Part 6

1. Every one must recollect the tragical[89] story of young Emmet, the Irish patriot; it was too touching to be soon forgotten. His fate made a deep impression on public sympathy. During the troubles in Ireland he was tried, condemned, and executed[90] on a charge of treason. He was so young, so intelligent, so generous, so brave, so everything that we are apt to like in a young man. His conduct under trial, too, was so lofty and intrepid. The noble indignation with which he repelled[91] the charge of treason against his country, the eloquent vindication of his name, and his pathetic appeal to posterity, in the hopeless hour of condemnation, all these entered deeply into every generous bosom, and even his enemies lamented the stern policy that dictated his execution.

2. But there was _one_ heart whose anguish it would be impossible to describe. In happier days and fairer fortunes, he had won the affections of a beautiful and interesting girl, the daughter of a late celebrated Irish barrister. She loved him with the disinterested fervor[92] of a woman’s first and early love. When every worldly maxim arrayed itself against him; when blasted in fortune, and disgrace and danger darkened around his name, she loved him the more ardently for his sufferings. If, then, his fate could awaken the sympathy even of his foes, what must have been the agony of her whose whole soul was occupied by his image! Let _those_ tell who have had the portals[93] of the tomb suddenly closed between them and the being they most loved on earth, who have sat at its threshold, as one shut out in a cold and lonely world, whence all that was most lovely and loving had departed.

3. But then the horrors of such a grave! so frightful, so dishonored! there was nothing for memory to dwell on, that could soothe the pangs of separation, none of those tender, though melancholy circumstances, which endear the parting scene, nothing to melt sorrow into those blessed tears, sent like the dews of heaven to revive the heart in the parting hour of anguish.

4. To render her widowed situation more desolate, she had incurred her fathers displeasure by her unfortunate attachment, and was an exile from the paternal roof. But could the sympathy and kind offices of friends have reached a spirit so shocked and driven in by horror, she would have experienced no want of consolation, for the Irish are a people of quick and generous sensibilities.[94] The most delicate and cherishing attentions were paid her by families of wealth and distinction. She was led into society, and they tried by all kinds of occupation and amusement to dissipate[95] her grief, and wean her from the tragical story of her love.

5. But it was all in vain. There are some strokes of calamity which scathe and scorch the soul, which penetrate to the vital seat of happiness, and blast it, never again to put forth bud or blossom. She never objected to frequent the haunts of pleasure, but was as much alone there as in the depths of solitude[96] walking about in a sad reverie, apparently unconscious of the world around her. She carried with her an inward woe, that mocked at all the blandishments[97] of friendship, and “heeded not the song of the charmer, charm he never so wisely”.

6. The person who told me her story had seen her at a masquerade[98]. There can be no exhibition of far-gone wretchedness more striking and painful than to meet it in such a scene; to find it wandering like a specter, lone and joyless, where all around is gay, to see it dressed out in the trappings of mirth, and looking so wan and woe-begone, as if it had tried in vain to cheat the poor heart into a momentary forgetfulness of sorrow.

7. After strolling through the splendid rooms and giddy crowd with an air of utter abstraction,[99] she sat herself down on the steps of an orchestra,[100] and, looking about for some time with a vacant air, that showed her insensibility to the garish[101] scene, she began with the capriciousness[102] of a sickly heart, to warble a little plaintive air. She had an exquisite voice; but on this occasion it was so simple, so touching, it breathed forth such a soul of wretchedness, that she drew a crowd mute and silent around her, and melted every one into tears.

8. The story of one so true and tender, could not but excite great interest in a country remarkable for enthusiasm. It completely won the heart of a brave officer, who paid his address to her, and thought that one so true to the dead could not but prove affectionate to the living. She declined his attentions, for her thoughts were irrevocably engrossed by the memory of her former lover. He, however, persisted in his suit. He solicited not her tenderness, but her esteem. He was assisted by her conviction of his worth, and her sense of her own destitute and dependent situation, for she was existing on the kindness of friends. In a word, he at length succeeded in gaining her hand, though with the solemn assurance that her heart was unalterably another’s.

