THE
Cyr Readers

ARRANGED BY GRADES
BY
ELLEN M. CYR
BOOK EIGHT
BOSTON, U.S.A.
GINN & COMPANY, PUBLISHERS
The Athenæum Press
1901

Copyright, 1899, 1901
By GINN & COMPANY
——
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

TO
MY LITTLE SON
Ruel Stevenson Smith

PREFACE.

THE appreciative reading of a piece of good literature is an experience far reaching in its influence. There is a delight in following a great author as he reveals the treasure of his thought or presents to the imagination the beauty which he beholds and interprets.

The study of literature assists one to enjoy these experiences and profit by them.

Among the countless books which have been written are a few which have been chosen by all mankind. They stand the test of time and change; for they are the outcome of those giant souls, who were not limited by time nor space and who seemed to gaze with far-seeing eyes into eternity.

A large proportion of the pupils in our grammar schools would never read these classics, if their interest in them were not awakened in the schoolroom.

Many of these books are represented in this series, for this has been the end constantly in view. The names of the world’s greatest writers and their faces have become familiar to the child, so that he is now able to take down from the shelves the writings of many great men, and giving his imagination to the author’s leading, be transported into any region or age, and experience joys and sorrows outside of his own life.

I acknowledge my indebtedness to Dr. Edward Everett Hale and Little, Brown & Co., for extract from “The Man without a Country”; also to Messrs. Elliot & Frye, London, for use of a copyright photograph of Carlyle.

ELLEN M. CYR.

CONTENTS.

T H E C Y R R E A D E R S
B O O K E I G H T

A MYSTERIOUS VISITOR.
THOMAS CARLYLE.

Thomas Carlyle was born in a little village in Scotland, in the year 1795.

His father, James Carlyle, was a poor mason, so poor that at times there was scarcely enough food in the house for his family; but the father resolved that the boy should have an education, and saved, little by little, the money to pay for it.

When Thomas was ten years old, he and his father walked to the town of Annan, where Thomas was to enter the academy. The father little dreamed, as they trudged along together, that one day his son would be famous as one of the world’s greatest writers, so great that even the Queen of England would wish to talk with him.

He studied at the academy of Annan for three years. His father, dressed in his coarse workman’s clothes, once visited him there. Thomas was afraid that the other boys would laugh at him, but the sturdy Scotchman was so dignified that he won their respect.

When Thomas reached the age of thirteen his parents decided to send him to the great University at Edinburgh. They walked through the village streets with him and watched him start on the highway. It was a journey of a hundred miles, and he traveled all the way on foot.

These experiences made the boy brave and resolute. He was not afraid of the world.

A few years after leaving the University he began to earn his living by writing. For many years his income was small, as he would only write what he thought would make the world better. He used to say that he would write his books as his father built his houses, so that they would last. He scolded the world for its faults, but he was very kind-hearted.

His “History of the French Revolution” is a wonderful work. When the first volume of this history was written, Carlyle loaned it to a friend, and the manuscript was accidentally destroyed. Carlyle did not utter a word of reproach, although the loss meant months of study and thought, but set manfully to work and wrote it once more.

He was fond of German literature, and translated the “Wilhelm Meister” by Goethe. He wrote many other books, and became so famous that when Gladstone retired from office as Lord Rector of Edinburgh, Carlyle was made his successor. It was a great triumph for the mason’s son; but in the midst of his new honors his wife died, and there was no one to share his happiness.

Not long after this, Queen Victoria sent for Carlyle and granted him a personal interview. On his eightieth birthday he was honored by gifts from Scotland, England, and Germany. He died in 1881.

In the village of Entepfuhl dwelt Andreas Futteral and his wife—childless, in still seclusion, and cheerful, though now verging toward old age.

Andreas had been grenadier sergeant and even regimental schoolmaster under Frederick the Great; but now, quitting the halbert and ferule for the spade and pruning hook, cultivated a little orchard, on the produce of which he lived not without dignity.

Fruits, the peach, the apple, the grape, with other varieties came in their season, all of which Andreas knew how to sell. On evenings he smoked or read (as beseemed a regimental schoolmaster), and talked to the neighbors about the victory of Rossbach; and how “Fritz the Only” had once with his own royal lips spoken to him, and had been pleased to say, when Andreas as camp sentinel demanded the password, “Peace, hound!” before any of his staff adjutants could answer. “There is what I call a king!” would Andreas exclaim; “but the smoke of Kunersdorf was still smarting his eyes.”

Gretchen, the housewife, had been won by the deeds rather than the looks of her husband, nevertheless she at heart loved him both for his valor and wisdom. Was not Andreas in very deed a man of order, courage, downrightness, that understood Büsching’s Geography, had been in the victory of Rossbach, and left for dead on the battlefield?

The good Gretchen, for all her fretting, watched over him and hovered round him as only a true house-mother can; she cooked and sewed and scoured for him; so that not only his old regimental sword and grenadier cap, but the whole habitation, where on pegs of honor they hung, looked ever trim and gay; a roomy cottage, embowered in fruit trees and forest trees, evergreens and honeysuckles, rising many-colored from amid shaven grass plots, flowers struggling in through the very windows; under its long projecting eaves nothing but garden tools and seats where, especially on summer nights, a king might have wished to sit and smoke and call it his.

Into this home, one meek, yellow evening, it was that a stranger of reverend aspect entered, and, with grave salutation, stood before the two rather astonished housemates. He was closely muffled in a wide mantle, which without farther parley unfolding, he deposited therefrom what seemed some basket, over-hung with green Persian silk, saying only: “Good Christian people, here lies for you an invaluable loan; take all heed thereof, in all carefulness employ it; with high recompense, or else with heavy penalty will it one day be required back.” Uttering which singular words in a clear, bell-like, forever memorable tone, the stranger gracefully withdrew; and before Andreas and his wife, gazing in expectant wonder, had time to fashion either question or answer, was gone.

Neither out of doors could aught of him be seen or heard; he had vanished in the thickets, in the dusk; the orchard gate stood quietly closed; the stranger was gone once and always. So sudden had the whole transaction been in the autumn stillness and twilight, so gentle and noiseless, that the Futterals could have fancied it all a trick of imagination, or a visit from some spirit; only that green silk basket, such as neither imagination nor spirits are wont to carry, still stood visible and tangible on their little parlor table.

