Part 8

11. “I hope I always was. I meant to be, God knows,” said the poor schoolmaster. “Who is that?” said the boy, seeing Nell. “I am afraid to kiss her, lest I should make her ill. Ask her to shake hands with me.”

12. The sobbing child came closer up, and took the little languid hand in hers. Releasing his again after a time, the sick boy laid him gently down.

13. “You remember the garden, Harry,” whispered the schoolmaster, anxious to rouse him, for a dulness seemed gathering upon the child, “and how pleasant it used to be in the evening? You must make haste to visit it again, for I think the very flowers have missed you, and are less gay than they used to be. You will come soon, my dear, very soon now, won’t you?”

14. The boy smiled faintly—so very, very faintly—and put his hand upon his friend’s gray head. He moved his lips, too, but no voice came from them, no, not a sound. In the silence that ensued, the hum of distant voices, borne upon the evening air, came floating through the open window.

15. “What’s that?” said the sick child, opening his eyes. “The boys at play upon the green.” He took a handkerchief from his pillow, and tried to wave it above his head. But the feeble arm dropped powerless down. “Shall I do it?” said the schoolmaster.

16. “Please wave it at the window,” was the faint reply. “Tie it to the lattice.[234] Some of them may see it there. Perhaps they’ll think of me, and look this way.”

17. He raised his head, and glanced from the fluttering signal to his idle bat, that lay, with slate and book, and other boyish property, upon a table in the room. And then he laid him down softly once more, and asked if the little girl were there, for he could not see her.

18. She stepped forward and pressed the passive hand that lay upon the coverlet. The two old friends and companions—for such they were, though they were man and child—held each other in a long embrace, and then the little scholar turned his face towards the wall, and fell asleep.

19. The poor schoolmaster sat in the same place, holding the small, cold hand in his, and chafing it. It was but the hand of a dead child. He felt that; and yet he chafed it still, and could not lay it down.

[231] A-CHIEVEDˊ, performed, completed, done.

[232] CLEVˊ-ER, skilful, dexterous, able.

[233] CON-TEM-PLATE, consider closely.

[234] LATˊ-TICE, a window blind or screen made by strips and bars crossing each other and forming open spaces like net work.

XXVI.—GOD, THE TRUE SOURCE OF CONSOLATION.

MOORE.

Thomas Moore was born in Dublin, Ireland, in 1779, and died in 1852. He was the sweetest and most brilliant lyric poet of his time. Many of his Irish melodies are unequaled for their sparkling gems of wit and fancy, and for deep and tender sentiment.

1. O Thou, who dry’st the mourner’s tear, How dark this world would be, If, when deceived and wounded here, We could not fly to Thee!

2. The friends, who in our sunshine live, When winter comes, are flown; And he who has but tears to give, Must weep those tears alone.

3. But Thou wilt heal the broken heart Which like the plants that throw Their fragrance from the wounded part, Breathes sweetness out of woe.

4. When joy no longer soothes or cheers, And e’en the hope that threw A moment’s sparkle o’er our tears, Is dimm’d and vanish’d too!

5. Oh! who could bear life’s stormy doom, Did not Thy wing of love Come brightly wafting through the gloom Our peace-branch from above!

6. Then, sorrow, touch’d by Thee, grows bright With more than rapture’s ray, As darkness shows us worlds of light, We never saw by day.

XXVII.—THE MARTYRDOM OF ST. AGNES.

DE VERE.

Aubrey De Vere is one of the most gifted and accomplished of living poets.

ANGELS.

1. Bearing lilies in our bosom, Holy Agnes, we have flown Missioned from the Heaven of Heavens Unto thee, and thee alone. We are coming, we are flying, To behold thy happy dying.

AGNES.

2. Bearing lilies far before you, Whose fresh odors, backward blown, Light those smiles upon your faces, Mingling sweet breath with your own, Ye are coming smoothly, slowly, To the lowliest of the lowly.

ANGELS.

3. Unto us the boon was given; One glad message, holy maid, On the lips of two blest spirits, Like an incense-grain was laid. As it bears us on like lightning, Cloudy skies are round us brightening.

AGNES.