9. He took her with him to Sicily, hoping that a change of scene might wear out the remembrance of her early woes. She was an amiable and exemplary wife, and made an effort to be a happy one; but nothing could cure the silent and devouring melancholy that had entered into her very soul. She wasted away in a slow but hopeless decline, and, at length, sank into the grave, the victim of a broken heart.

10. She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps, And lovers are around her, sighing; But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps, For her heart in his grave is lying!

11. She sings the wild song of her dear native plains, Every note which he loved awaking; Ah! little they think who delight in her strains, How the heart of the Minstrel is breaking!

12. He had lived for his love, for his country he died, They were all that to life had entwined him; Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried, Nor long will his love stay behind him.

13. O! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest, When they promise a glorious morrow; They’ll shine o’er her sleep, like a smile from the West, From her own loved island of sorrow!

[89] TRAGˊ-I-CAL, mournful, calamitous.

[90] EXˊ-E-CUTED (here means) put to death.

[91] RE-PELLEDˊ, resisted.

[92] FERˊVOR, warmth, ardor.

[93] PORTˊAL, an entrance, a gateway.

[94] SEN-SI-BIL-I-TYˊ, delicate feeling, tenderness.

[95] DISˊ-SI-PATE, to disperse, to scatter.

[96] SOLˊ-I-TUDE, loneliness, seclusion.

[97] BLANDˊ-ISH-MENTS, artful caresses, soothing words.

[98] MASˊ-QUER-ADEˊ, an assemblage of persons for amusement in which masks are worn.

[99] AB-STRACˊ-TION, absence of mind.

[100] ORˊ-CHES-TRA, a place or gallery for musicians.

[101] GARˊ-ISH, gaudy, showy.

[102] CA-PRIˊ-CIOUS-NESS, freak, whimsicalness.

XIII.—LITTLE VICTORIES.

REMARK.—In conversational pieces like the following, the manner of each speaker should be imitated, as in a dialogue.

1. “Oh, mother, now that I have lost my limb, I can never be a soldier or a sailor; I can never go round the world!” And Hugh burst into tears, now more really afflicted than he had ever been yet. His mother sat on the bed beside him, and wiped away his tears as they flowed, while he told her, as well as his sobs would let him, how long and how much he had reckoned on going round the world, and how little he cared for anything else in future; and now this was the very thing he should never be able to do!

2. He had practiced climbing ever since he could remember, and now this was of no use; he had practiced marching, and now he should never march again. When he had finished his complaint, there was a pause, and his mother said, “Hugh, you have heard of Huber.”

“The man who found out so much about bees?” said Hugh.

“Bees and ants. When Huber had discovered[103] more than had ever been known about these, and when he was sure that he could learn still more, and was more and more anxious to peep into their tiny[104] homes, and curious ways, he became blind.”

3. Hugh sighed, and his mother went on.

“Did you ever hear of Beethoven? He was one of the greatest musical composers[105] that ever lived. His great, his sole delight, was in music. It was the passion of his life. When all his time and all his mind were given to music, he suddenly became deaf, perfectly deaf; so that he never more heard _one single note_ from the loudest orchestra[106]. While crowds were moved and delighted with his compositions[107] it was all silence to him.” Hugh said nothing.

4. “Now do you think,” asked his mother—and Hugh saw that a mild and gentle smile beamed from her countenance—“do you think that these people were without a heavenly Parent?”

“Oh no! but were they patient?” asked Hugh.

“Yes, in their different ways and degrees. Would you suppose that they were hardly treated? Or would you not rather suppose, that their Father gave them something better to do, than they had planned for themselves?”

5. “He must know best, of course; but it does seem very hard, that _that very thing_ should happen to them. Huber would not have so much minded being deaf, perhaps; or that musical man being blind.”

“No doubt their hearts often swelled within them, at their disappointments; but I fully believe that they very soon found God’s will to be wiser than their wishes. They found, if they bore their trial well, that there was work for their hearts to do, far nobler than any the head could do through the eye, or the ear. And they soon felt a new and delicious pleasure, which none but the bitterly disappointed can feel.”

“What is that?”