Toward this the astonished couple, now with lit candle, hastily turned their attention. Lifting the green veil to see what invaluable it hid, they descried there, amid down and rich white wrappings, no Pitt diamond or Hapsburg regalia, but in the softest sleep a little red-colored infant! Beside it lay a roll of gold, the exact amount of which was never publicly known; also a baptismal certificate, wherein, unfortunately, nothing but the name was decipherable.

To wonder and conjecture were unavailing then and thenceforth. Nowhere in Entepfuhl did tidings transpire of any such figure as the stranger. Meanwhile, for Andreas and his wife, the grand practical problem was what to do with this little sleeping infant! Amid amazements and curiosities which had to die away without satisfying, they resolved, as in such circumstances charitable, prudent people needs must, on nursing it, if possible, into manhood.

Young Diogenes, or rather young Gneschen, for by such diminutive had they in their fondness named him, traveled forward by quick but easy stages. I have heard him noted as a still infant, that kept his mind much to himself; above all, that he seldom cried. He already felt that time was precious; that he had other work cut out for him than whimpering.

Most graceful is the following little picture: “On fine evenings I was wont to carry forth my supper, bread crumbs boiled in milk, and eat it out of doors. On the coping of the orchard wall, which I could reach by climbing, or still more easily if Father Andreas would set up the pruning ladder, my porringer was placed; there many a sunset have I, looking at the western mountains, consumed my evening meal.

“Those hues of gold and azure, that hush of the world’s expectation as day died, were still a Hebrew speech for me; nevertheless I was looking at the fair, illuminated letters, and had an eye for their gilding.”

With the little one’s friendship for cattle and poultry we shall not much intermeddle. It may be that hereby he acquired a certain deeper sympathy with animated nature. He says again: “Impressive enough was it to hear in early morning the swineherd’s horn, and know that so many hungry quadrupeds were, on all sides, starting in hot haste to join him for breakfast on the heath. Or to see them at eventide, all marching in again with short squeak, almost in military order; and each trotting off in succession to the right or left, through its own lane, to its own dwelling.”

Thus encircled by mystery, waited on by the four seasons, with their changing contributions, for even grim winter brought its skating matches, its snowstorms and Christmas carols, did the child sit and learn. These things were the alphabet whereby in after time he was to syllable and partly read the grand volume of the world; what matters it whether such alphabet be in large gilt letters or in small ungilt ones, so you have an eye to read it?

For Gneschen, eager to learn, the very act of looking thereon was a blessedness that gilded all; his existence was a bright, soft element of joy, out of which wonder after wonder bodied itself forth to teach by charming.

From “Sartor Resartus.”

A SCENE FROM WILLIAM TELL.
SHERIDAN KNOWLES.

Scene I.
[WILLIAM TELL, ALBERT HIS SON, AND GESLER.]

Gesler. What is thy name?
Tell. My name?
It matters not to keep it from thee now:—
My name is Tell.
Ges. Tell!—William Tell?
Tell. The same.
Ges. What! he so famed ’bove all his countrymen
For guiding o’er the stormy lake the boat?
And such a master of his bow, ’tis said
His arrows never miss!—Indeed—I’ll take
Exquisite vengeance!—Mark! I’ll spare thy life—
Thy boy’s too!—both of you are free—on one
Condition.
Tell. Name it.
Ges. I would see you make
A trial of your skill with that same bow
You shoot so well with.
Tell. Name the trial you
Would have me make.
Ges. You look upon your boy
As though instinctively you guessed it.
Tell. Look upon my boy! What mean you? Look upon
My boy as though I guessed it!—Guessed the trial
You’d have me make!—Guessed it
Instinctively! you do not mean—no—no—
You would not have me make a trial of
My skill upon my child!—Impossible!
I do not guess your meaning.
Ges. I would see
Thee hit an apple at the distance of
A hundred paces.
Tell. Is my boy to hold it?
Ges. No.
Tell. No!—I’ll send the arrow through the core!
Ges. It is to rest upon his head.
Tell. Great Heaven, you hear him!
Ges. Thou dost hear the choice I give—
Such trial of the skill thou art master of,
Or death to both of you; not otherwise
To be escaped.
Tell. O monster!
Ges. Wilt thou do it?
Albert. He will! he will!
Tell. Ferocious monster!—Make
A father murder his own child.
Ges. Take off
His chains, if he consent.
Tell. With his own hand!
Ges. Does he consent?
Alb. He does. [Gesler signs to his officers, who proceed
to take off Tell’s chains. Tell all the time unconscious
what they do.]
Tell. With his own hand!
Murder his child with his own hand—This hand!
The hand I’ve led him, when an infant, by!
’Tis beyond horror—’tis most horrible.
Amazement! [His chains fall off.] What’s that you’ve done to me.
Villains! put on my chains again. My hands
Are free from blood, and have no gust for it,
That they should drink my child’s! Here! here! I’ll not
Murder my boy for Gesler.
Alb. Father—father!
You will not hit me, father!—
Tell. Hit thee!—Send
The arrow through thy brain—or, missing that,
Shoot out an eye—or, if thine eye escape,
Mangle the cheek I’ve seen thy mother’s lips
Cover with kisses!—Hit thee—hit a hair
Of thee, and cleave thy mother’s heart—
Ges. Dost thou consent?
Tell. Give me my bow and quiver.
Ges. For what?
Tell. To shoot my boy!
Alb. No, father—no!
To save me!—You’ll be sure to hit the apple—
Will you not save me, father?
Tell. Lead me forth—
I’ll make the trial!
Alb. Thank you!
Tell. Thank me! Do
You know for what?—I will not make the trial,
To take him to his mother in my arms,
And lay him down a corpse before her!
Ges. Then he dies this moment—and you certainly
Do murder him whose life you have a chance
To save, and will not use it.
Tell. Well—I’ll do it: I’ll make the trial.
Alb. Father—
Tell. Speak not to me:
Let me not hear thy voice—Thou must be dumb;
And so should all things be—Earth should be dumb
And Heaven—unless its thunders muttered at
The deed, and sent a bolt to stop it! Give me
My bow and quiver!—
Ges. When all’s ready.
Tell. Well! lead on!