4. I am here, a mortal maiden: If our father aught hath said, Let me hear His words and do them. Ought I not to feel afraid, As ye come, your shadows flinging O’er a breast, to meet them springing?

ANGELS.

5. Agnes, there is joy in Heaven; Gladness, like the day, is flung O’er the spaces never measured, And from every angel’s tongue Swell those songs of impulse vernal, All whose echoes are eternal.

6. Agnes, from the depth of Heaven Joy is rising, like a spring Borne above its grassy margin, Borne in many a crystal ring; Each o’er beds of wild flowers gliding, Over each low murmurs sliding.

7. When a Christian lies expiring, Angel choirs, with plumes outspread, Bend above his death-bed, singing: That, when Death’s mild sleep is fled, There may be no harsh transition While he greets the Heavenly Vision.

AGNES.

8. Am I dreaming, blessed angels? Late ye floated two in one; Now, a thousand radiant spirits Round me weave a glistening zone. Lilies, as they wind extending, Roses with those lilies blending.

9. See! th’ horizon’s ring they circle; Now they gird the zenith blue; And now, o’er every brake and billow Float like mist and flash like dew. All the earth, with life o’erflowing, Into heavenly shapes is growing!

10. They are rising! they are rising! As they rise, the veil is riven! They are rising! I am rising— Rising with them into Heaven!— Rising with those shining legions Into life’s eternal regions!

XXVIII.—THE MONK OF ST. FRANCIS.

STERNE.

1. A poor monk, of the Order of St. Francis, came into the room to beg something for his convent. The moment I cast my eyes upon him, I was determined not to give him a single sous; and accordingly I put my purse into my pocket—buttoned it up—set myself a little more upon my center, and advanced up gravely to him: there was something, I fear, forbidding[235] in my look: I have his figure[236] this moment before my eyes, and think there was that in it which deserved better.

2. The monk, as I judged from the break in his tonsure, a few scattered white hairs upon his temples being all that remained of it, might be about seventy; but from his eyes and that sort of fire which was in them, which seemed more tempered[237] by courtesy than years, he could be no more than sixty—truth might lie between—he was certainly sixty-five; and the general air of his countenance, notwithstanding something seemed to have been planting wrinkles in it before their time, agreed to the account.

3. It was one of those heads which Guido has often painted—mild, pale, penetrating; free from all commonplace ideas of fat contented ignorance, looking downwards upon the earth. It looked forwards; but looked as if it looked at something beyond this world.... It would have suited a Brahmin;[238] and had I met it upon the plains of Hindostan, I had reverenced it.

4. The rest of his outline may be given in a few strokes: one might put it into the hands of any one to design; for it was neither elegant nor otherwise, but as character and expression made it so. It was a thin, spare form, something above the common size, if it lost not the distinction by a bend forwards in the figure—but it was the attitude[239] of entreaty; and, as it now stands present to my imagination, it gained more than it lost by it.

5. When he had entered the room three paces, he stood still; and, laying his left hand upon his breast (a slender white staff with which he journeyed being in his right), when I had got close up to him, he introduced himself with the little story of the wants of his convent, and the poverty of his order—and did it with so simple a grace—and such an air of deprecation[240] was there in the whole cast of his look and figure—I was bewitched not to have been struck with it. A better reason was, I had predetermined not to give him a single sous.

6. “’Tis very true,” said I, replying to a cast upwards with his eyes, with which he had concluded his address—“’tis very true—and heaven be their resource[241] who have no other but the charity of the world; the stock of which, I fear, is no way sufficient for the many great claims which are hourly made upon it.”

7. As I pronounced the words “great claims,” he gave a slight glance with his eye downwards upon the sleeve of his tunic.[242] I felt the full force of the appeal. “I acknowledge it,” said I—“a coarse habit, and that but once in three years, with meagre diet, are no great matters: and the true point of pity is, as they can be earned in the world with so little industry, that your order should wish to procure them by pressing upon a fund which is the property of the lame, the blind, the aged, and the infirm.

8. “The captive who lies down counting over and over again the days of his afflictions, languishes also for his share of it; and had you been of the order of mercy, instead of the order of St. Francis, poor as I am,” continued I, pointing at my portmanteau,[243] “full cheerfully should it have been opened to you for the ransom of the unfortunate.” The monk made me a bow.