6. “The pleasure of rousing the soul to bear pain, and of agreeing with God silently, when nobody knows what is in the breast. There is no pleasure like that of exercising one’s soul in bearing pain, and of finding one’s heart glow with the hope that one is pleasing God.”

“Shall I feel that pleasure?”

“Often and often, I have no doubt; every time you can willingly give up your wish to be a soldier, or a sailor, or any thing else you have set your mind upon, you will feel that pleasure. But I do not expect it of you yet. I dare say, it was long a bitter thing to Beethoven to see hundreds of people in raptures[108] with his music when he could not hear a note of it.”

7. “But did he ever smile again?” asked Hugh.

“If he did, he was happier than all the fine music in the world could have made him,” replied his mother.

“I wonder, oh, I wonder if I shall ever feel so!”

“We will pray to God that you may. Shall we ask him now?”

Hugh clasped his hand. His mother kneeled beside the bed, and, in a very few words, prayed that Hugh might be able to bear his misfortune[109] well, and that his friends might give him such help and comfort as God should approve.

[103] DIS-COVˊ-ERED, found out.

[104] TINˊ-Y, very small.

[105] COM-POSˊER, an author.

[106] ORˊ-CHES-TRA, a body of musicians.

[107] COM-PO-SIˊ-TIONS, musical pieces.

[108] RAPTˊ-URES, extreme delight.

[109] MIS-FORˊ-TUNE, calamity.

XIV.—LITTLE VICTORIES.—CONTINUED.

8. Hugh found himself subject to very painful feelings sometimes, such as no one quite understood, and such as he feared no one was able to pity as they deserved. On one occasion, when he had been quite merry for a while, and his mother and sister Agnes were chatting[110] they thought they heard a sob from the sofa. They spoke to Hugh, and found that he was indeed crying bitterly.

“What is it, my dear,” said his mother. “Agnes, have we said anything that could hurt his feelings?”

“No, no,” sobbed Hugh. “I will tell you presently.”

9. And presently he told them, that he was so busy listening to what they said, that he forgot every thing else, when he felt as if something got between two of his toes; unconsciously he put down his hand, as if his foot was there! Nothing could be plainer than the feeling in his toes; and, then, when he put out his hand, and found nothing, it was so terrible! it startled him so! It was a comfort to find that his mother knew about this. She came, and kneeled by his sofa, and told him that many persons who had lost a limb, considered this the most painful thing they had to bear, for some time; but that, though the feeling would return occasionally through life, it would cease to be painful.

10. Hugh was very much dejected[111], and when he thought of the months and years, to the end of his life, and that he should never run and play, and never be like other people, he almost wished that he was dead.

Agnes thought that he must be miserable indeed, if he could venture to say this to his mother. She glanced at her mother’s face, but there was no displeasure there. On the contrary, she said this feeling was very natural. She had felt it herself, under smaller misfortunes than Hugh’s; but she had found, though the prospect appears all strewn[112] with troubles, that they come singly, and are not so hard to bear, after all.

11. She told Hugh, that when she was a little girl, she was very lazy, fond of her bed, and not at all fond of dressing or washing.

“Why, mother! you?” exclaimed Hugh.

“Yes; that was the sort of little girl I was. Well, I was in despair, one day, at the thought that I should have to wash and clean my teeth, and brush my hair, and put on every article of dress, every morning as long as I lived.”

“Did you tell any body?” asked Hugh.

12. “No; I was ashamed to do that; but I remember I cried. You see how it turns out. When we have become accustomed to any thing, we do it without ever thinking of the trouble, and, as the old fable tells us, the clock, that has to tick so many millions of times, has exactly the same number of seconds to do it in. So will you find, that you can move about on each separate occasion, as you wish, and practise will enable you to do it without any trouble or thought.”

“But this is not all, nor half what I mean,” said Hugh.

13. “No, my dear, nor half what you will have to bear. You resolved to bear it all patiently, I remember. But what is it you dread the most?”

“Oh! all manner of things. I can never do like other people.”

“Some things,” replied his mother. “You can never play cricket, as every Crofton boy would like to do. You can never dance at your sister’s Christmas parties.”

14. “Oh! mamma!” cried Agnes, with tears in her eyes, and with the thought in her mind, that it was cruel to talk so.