Scene II.

Persons.—Enter, slowly, People in evident distress—Officers, Sarnem, Gesler, Tell, Albert, and soldiers—one bearing Tell’s bow and quiver, another with a basket of apples.

Ges. That is your ground. Now shall they measure thence
A hundred paces. Take the distance.
Tell. Is the line a true one?
Ges. True or not, what is’t to thee?
Tell. What is’t to me? A little thing,
A very little thing—a yard or two
Is nothing here or there—were it a wolf
I shot at! Never mind.
Ges. Be thankful, slave,
Our grace accords thee life on any terms.
Tell. I will be thankful, Gesler!—Villain, stop!
You measure to the sun!
Ges. And what of that?
What matter whether to or from the sun?
Tell. I’d have it at my back—the sun should shine
Upon the mark, and not on him that shoots.
I cannot see to shoot against the sun—
I will not shoot against the sun!
Ges. Give him his way! Thou hast cause to bless my mercy.
Tell. I shall remember it. I’d like to see
The apple I’m to shoot at.
Ges. Stay! show me the basket!—there—
Tell. You’ve picked the smallest one.
Ges. I know I have.
Tell. O! do you?—But you see
The color on’t is dark—I’d have it light,
To see it better.
Ges. Take it as it is:
Thy skill will be the greater if thou hit’st it.
Tell. True—true! I did not think of that—I wonder
I did not think of that—Give me some chance
To save my boy! [Throws away the apple with all his force.]
I will not murder him,
If I can help it—for the honor of
The form thou wearest, if all the heart is gone.
Ges. Well, choose thyself.
Tell. Have I a friend among the lookers on?
Verner. [Rushing forward.] Here, Tell!
Tell. I thank thee, Verner!
He is a friend runs out into a storm
To shake a hand with us. I must be brief:
When once the bow is bent, we cannot take
The shot too soon. Verner, whatever be
The issue of this hour, the common cause
Must not stand still. Let not to-morrow’s sun
Set on the tyrant’s banner! Verner! Verner!
The boy!—the boy! Thinkest thou he hath the courage
To stand it.
Ver. Yes.
Tell. How looks he?
Ver. Clear and smilingly:
If you doubt it—look yourself.
Tell. No—no—my friend:
To hear it is enough.
Ver. He bears himself so much above his years—
Tell. I know!—I know.
Ver. With constancy so modest!—
Tell. I was sure he would—
Ver. And looks with such relying love
And reverence upon you—
Tell. Man! Man! Man!
No more! Already I’m too much the father
To act the man!—Verner, no more, my friend!
I would be flint—flint—flint. Don’t make me feel
I’m not—Do not mind me!—Take the boy
And set him, Verner, with his back to me.
Set him upon his knees—and place this apple
Upon his head, so that the stem may front me,—
Thus, Verner; charge him to keep steady—tell him
I’ll hit the apple! Verner, do all this
More briefly than I tell it thee.
Ver. Come, Albert! [Leading him out.]
Alb. May I not speak with him before I go?
Ver. No.
Alb. I would only kiss his hand.
Ver. You must not.
Alb. I must!—I cannot go from him without.
Ver. It is his will you should.
Alb. His will, is it?
I am content, then—come.
Tell. My boy! [Holding out his arms to him.]
Alb. My father! [Rushing into Tell’s arms.]
Tell. If thou canst bear it, should not I?—Go, now,
My son—and keep in mind that I can shoot—
Go, boy—be thou but steady, I will hit
The apple—Go!—God bless thee—go.—My
bow!— [The bow is handed to him.]

Thou wilt not fail thy master, wilt thou?—Thou
Hast never failed him yet, old servant—No,
I’m sure of thee—I know thy honesty.
Thou art stanch—stanch.—Let me see my quiver.
Ges. Give him a single arrow.
Tell. Do you shoot?
Sol. I do.
Tell. Is it so you pick an arrow, friend?
The point, you see, is bent; the feather jagged:
[Breaks it.]
That’s all the use ’tis fit for.
Ges. Let him have another.
Tell. Why, ’tis better than the first,
But yet not good enough for such an aim
As I’m to take—’tis heavy in the shaft:
I’ll not shoot with it! [Throws it away.] Let me see my quiver.
Bring it!—’Tis not one arrow in a dozen
I’d take to shoot with at a dove, much less
A dove like that.—
Ges. It matters not.
Show him the quiver.
Tell. See if the boy is ready.
[Tell here hides an arrow under his vest.]
Ver. He is.
Tell. I’m ready, too! Keep silent for
Heaven’s sake and do not stir—and let me have
Your prayers—your prayers—and be my witnesses
That if his life’s in peril from my hand,
’Tis only for the chance of saving it. [To the people.]
Ges. Go on.
Tell. I will.
O friends, for mercy sake, keep motionless
And silent.

[Tell shoots—a shout of exultation bursts from the crowd—Tell’s head drops on his bosom; he with difficulty supports himself upon his bow.]

Ver. [Rushing in with Albert.] The boy is safe,—no hair of him is touched.
Alb. Father, I’m safe!—your Albert’s safe, dear father,—
Speak to me! Speak to me!
Ver. He cannot, boy!
Alb. You grant him life?
Ges. I do.
Alb. And we are free?
Ges. You are. [Crossing angrily behind.]
Alb. Thank Heaven!—thank Heaven!
Ver. Open his vest,
And give him air.

[Albert opens his father’s vest, and the arrow drops. Tell starts, fixes his eye upon Albert, and clasps him to his breast.]

Tell. My boy!—My boy!
Ges. For what
Hid you that arrow in your breast?—Speak, slave!
Tell. To kill thee, tyrant, had I slain my boy!

ADDRESS TO THE SURVIVORS OF THE BATTLE OF BUNKER HILL.
DANIEL WEBSTER.

Daniel Webster, one of the greatest of American statesmen, was born at Salisbury, N. H., in 1782.

His father, Ebenezer Webster, was a farmer and Justice of the County Court. He had been an officer in the Revolutionary war.

Daniel received his early instruction from his mother, a woman of rare intellectual powers, and from the country school which he attended during the winters.

Although he became a distinguished orator, he failed utterly in public speaking at school. He afterwards said: “There was one thing I could not do; I could not make a declamation. I could not speak before the school.”