9. “But,” resumed I, “the unfortunate of our own country, surely, have the first right; and I have left thousands in distress upon the English shore.” The monk gave a cordial wave with his head, as much as to say, no doubt, there is misery enough in every corner of the world, as well as within our convent. “But we distinguish,” said I, laying my hand upon the sleeve of his tunic, in return for his appeal—“we distinguish, my good father, betwixt those who wish only to eat the bread of their own labor, and those who eat the bread of other people’s, and have no other plan in life, but to get through it in sloth and ignorance for the love of God.”

10. The poor Franciscan made no reply: a hectic of a moment passed across his cheek, but could not tarry. Nature seemed to have done with her resentments in him; he showed none—but, letting his staff fall within his arm, he pressed both his hands with resignation upon his breast, and retired.

11. My heart smote me the moment he shut the door. “Pshaw!” said I, with an air of carelessness, three several times; but it would not do: every ungracious syllable I had uttered, crowded back into my imagination; I reflected I had no right over the poor Franciscan, but to deny him; and that the punishment of that was enough to the disappointed, without the addition of unkind language. I considered his gray hairs—his courteous figure seemed to re-enter, and gently ask me what injury he had done me, and why I could use him thus. I would have given twenty livres[244] for an advocate. “I have behaved very ill,” said I within myself; “but I have only just set out upon my travels, and shall learn better manners as I get along.”

[235] FOR-BIDˊ-DING, repulsive.

[236] FIGˊ-URE, shape, appearance.

[237] TEMˊ-PERED, softened, moderated.

[238] BRAHˊ-MIN, a priest among the Hindoos.

[239] ATˊ-TI-TUDE, posture, position.

[240] DEP-RE-CAˊ-TION, regret for, excusing, begging pardon for.

[241] RE-SOURCEˊ, resort, means of supply.

[242] TUˊ-NIC, a garment.

[243] PORT-MANˊ-TEAU, a bag to carry clothing in.

[244] LIVˊ-RE, a French money of account equal to 18½ cents.

XXIX.—MY MOTHER’S GRAVE.

DR. BROWNSON.

Dr. Brownson is a writer of very great ability. His “Review,” which he conducted for several years, and for which he wrote nearly every article, was marked by unrivaled logical power and great boldness and independence. Since the discontinuance of his “Review,” he has published the “American Republic” a very able and elaborate work.

1. I lingered several weeks around the grave of my mother, and in the neighborhood where she had lived. It was the place where I had passed my own childhood and youth. It was the scene of those early associations which become the dearer to us as we leave them the farther behind. I stood where I had sported in the freedom of early childhood; but I stood alone, for no one was there with whom I could speak of its frolics.[245] One feels singularly desolate[246] when he sees only strange faces, and hears only strange voices in what was the home of his early life.

2. I returned to the village where I resided when I first introduced myself to my readers. But what was that spot to me now? Nature had done much for it, but nature herself is very much what we make her. There must be beauty in our souls, or we shall see no loveliness in her face; and beauty had died out of my soul. She who might have recalled it to life and thrown its hues over all the world was—but of that I will not speak.

3. It was now that I really needed the hope of immortality.[247] The world was to me one vast desert, and life was without end or aim. The hope of immortality! We want it when earth has lost its gloss of novelty; when our hopes have been blasted, our affections withered, and the shortness of life and the vanity of all human pursuits have come home to us and made us exclaim,[248] “Vanity of vanities, all is vanity:” we want then the hope of immortality to give to life an end, an aim.

4. We all of us at times feel this want. The infidel feels it in early life. He learns all too soon, what to him is a withering fact, that man does not complete his destiny on earth. Man never completes any thing here. What then shall he do if there be no hereafter? With what courage can I betake myself to my task? I may begin; but the grave lies between me and the completion.[249] Death will come to interrupt my work, and compel me to leave it unfinished.

5. This is more terrible to me than the thought of ceasing. I could almost (at least I think I could) consent to be no more after I had finished my work, achieved[250] my destiny; but to die before my work is completed, while that destiny is but begun,—this is the death which comes to me indeed as a “King of Terrors.”