“Go on! go on!” cried Hugh, brightening. “You know what I feel, mother; and you don’t keep telling me, as others do, and even sister Agnes, sometimes, that it will not signify much, and that I shall not care, and all that; making out that it is no misfortune, hardly, when I know what it is, and they don’t. Now then, go on, mother! What else?”

15. “There will be little checks and mortifications continually, when you see little boys leaping over this, and climbing that, and playing at the other, while you must stand out, and can only look on. And some people will pity you, in a way you will not like; and some may even laugh at you.”

“Oh mamma!” exclaimed Agnes.

“Well, and what else?” said Hugh.

16. “Sooner or later, you will have to follow some way of life determined by this accident, instead of one that you would have liked better.”

“Well, what else?”

“I must ask you, now. I can think of nothing more; and I hope there is not much else; for, indeed, I think here is quite enough for a boy, or any one else, to bear.”

“I will bear it, though; you will see.”

17. “You will find great helps. These misfortunes, of themselves strengthen one’s mind. They have some advantages, too. You will be a better scholar for your lameness, I have no doubt. You will read more books, and have a mind richer in thoughts. You will be more beloved by us all, and you yourself will love God more for having given you something to bear for His sake. God Himself will help you to bear your trials. You will conquer your trials one by one, and by a succession of LITTLE VICTORIES, will, at last, completely triumph over all.”

[110] CHATˊ-TING, talking familiarly.

[111] DE-JECTˊ-ED, discouraged, low-spirited.

[112] STREWN, scattered.

XV.—OUR TITLES.

1. Are we not Nobles? we who trace Our Pedigree[113] so high, That God for us and for our race Created Earth and Sky, And Light, and Air, and Time, and Space, To serve us, and then die.

2. Are we not Princes? we who stand As heirs beside the Throne; We who can call the promised land Our Heritage,[114] our own; And answer to no less command Than God’s, and His alone.

3. Are we not Kings? both night and day, From early until late, About our bed, about our way, A guard of Angels wait; And so we watch, and work, and pray In more than royal state.

4. Are we not holy? do not start; It is God’s sacred will To call us Temples set apart His Holy Ghost may fill; Our very food.... Oh hush, my heart, Adore _It_ and be still!

5. Are we not more? Our life shall be Immortal[115] and divine; The nature Mary gave to Thee, Dear Jesus, still is Thine; Adoring in Thy Heart I see Such blood as beats in mine.

6. O God! that we can dare to fail, And dare to say we must! O God, that we can ever trail Such banners in the dust, Can let such starry honors pale, And such a Blazon[116] rust!

7. Shall we upon such Titles bring The taint of sin and shame? Shall we, the children of the King Who hold so grand a claim, Tarnish, by any meaner thing, The glory of our name?

[113] PEDˊ-I-GREE, lineage, line of descent from a progenitor.

[114] HERˊ-IT-AGE, an estate that passes from an ancestor to an heir.

[115] IM-MORˊ-TAL, exempt from death.

[116] BLAˊ-ZON, a coat of arms.

XVI.—THE WIDOW OF THE PINE COTTAGE.

1. It was Saturday night, and the widow of the Pine Cottage sat by her blazing fagots,[117] with her five tattered children at her side, endeavoring, by listening to the artlessness, of their prattle,[118] to dissipate[119] the heavy gloom that pressed upon her mind. For a year, her own feeble hand had provided for her helpless family, for she had no supporter: she thought of no friend in all the wide, unfriendly world around.

2. But that mysterious Providence, the wisdom of whose ways is above human comprehension, had visited her with wasting sickness, and her little means had become exhausted. It was now, too, mid-winter, and the snow lay heavy and deep through all the surrounding forests, while storms still seemed gathering in the heavens, and the driving wind roared among the neighboring pines, and rocked her puny[120] mansion.

3. The last herring smoked upon the coals before her; it was the only article of food she possessed, and no wonder her forlorn, desolate state brought up in her lone bosom all the anxieties of a mother, when she looked upon her children; and no wonder, forlorn as she was, if she suffered the heart-swellings of despair to rise, even though she knew that He, whose promise is to the widow and to the orphan, can not forget his word.