Daniel showed so great ability as a student that the family decided he must attend college, although this step called for additional hardship and sacrifice on the part of those at home. He studied under the direction of a clergyman in a neighboring town, spent one year at Phillips Exeter Academy, and entered Dartmouth College when he was fifteen years old. During his vacations he taught school to pay his expenses. He also assisted his brother Ezekiel in obtaining his education.

He finished his course at college with credit, and then studied law in Boston. He began his practice in Boscawen, a country town near his home; but after the death of his father he removed to Portsmouth, and was soon regarded as the leading man in his profession.

After a time he removed to Boston, where he became known as one of the ablest lawyers of his time.

Webster was elected to Congress from Boston, and took his seat in December, 1823, and continued to serve in that position till he was elected to the Senate, in which body he took his seat on the 4th of March, 1827.

The awkward village lad who could not declaim in the district school now ranked among the most eloquent orators of the country.

On the anniversary of the landing of the Pilgrim Fathers, Webster delivered a stirring oration, which made him famous throughout the country; and at the laying of the corner stone of the Bunker Hill Monument he delivered an address which has not been equaled in this century. From that time Daniel Webster was sought after for every public occasion. He twice held the office of Secretary of State. He resigned the latter office on account of failing health during the summer of 1852, and retired to his country seat at Marshfield, Mass., where he died in the following October.

You have come down to us from a former generation. Heaven has bounteously lengthened out your lives that you might behold this joyous day. You are now where you stood fifty years ago this very hour, with your brothers and your neighbors, shoulder to shoulder in the strife of your country. Behold how altered! The same heavens are indeed over your heads; the same ocean rolls at your feet; but all else, how changed! You hear now no roar of hostile cannon; you see no mixed volumes of smoke and flame rising from burning Charlestown. The ground strewed with the dead and the dying; the impetuous charge; the steady and successful repulse; the loud call to repeated assault; the summoning of all that is manly to repeated resistance; a thousand bosoms freely and fearlessly bared in an instant to whatever of terror there may be in war and death,—all these you have witnessed, but you witness them no more. All is peace. The heights of yonder metropolis, its towers and roofs, which you then saw filled with wives and children and countrymen in distress and terror, and looking with unutterable emotions for the issue of the combat, have presented you to-day with the sight of its whole happy population, come out to welcome and greet you with a universal jubilee. Yonder proud ships, by a felicity of position appropriately lying at the foot of this mount, and seeming fondly to cling around it, are not means of annoyance to you, but your country’s own means of distinction and defense. All is peace; and God has granted you this sight of your country’s happiness ere you slumber in the grave forever. He has allowed you to behold and to partake the reward of your patriotic toils, and he has allowed us, your sons and countrymen, to meet you here, and, in the name of the present generation, in the name of your country, in the name of liberty, to thank you.

But, alas! you are not all here. Time and the sword have thinned your ranks. Prescott, Putnam, Stark, Brooks, Read, Pomeroy, Bridge! our eyes seek for you in vain amidst this broken band. You are gathered to your fathers and live only to your country in her grateful remembrance and your own bright example. But let us not too much grieve that you have met the common fate of men. You lived at least long enough to know that your work, had been nobly and successfully accomplished. You lived to see your country’s independence established and to sheathe your swords from war. On the light of liberty you saw arise the light of peace, like

another morn,
Risen on mid-noon,—

and the sky on which you closed your eyes was cloudless.

Veterans of half a century! when, in your youthful days, you put everything at hazard in your country’s cause, good as that cause was, and sanguine as youth is, still your fondest hopes did not stretch onward to an hour like this. At a period to which you could not reasonably hope to arrive, at a moment of national prosperity such as you could never have foreseen, you are now met here to enjoy the fellowship of old soldiers, and to receive the overflowings of a universal gratitude.

But your agitated countenances and your heaving breasts inform me that even this is not an unmixed joy. I perceive that a tumult of contending feelings rushes upon you. The images of the dead, as well as the persons of the living, throng to your embraces. The scene overwhelms you, and I turn from it. May the Father of all mercies smile upon your declining years and bless them! and when you shall here have exchanged your embraces, when you shall once more have pressed the hands which have been so often extended to give succor in adversity or grasped in the exultation of victory, then look abroad into this lovely land, which your young valor defended, and mark the happiness with which it is filled; yea, look abroad into the whole earth, and see what a name you have contributed to give to your country, and what a praise you have added to freedom, and then rejoice in the sympathy and gratitude which beam upon your last days from the improved condition of mankind.

THE AMERICAN UNION.
DANIEL WEBSTER.

I have not allowed myself, sir, to look beyond the Union, to see what might lie hidden in the dark recess behind. Nor could I regard him as a safe counsellor in the affairs of this government whose thoughts should be mainly bent on considering, not how the Union may v be best preserved, but how tolerable might be the condition of the people when it shall be broken up and destroyed. While the Union lasts, we have high, exciting, gratifying prospects spread out before us, for us and our children. Beyond that I seek not to penetrate the veil. God grant that, in my day at least, that curtain may not rise! God grant that on my vision never may be opened what lies behind! When my eyes shall be turned to behold for the last time the sun in heaven, may they not see him shining on the broken and dishonored fragments of a once glorious Union; on States dissevered, discordant, belligerent; on a land rent with civil feuds, or drenched, it may be, in fraternal blood. Let their last feeble and lingering glance rather behold the gorgeous ensign of the republic, now known and honored throughout the earth, still full high advanced; its arms and trophies streaming in all their original luster, not a stripe erased or polluted, not a single star obscured; bearing for its motto no such miserable interrogatory as “What is all this worth?” nor those other words of delusion and folly, of “Liberty first, and Union afterwards”; but everywhere, spread all over in characters of living light, and blazing on all its ample folds, as they float over the sea and over the land, and in every wind under the whole heavens, that other sentiment dear to every true American heart—“Liberty AND Union—now and forever—one and inseparable!”

RECESSIONAL.
A Victorian Ode.
RUDYARD KIPLING.

Rudyard Kipling was born in Bombay, India, in 1865.

His father and mother used to meet beside Lake Rudyard, and gave its name to their son. John Lockwood Kipling, the father, was at the head of the Lahore School of Art, and has illustrated a recent edition of his son’s works.

