of the age in which she lived; but we perceive that, in her, charity did not proceed from rank, still less from the desire of acquiring praises or purely human gratitude, but from an interior and heavenly inspiration. From her cradle, she could not bear the sight of a poor person without feeling her heart pierced with grief, and now that her husband had granted her full liberty in all that concerned the honor of God and the good of her neighbor, she unreservedly abandoned herself to her natural inclination to solace[495] the suffering members of Christ.

2. This was her ruling thought each hour and moment: to the use of the poor she dedicated[496] all that she retrenched from the superfluities[497] usually required by her sex and rank. Yet, notwithstanding the resources which the charity of her husband placed at her disposal, she gave away so quickly all that she possessed, that it often happened that she would despoil[498] herself of her clothes in order to have the means of assisting the unfortunate.

3. Elizabeth loved to carry secretly to the poor, not alone money, but provisions and other matters which she destined for them. She went thus laden, by the winding and rugged paths that led from the castle to the city, and to cabins of the neighboring valleys.

4. One day, when accompanied by one of her favorite maidens, as she descended by a rude little path (still pointed out) and carried under her mantle, bread, meat, eggs, and other food to distribute to the poor, she suddenly encountered her husband, who was returning from hunting. Astonished to see her thus toiling on under the weight of her burden, he said to her, “Let us see what you carry,” and at the same time drew open the mantle which she held closely clasped to her bosom; but beneath it were only red and white roses, the most beautiful he had ever seen—and this astonished him, as it was no longer the season of flowers.

5. Seeing that Elizabeth was troubled, he sought to console her by his caresses; but he ceased suddenly, on seeing over her head a luminous[499] appearance in the form of a crucifix. He then desired her to continue her route without being disturbed by him, and he returned to Wartbourg, meditating with recollection on what God did for her, and carrying with him one of these wonderful roses, which he preserved all his life.