6. The hope of another life to be the complement[251] of this, steps in to save us from this death to give us the courage and the hope to begin. The rough sketch shall hereafter become the finished picture: the artist shall give it the last touch at his easel, the science we had just begun shall be completed, and the incipient[252] destiny shall be achieved. Fear not then to begin; thou hast eternity before thee in which to end.

[245] FROLˊ-ICS, wild pranks; scenes of mirth.

[246] DESˊ-O-LATE, lonely; comfortless.

[247] IMˊ-MOR-TAL-I-TY, endless existence hereafter.

[248] EX-CLAIMˊ, cry out.

[249] COM-PLEˊ-TION, fulfillment.

[250] A-CHIEVEDˊ, accomplished.

[251] COMˊ-PLE-MENT, that which completes.

[252] IN-CIPˊ-I-ENT, commencing; beginning.

XXX.—GOOD COUNSEL.

1. Never speak anything for a truth, which you know or believe to be false. Lying is a great sin against God, who gave us a tongue to speak the truth, and not falsehood. It is a great offense against humanity[253] itself; for, where there is no regard to truth, there can be no safe society between man and man.

2. And it is an injury to the speaker; for, beside the disgrace which it brings upon him, it occasions so much baseness of mind, that he can scarcely tell the truth, or avoid lying, even when he has no color of necessity for it; and, in time, he comes to such a pass, that as other people can not believe he speaks the truth, so he himself scarcely knows when he tells a falsehood.

3. You must not equivocate[254] nor speak anything positively for which you have no authority, but report, or conjecture, or opinion.

4. Let your words be few, especially, when your superiors or strangers are present, lest you betray your own weakness, and rob yourselves of the opportunity which you might, otherwise, have had to gain knowledge, wisdom, and experience by hearing those whom you silence by your impertinent talking.

5. Be not too earnest, loud, or violent in your conversation. Silence your opponent with reason, not with noise.

6. Be careful not to interrupt another when he is speaking; hear him out, and you will understand him the better and be able to give him the better answer.

7. Consider before you speak, especially, when the business is of moment; weigh the sense of what you mean to utter, and the expressions you intend to use, that they may be significant, pertinent, and inoffensive. Inconsiderate persons do not think till they speak; or they speak, and then think.

8. Some people excel in husbandry, some in gardening, some in mathematics. In conversation, learn, as near as you can, where the skill or excellence of any person lies; put him upon talking on that subject, observe what he says, keep it in your memory, or commit it to writing. By this means, you will glean the worth and knowledge of every body you converse with; and, at an easy rate, acquire what may be of use to you on many occasions.

9. When you are in company with light, vain, impertinent persons, let the observing of their failings make you the more cautious, both in conversation with them and in your general behavior, that you may avoid their errors.

10. If any one whom you do not know to be a person of truth, sobriety, and weight, relates strange stories, be not too ready to believe or report them; and yet unless he is one of your familiar acquaintances, be not too forward to contradict him.

11. If the occasion requires you to declare your opinion, do it modestly and gently, not bluntly nor coarsely; by this means, you will avoid giving offense, or being abused for too much credulity.

[253] HU-MANˊ-I-TY, mankind.

[254] E-QUIVˊ-O-CATE, speak purposely so as to convey a false impression.

XXXI.—THE SISTER OF CHARITY.

GERALD GRIFFIN.

1. She once was a lady of honor and wealth, Bright glowed on her features the roses of health; Her vesture was blended of silk and of gold, And her motion shook perfume from every fold: Joy revelled around her—love shone at her side, And gay was her smile, as the glance of a bride; And light was her step in the mirth-sounding hall, When she heard of the daughters of Vincent de Paul.

2. She felt, in her spirit, the summons[255] of grace, That called her to live for the suffering race; And heedless of pleasure, of comfort, of home, Rose quickly like Mary, and answered, “I come.” She put from her person the trappings[256] of pride, And passed from her home, with the joy of a bride, Nor wept at the threshold, as onwards she moved— For her heart was on fire in the cause it approved.