On reaching the school age, young Kipling was sent to England to be educated, as was the custom among the English residents of India. He was educated in the United Services College, returning home at the age of eighteen.

It was his ambition to become a writer and he secured employment on the “Civil and Military Gazette.” His work here familiarized him with the life in the garrisons, which he afterwards turned to good account in his ballads and short stories.

He was twenty-one years old when he became assistant editor of the “Lahore Journal.” It was a strange newspaper office, judging by accounts which he has given us of it. There were native type-setters and a queer Mohammedan foreman. In a story which he wrote, called “The Man Who Would be King,” Kipling tells how they worked in the stifling Indian heat.

From time to time Kipling published verses and stories in the local paper, and when these had been gathered together and sent out into the world in the form of a book called “Plain Tales from the Hills,” the name of the young author and poet became famous.

He then went to England and made his home in London. He wrote many stories and poems of the old life in India, one of the best collections of which is the “Barrack-Room Ballads.”

In London he met Walcott Balestier, of Brattleboro, Vt., and they wrote stories together until Balestier’s death. Not long after, Kipling married Caroline Balestier. They came to this country and lived for a time in Vermont, where the poet surrounded himself with everything that would remind him of the life in India.

Among other works of Kipling are “Soldiers Three,” “The Phantom ‘Rickshaw, and Other Stories,” the two Jungle Books, and “The Day’s Work.”

At the time of Queen Victoria’s jubilee, Kipling wrote what was perhaps his greatest poem, the “Recessional,” which was published in “The London Times.”

God of our fathers, known of old—
Lord of our far-flung battle line—
Beneath whose awful hand we hold
Dominion over palm and pine—
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!

The tumult and the shouting dies—
The Captains and the Kings depart—
Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice,
An humble and a contrite heart.
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!

Far-called our navies melt away—
On dune and headland sinks the fire—
Lo, all our pomp of yesterday
Is one with Nineveh and Tyre!
Judge of the Nations, spare us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!

If, drunk with sight of power, we loose
Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe—
Such boasting as the Gentiles use,
Or lesser breeds without the Law—
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!

For heathen heart that puts her trust
In reeking tube and iron shard—
All valiant dust that builds on dust,
And guarding calls not Thee to guard.
For frantic boast and foolish word,
Thy Mercy on Thy People, Lord!

Amen.

WILLIAM HICKLING PRESCOTT.

William Hickling Prescott was born in the quaint old town of Salem, Mass., on the 4th of May, 1796. His father was a successful lawyer, and his mother was a lady of great ability who spent much time in educating and training her son. William was a bright, merry boy, who learned with ease, and was a great favorite among the boys. The first school he attended was taught by a gentle, old-fashioned lady, who was called the school mother. When he was seven years old he was sent to a more advanced school, taught by “Master Knapp,” and remained there for five years.

Though strong and large of his age, he cared more for books than he did for boyish sports. He never remembered a time when he did not love to read.

When he was twelve years old his father removed to Boston, and William was sent to the best classical school then known in New England. He had George Ticknor the historian for a classmate and friend. The two boys progressed so rapidly in Latin and Greek that they outdistanced the rest of the class and recited by themselves.

Books and reading matter were then much more rare than now; but not far from the Prescott home there had been started a library, called the Boston Athenæum. The founder, Mr. William Shaw, who also acted as librarian, was fond of bright boys and allowed a few of them to read there. William, who was one of his favorites, spent many an hour in these rooms, reading whatever pleased his fancy. He was especially fond of romances and tales of wild adventure.

His most intimate friend was a son of Dr. Gardiner, his teacher, and the boys were constantly together. They used to invent stories to tell each other on their way to and from school. Prescott’s tales were the wilder, for he had a vivid imagination and had read many books of adventure.

William’s grandfather, Colonel Prescott, had commanded the American forces at Bunker Hill, and William often listened to the story of this battle, and gazed with awe upon the sword which the colonel wore during the contest. He and young Gardiner amused themselves with fighting mock battles, dressing in some pieces of old armor which they found among the curiosities of the Athenæum, and imagining that they were Revolutionary heroes, Greeks or Romans, or knights of the olden time.

Prescott entered Harvard College at the age of fifteen, passing his examinations with credit. He wished to hold a high rank in his class, and as it was an effort for him to apply himself, he made rules devoting a certain time to each study. He was of a happy, gay disposition and enjoyed the college life; but his course was interrupted by a painful accident. He was passing out of the dining hall one day when the sound of some frolic attracted his attention and he turned his head to see what it was. At that moment one of the students threw a piece of bread, which struck him on the open eye.

The shock of the blow was so great that he fell and was taken to his home and placed in the charge of a physician. After several weeks he returned to college, but the sight of the injured eye was entirely destroyed. He was graduated with honors in spite of this affliction, and wrote a Latin poem for Commencement.

On leaving college Prescott entered his father’s law office, but continued reading Latin and Greek. After several months his sound eye became affected and there was fear of his becoming totally blind. He spent four months in a darkened room and bore his suffering bravely, always greeting the family with some word of cheer, as though they were the sufferers and it was his place to comfort them. As soon as he was able to travel he was sent to visit his grandfather Hickling, who was United States Consul at the Azores.

The passage was long and trying, and he was glad to reach land and receive the hearty welcome of his relatives. They lived in a delightful country house, in the midst of a beautiful garden, and Prescott was charmed with the tropical plants and orange groves.

He had been there but a fortnight when his eye again became affected, and he was obliged to spend three months in a darkened room. But he was so bright and patient that he won the hearts of all, and it was with sorrow that they finally saw him sail away.

After leaving the Azores, he spent several months in Europe, and then returned to America, spending the next winter at home. He was obliged to avoid the light; but his old school friend, Gardiner, read some of his favorite books to him each day, and his sister spent the greater part of her time with him, reading to him for hours.

Prescott was now twenty-two years old, and his outlook for the future was discouraging. He did not know what profession to follow, for there was no hope of his fully regaining his sight. There seemed no improvement in spite of his quiet life, and he began to go about and enjoy society.

He was married, when he was twenty-four years of age, to Miss Susan Amory, who was his devoted wife and companion. Mrs. Prescott’s grandfather had also been a commander at the Battle of Bunker Hill, and captain of a British sloop-of-war.