4. Providence had, many years before, taken from her her eldest son, who went from his forest home to try his fortune on the high seas, since which she had heard no tidings of him; and, later still, the hand of death deprived her of the companion and staff of her earthly pilgrimage,[121] in the person of her husband. Yet to this hour she had upborne; she had not only been able to provide for her little flock, but had never lost an opportunity of ministering to the wants of the miserable and destitute.

5. The indolent may well bear with poverty, while the ability to gain sustenance remains. The individual who has but his own wants to supply, may suffer with fortitude the winter of want; his affections are not wounded, his heart not wrung. The most desolate in populous cities may hope, for charity has not quite closed her hand and heart, and shut her eyes on misery.

6. But the industrious mother of helpless and depending children, far from the reach of human charity, has none of these to console her. And such a one was the widow of the Pine Cottage; but as she bent over the fire, and took up the last scanty remnant of food, to spread before her children, her spirits seemed to brighten up, as by some sudden and mysterious impulse, and Cowper’s beautiful lines came uncalled across her mind:

Judge not the Lord by feeble sense, But trust Him for His grace; Behind a frowning Providence He hides a smiling face.

7. The smoked herring was scarcely laid upon the table, when a gentle rap at the door, and loud barking of a dog, attracted the attention of the family. The children flew to open it, and a weary traveler, in tattered garments, and apparently indifferent health, entered and begged a lodging, and a mouthful of food. Said he, “It is now twenty-four hours since I tasted bread.” The widow’s heart bled anew as under a fresh complication[122] of distresses; for her sympathies[123] lingered not around her fireside. She hesitated not even now; rest and a share of all she had she proffered to the stranger. “We shall not be forsaken,” said she, “or suffer deeper for an act of charity.”

8. The traveler drew near the board, but when he saw the scanty fare, he raised his eyes toward heaven with astonishment: “And is this _all_ your store?” said he, “and a share of this do you offer to one you know not? then never saw I _charity_ before! but, madam,” said he, continuing, “do you not wrong your _children_ by giving a part of your last mouthful to a stranger?”

9. “Ah,” said the poor widow, and the tear-drops gushed[124] into her eyes as she said it, “I have a _boy_, a darling _son_, somewhere on the face of the wide world, unless heaven has taken him away, and I only act toward you, as I would that others should act toward him. God, who sent manna[125] from heaven, can provide for us as He did for Israel; and how should I this night offend Him, if my son should be a wanderer, destitute as you, and He should have provided for him a home, even poor as this, were I to turn you unrelieved away.”

10. The widow ended, and the stranger, springing from his seat, clasped her in his arms: “God, indeed, has provided your son a home, and has given him wealth to reward the goodness of his benefactress: my mother! oh, my mother!” It was her long-lost son, returned to her bosom from the Indies. He had chosen that disguise that he might the more completely surprise his family; and never was surprise more perfect, or followed by a sweeter cup of joy.

11. That humble residence in the forest was exchanged for one comfortable, and indeed beautiful, in the valley; and the widow lived long with her dutiful son, in the enjoyment of worldly plenty, and in the delightful employments of virtue; and, at this day, the passer-by is pointed to the willow that spreads its branches above her grave.

[117] FAGˊ-OTS; bundles of sticks used for fuel.

[118] PRATˊ-TLE; trifling talk.

[119] DISˊ-SI-PATE; to scatter, to disperse.

[120] PUˊ-NY; small and weak.

[121] PILˊ-GRIM-AGE; the journey of human life.

[122] COM-PLI-CAˊ-TION; the act of mingling together several things.

[123] SYMˊ-PA-THIES; compassion.

[124] GUSHED; flowed copiously.

[125] MANˊ-NA; food miraculously provided by God for the Israelites.

XVII.—A PSALM OF LIFE.

LONGFELLOW.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow was born at Portland, Maine, in 1807. He is one of the most popular of living poets.

1. Tell me not, in mournful numbers, Life is but an empty dream! For the soul is dead that slumbers, And things are not what they seem.

2. Life is _real_! Life is _earnest_! And the grave is _not_ its goal; Dust thou art, to dust returnest, Was not spoken of the _soul_.