3. Lost ever to fashion—to vanity lost, That beauty that once was the song and the toast— No more in the ball-room that figure we meet, But gliding at dusk to the wretch’s retreat, Forgot in the halls is that high-sounding name, For the Sister of Charity blushes at fame; Forgot are the claims of her riches and birth, For she barters for heaven the glory of earth.

4. Those feet, that to music could gracefully move, Now bear her alone on the mission of love; Those hands that once dangled the perfume and gem, Are tending[257] the helpless, or lifted for them; That voice that once echoed the song of the vain. Now whispers relief to the bosom of pain; And the hair that was shining with diamond and pearl, Is wet with the tears of the penitent girl.

5. Her down bed—a pallet; her trinkets—a bead; Her lustre—one taper that serves her to read; Her sculpture—the crucifix nailed by her bed; Her paintings—one print of the thorn-crowned head; Her cushion—the pavement that wearies her knees; Her music—the psalm, or sigh of disease; The delicate lady lives mortified[258] there, And the feast is forsaken for fasting and prayer.

6. Yet not to the service of heart and of mind, Are the cares of that heaven-minded virgin confined. Like him whom she loves, to the mansions of grief She hastes with the tidings of joy and relief. She strengthens the weary—she comforts the weak, And soft is her voice in the ear of the sick; Where want and affliction on mortals attend, The Sister of Charity _there_ is a friend.

7. Unshrinking where pestilence scatters his breath, Like an angel she moves, ’mid the vapor of death; Where rings the loud musket, and flashes the sword, Unfearing she walks, for she follows the Lord. How sweetly she bends over each plague-tainted face, With looks that are lighted with holiest grace; How kindly she dresses each suffering limb, For she sees in the wounded the image of Him.

8. Behold her, ye worldly! behold her, ye vain! Who shrink from the pathway of virtue and pain; Who yield up to pleasure your nights and your days, Forgetful of service, forgetful of praise. Ye lazy philosophers—self-seeking men,— Ye fireside philanthropists, great at the pen, How stands in the balance your eloquence weighed With the life and the deeds of that high-born maid?

[255] SUMˊ-MONS, a call.

[256] TRAPˊ-PINGS, ornaments.

[257] TENDˊ-ING, attending; keeping.

[258] MORˊ-TI-FIED, subdued; humbled.

XXXII.—REPROOF TO AN AFFECTED[259] SPEAKER.

LA BRUYERE.

1. What do you say? _What?_ I _really_ do not understand you. Be so good as to explain yourself again. Upon my word, I do not. O, _now_ I know! you mean to tell me it is a cold day. Why did you not say at once: “It is cold to-day.” If you wish to inform me it rains or snows, pray say: “It rains,” “it snows;” or, if you think I look well, and you choose to compliment[260] me, say, “I think you look well.”

2. “But,” you answer, “that is so common, and so plain, and what every body can say.” Well, and what if they can? Is it so great a misfortune to be understood when one speaks, and to speak like the rest of the world? I will tell you what, my friend; you and your fine-spoken brethren want _one_ thing—you do not suspect[261] it, and I shall astonish[262] you—you want _common sense_.

3. Nay, this is not all; you have something _too_ much; you possess an opinion that you have _more_ sense than others. That is the source of all your pompous[263] nothings, your cloudy sentences, and your big words without a meaning. Before you accost[264] a person, or enter a room, let me pull you by your sleeve, and whisper in your ear: “Do not try to show off your sense; have none at all; that is your part. Use plain language, if you can; just such as you find others use, who, in your idea, have no understanding; and then, perhaps, you will get credit for having some.”

[259] AF-FECTˊ-ED, not natural.

[260] COMˊ-PLI-MENT, praise, flatter.

[261] SUS-PECTˊ, mistrust.

[262] AS-TONˊ-ISH, to amaze.

[263] POMPˊ-OUS, ostentatious.

[264] AC-COSTˊ, speak to; address.

XXXIII.—MY BIRTHDAY.

THOMAS MOORE.

1. “My birthday!”—what a different sound That word had in my youthful ears! And how, each time the day comes round, Less and less white the mark appears! When first our scanty years are told, It seems like pastime to grow old; And, as youth counts the shining links That Time around him binds so fast, Pleased with the task, he little thinks How hard that chain will press, at last.