The swords worn by the soldier and the sailor on that day had been handed down in both families, and hung for many years in Prescott’s library, peacefully crossed above his books.

Prescott had now chosen a life of literary work, and persuaded himself that so long as his hearing was spared he would be able to succeed. He felt that he must make especial preparation in order to gain the place he desired, and began to study as if he were a schoolboy, reading the best English, Latin, French, and Italian authors.

He intended to study German, but he became interested in some lectures on Spanish literature, written by his friend Mr. Ticknor, and decided to write a history of the reign of Ferdinand and Isabella.

This was slow work, for although he learned the language, he was unable to use his eyes and depended on the reading of a man who could only pronounce the Spanish words. He finally secured a secretary and reader who understood Spanish and could copy his notes for him. His own writing was done with the aid of an instrument used by the blind, which guided his hand upon the paper.

After ten years of labor his book was published. Its success was remarkable, and it was reprinted in England, Germany, and Spain.

Mr. Prescott was then nearly forty-two years old, tall, handsome, and attractive in his manner. He led a regular life, planning his days carefully, rising at a fixed hour each morning, and taking exercise in the open air. He was a good horseman and composed some of his most stirring battle scenes as he galloped along the country roads.

He divided his time among three residences—one in the city of Boston, another at Lynn, with a view of the ocean, and a third at Pepperell, the old home of Colonel Prescott.

The success of “Ferdinand and Isabella” led the author to continue his writing, and after resting for some months, he began to prepare the “History of the Conquest of Mexico,” which was published six years after his first history. This work was greeted with applause throughout the country. Four years later he wrote the “History of the Conquest of Peru.” He next undertook the “History of Philip the Second,” but it was never finished.

In spite of his loss of sight, Prescott gained the first place among our historians. He visited London in 1850, and received a most cordial welcome and many attentions. On his return his health failed and he spent less time in writing. His family were always very dear to him, and he delighted in gathering his children and grandchildren about him in the old homestead at Pepperell. Mr. Prescott died in 1859.

STORMING THE FORTRESS.
WILLIAM HICKLING PRESCOTT.

The cheering words and courageous bearing of the cavaliers went to the hearts of their followers. All now agreed to stand by their leader to the last. But, if they would remain longer in their present position, it was absolutely necessary to dislodge the enemy from the fortress; and, before venturing on this dangerous service, Hernando Pizarro resolved to strike such a blow as should intimidate the besiegers from further attempts to molest his present quarters.

He communicated his plan of attack to his officers and formed his little troop into three divisions. The Indian pioneers were sent forward to clear away the rubbish, and the several divisions moved up the principal avenues towards the camp of the besiegers; and the three bodies, bursting impetuously on the disordered lines of the Peruvians, took them completely by surprise. For some moments there was little resistance, and the slaughter was terrible. But the Indians gradually rallied, and, coming into something like order, returned to the fight with the courage of men who had long been familiar with danger. They fought hand to hand with their copper-headed war clubs and poleaxes, while a storm of darts, stones, and arrows rained on the well-defended bodies of the Christians.

The barbarians showed more discipline than was to have been expected; for which it is said they were indebted to some Spanish prisoners, from several of whom the Inca, having generously spared their lives, took occasional lessons in the art of war. The Peruvians had also learned to manage with some degree of skill the weapons of their conquerors; and they were seen armed with bucklers, helmets, and swords of European workmanship, and even in a few instances mounted on the horses which they had taken from the white men. The young Inca in particular, accoutered in the European fashion, rode a war horse which he managed with considerable address, and, with a long lance in his hand, led on his followers to the attack.

After a gallant struggle, in which the natives threw themselves fearlessly on the horsemen, endeavoring to tear them from their saddles, they were obliged to give way before the repeated shock of their charges. Many were trampled under foot, others cut down by the Spanish broadswords, while the arquebusiers, supporting the cavalry, kept up a running fire that did terrible execution on the flanks and rear of the fugitives. At length, trusting that the chastisement he had inflicted on the enemy would secure him from further annoyance for the present, the Castilian general drew back his forces to their quarters in the capital.

His next step was the recovery of the citadel. It was an enterprise of danger. The fortress, which overlooked the northern section of the city, stood high on a rocky eminence, where it was defended only by a single wall. Towards the open country it was more easy of approach; but there it was protected by two semicircular walls, each about twelve hundred feet in length and of great thickness. Within the interior wall was the fortress, consisting of three strong towers, one of great height, which, with a smaller one, was now held by the enemy, under the command of an Inca noble, a warrior of well-tried valor, prepared to defend it to the last.

As the fortress was to be approached through the mountain passes, it became necessary to divert the enemy’s attention to another quarter. A little while before sunset Juan Pizarro left the city with a picked corps of horsemen, and took a direction opposite to that of the fortress, that the besieging army might suppose the object was a foraging expedition. But, secretly countermarching in the night, he fortunately found the passes undefended and arrived before the outer wall of the fortress without giving the alarm to the garrison.

The entrance was through a narrow opening in the center of the rampart; but this was now closed up with heavy stones that seemed to form one solid work with the rest of the masonry. It was an affair of time to dislodge these huge masses in such a manner as not to rouse the garrison. The Indian natives, who rarely attacked in the night, were not sufficiently acquainted with the art of war even to provide against surprise by posting sentinels. When the task was accomplished, Juan Pizarro and his gallant troop rode through the gateway and advanced towards the second parapet.

But their movements had not been conducted so secretly as to escape notice, and they now found the interior court swarming with warriors, who, as the Spaniards drew near, let off clouds of missiles that compelled them to come to a halt. Juan Pizarro, aware that no time was to be lost, ordered one-half of his corps to dismount, and, putting himself at their head, prepared to make a breach as before in the fortifications. Leading on his men, he encouraged them in the work of demolition in the face of such a storm of stones, javelins, and arrows as might have made the stoutest heart shrink from encountering it. The good mail of the Spaniards did not always protect them; but others took the place of such as fell, until a breach was made, and the cavalry, pouring in, rode down all who opposed them.

The parapet was now abandoned, and the Indians, hurrying with disorderly flight across the enclosure, took refuge on a kind of platform or terrace, commanded by the principal tower. Here, rallying, they shot off fresh volleys of missiles against the Spaniards, while the garrison in the fortress hurled down fragments of rock and timber on their heads. Juan Pizarro, still among the foremost, sprang forward on the terrace, cheering on his men by his voice and example; but at this moment he was struck by a large stone on the head, not then protected by his buckler, and was stretched on the ground. The dauntless chief still continued to animate his followers by his voice till the terrace was carried and its miserable defenders were put to the sword. His sufferings were then too much for him, and he was removed to the town below, where, notwithstanding every exertion to save him, he survived the injury but a fortnight. He had served in the conquest of Peru from the first, and no name on the roll of its conquerors is less tarnished by the reproach of cruelty or stands higher in all the attributes of a true and valiant knight.

Though deeply sensible to his brother’s disaster, Hernando Pizarro saw that no time was to be lost in profiting by the advantages already gained. Committing the charge of the town to Gonzalo, he put himself at the head of the assailants and laid vigorous siege to the fortresses. One surrendered after a short resistance. The other and more formidable of the two still held out under the brave Inca noble who commanded it. He was a man of an athletic frame, and might be seen striding along the battlements, armed with a Spanish buckler and cuirass, and in his hand wielding a formidable mace, garnished with points or knobs of copper. With this terrible weapon he struck down all who attempted to force a passage into the fortress. Some of his own followers who proposed a surrender he is said to have slain with his own hand. Ladders were planted against the walls; but no sooner did a Spaniard gain the topmost round than he was hurled to the ground by the strong arm of the Indian warrior. His activity was equal to his strength; and he seemed to be at every point the moment that his presence was needed.

The Spanish commander was filled with admiration at this display of valor; for he could admire valor even in an enemy. He gave orders that the chief should not be injured, but be taken alive, if possible. This was not easy. At length, numerous ladders having been planted against the tower, the Spaniards scaled it on several quarters at the same time, and, leaping into the place, overpowered the few combatants who still made a show of resistance. But the Inca chieftain was not to be taken; and, finding further resistance ineffectual, he sprang to the edge of the battlements, and casting away his war club, wrapped his mantle around him and threw himself headlong from the summit. He died like an ancient Roman. He had struck his last stroke for the freedom of his country, and he scorned to survive her dishonor. The Castilian commander left a small force in garrison to secure his conquest, and returned in triumph to his quarters.

From “History of the Conquest of Peru.”

A COUNTRY SUNDAY.
Joseph Addison.

Joseph Addison was born in England in 1672. His father was a clergyman, well educated and of strong character. He was devoted to his family, and their home life was delightful.

Joseph first attended the schools in the neighborhood, and was then sent to the Charterhouse, which was one of the best-known schools in England.

He entered Oxford when he was fifteen years old, and was looked upon as a promising scholar. After two years at this college a copy of some Latin verses written by him fell into the hands of Dr. Lancaster, a man of influence, and he was elected to a scholarship in Magdalen College.

His life there was quiet; he studied late at night, and went on long, solitary walks. He continued to write Latin verses, and became so familiar with the Latin writers that he could recite many of their poems. Every little touch of beauty was appreciated by him and filled him with delight.

From his twenty-first to his thirty-second year Addison spent his time in study, writing, and thought.

He spent several years in traveling about France and Italy. While in Paris he lived at the house of the ambassador, where he met the most brilliant society; and in Italy he studied the great works of art. These views of life, added to his natural grace and love of refinement, made him a master of literary style and expression. On his return from his travels he held several offices for the government, and later became a member of Parliament.

Richard Steele, an old schoolfellow and writer of some note, started some periodicals—“The Tatler,” followed by “The Spectator,” and later by “The Guardian.” Addison became interested in these publications and wrote a large number of essays for them—among them the “Sir Roger de Coverley Papers.” His characters were taken from life and he describes the manners and customs of the time in language which is cited by all critics as a model of pure English. He also wrote several dramas and poems.

Addison led a happy life. His position under the government brought him a good income. He was looked upon as one of the foremost writers of the day. He loved truth, purity, and kindness, and his works are models of grace and beauty.

He died in 1719, and was buried in the Poets’ Corner at Westminster Abbey.

I AM always very well pleased with a country Sunday, and think if keeping holy the seventh day were only a human institution, it would be the best method that could have been thought of for the polishing and civilizing of mankind. It is certain the country people would soon degenerate into a kind of savages and barbarians, were there not such frequent returns of a stated time, in which the whole village meet together with their best faces, and in their cleanliest habits, to converse with one another upon indifferent subjects, hear their duties explained to them, and join together in adoration of the Supreme Being.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

My friend, Sir Roger, being a good churchman, has beautified the inside of his church with several texts of his own choosing. He has likewise given a handsome pulpit cloth, and railed in the communion table at his own expense.

He has often told me that at his coming to his estate, he found his parishioners very irregular; and that in order to make them kneel and join in the responses, he gave every one of them a hassock and a Common Prayer Book; and, at the same time, employed an itinerant singing-master, who goes about the country for that purpose, to instruct them rightly in the tunes of the Psalms, upon which they now very much value themselves, and indeed outdo most of the country churches that I have ever heard.

As Sir Roger is landlord to the whole congregation, he keeps them in very good order, and will suffer nobody to sleep in it besides himself; for, if by chance he has been surprised into a short nap at sermon, upon recovering out of it he stands up and looks about him, and, if he sees anybody else nodding, either wakes them himself, or sends his servants to them. Several other of the old knight’s particularities break out upon these occasions. Sometimes he will be lengthening out a verse in the singing Psalms, half a minute after the rest of the congregation have done with it; sometimes when he is pleased with the matter of his devotion, he pronounces “Amen” three or four times to the same prayer; and sometimes stands up when everybody else is upon their knees, to count the congregation, or see if any of his tenants are missing. I was yesterday very much surprised to hear my old friend, in the midst of the service, calling out to one John Matthews to mind what he was about, and not disturb the congregation. This John Matthews, it seems, is remarkable for being an idle fellow, and at that time was kicking his heels for his diversion.

This authority of the knight, though exerted in that odd manner which accompanies him in all circumstances of life, has a very good effect upon the parish, who are not polite enough to see anything ridiculous in his behavior; besides that, the general good sense and worthiness of his character make his friends observe these little singularities as foils that rather set off than blemish his good qualities.

As soon as the sermon is finished, nobody presumes to stir till Sir Roger is gone out of the church. The knight walks down from his seat in the chancel between a double row of his tenants, who stand bowing to him on each side, and every now and then inquires how such an one’s wife, or mother, or son, or father do, whom he does not see at church; which is understood as a secret reprimand to the person that is absent.

The chaplain has often told me that upon a catechising day, when Sir Roger has been pleased with a boy that answers well, he has ordered a Bible to be given him next day for his encouragement, and sometimes accompanies it with a flitch of bacon to his mother.

Sir Roger has likewise added five pounds a year to the clerk’s place; and, that he may encourage the young fellows to make themselves perfect in the church service, has promised upon the death of the present incumbent, who is very old, to bestow it according to merit.

From “The Sir Roger de Coverley Papers.”

THE KING OF GLORY.

The earth is the Lord’s, and the fulness thereof;
The world, and they that dwell therein.
For he hath founded it upon the seas,
And established it upon the floods.

Who shall ascend into the hill of the Lord?
Or who shall stand in his holy place?

He that hath clean hands, and a pure heart;
Who hath not lifted up his soul unto vanity,
Nor sworn deceitfully.
He shall receive the blessing from the Lord,
And righteousness from the God of his salvation.

Lift up your heads, O ye gates;
And be ye lifted up, ye everlasting doors;
And the King of Glory shall come in.

Who is this King of Glory?

The Lord strong and mighty,
The Lord mighty in battle.

Lift up your heads, O ye gates;
Even lift them up, ye everlasting doors;
And the King of Glory shall come in.

Who is this King of Glory?

The Lord of hosts, he is the King of Glory.

Lift up your heads, O ye gates;
Even lift them up, ye everlasting doors;
And the King of Glory shall come in.

THE MAN WITHOUT A COUNTRY.
[Abridged.]
EDWARD EVERETT HALE.

Edward Everett Hale was born in Boston in 1822. He was named for his uncle, Edward Everett, the celebrated orator. When six years of age he had begun the study of Latin, and entered Harvard College when he was thirteen. Though young Hale was a diligent student, he excelled in athletic sports, and his great physical strength is shown even now in his large frame and powerful hands and arms.

The future author and preacher was graduated from Harvard with honors when he was seventeen years old. He assisted his father in newspaper work, and was able to write editorials, keep the books, or set type, as the occasion required. He afterwards studied theology.

His first pastorate was at Worcester, Mass. He remained there for ten years. He then settled in Boston. He was with the Massachusetts Rifle Corps when the Civil War broke out, and it was upon an incident of that war that he founded his story of “The Man without a Country.” This is one of the strongest stories of patriotism ever written, and has been reprinted in several languages.

For many years Dr. Hale has been pastor of the South Congregational Church in Boston. He has written many books; among them the best known are “Ten Times One is Ten” and “In His Name.”

One can hardly imagine a busier life than he leads. His daily tasks consist in aiding public and private charities, lecturing, editing, writing, and preparing his sermons.

He was once asked how he was able to accomplish so much, and he replied: “If you are working with Aladdin’s lamp, or with Monte Cristo’s treasures, you are not apt to think you will fail. Far less is your risk with the omnipotence of the Lord God behind you.”

Philip Nolan was as fine a young officer as there was in the “Legion of the West,” as the Western division of our army was then called. When Aaron Burr made his first dashing expedition down to New Orleans, or somewhere above on the river, he met this gay, dashing, bright young fellow, at some dinner party, I think. Burr marked him, talked to him, walked with him, took him a day or two’s voyage in his flatboat, and, in short, fascinated him, and led him to turn traitor to his country.

Nolan was proved guilty; yet you and I would never have heard of him, reader, but that when the president of the court asked him at the close whether he wished to say anything to show that he had always been faithful to the United States, he cried out in a fit of frenzy: “Curse the United States! I wish I may never hear of the United States again!”

I suppose he did not know how the words shocked old Colonel Morgan, who was holding the court. Half the officers who sat in it had served through the Revolution, and their lives, not to say their necks, had been risked for the very idea which he so cavalierly cursed in his madness.

Morgan called the court into his private room, and returned in fifteen minutes with a face like a sheet, to say: “Prisoner, hear the sentence of the Court! The Court decides, subject to the approval of the President, that you never hear the name of the United States again.”

Nolan laughed; but nobody else laughed. Old Morgan was too solemn, and the whole room was hushed dead as night for a minute. Even Nolan lost his swagger in a moment. Then Morgan added: “Mr. Marshal, take the prisoner to Orleans in an armed boat, and deliver him to the naval commander there.” The marshal gave his orders and the prisoner was taken out of court.

“Mr. Marshal,” continued old Morgan, “see that no one mentions the United States to the prisoner. Mr. Marshal, make my respects to Lieutenant Mitchell at Orleans, and request him to order that no one shall mention the United States to the prisoner while he is on board ship.”

Nolan had the freedom of the ship he was on, so long as he heard nothing of his country. No mess liked to have him permanently, because his presence cut off all talk of home or of the prospect of return, of politics or letters, of peace or of war—cut off more than half the talk men liked to have at sea.

Sometimes, when the marines or sailors had any special jollification, they were permitted to invite “Plain-Buttons,” as they called him. Then Nolan was sent with some officer, and the men were forbidden to speak of home while he was there. I believe the theory was that the sight of his punishment did them good. They called him “Plain-Buttons,” because, while he always chose to wear a regulation army uniform, he was not permitted to wear the army button, for the reason that it bore either the initials or the insignia of the country he had disowned.

As he was almost never permitted to go on shore, even though the vessel lay in port for months, his time at the best hung heavy; and everybody was permitted to lend him books, if they were not published in America and made no allusion to it. He had almost all the foreign papers that came into the ship, sooner or later; only somebody must go over them first, and cut out any advertisement or stray paragraph that alluded to America.

Among these books was the “Lay of the Last Minstrel,” which they had all of them heard of, but which most of them had never seen. I think it could not have been published long. Well, nobody thought there could be any risk of anything national in that, so Nolan was permitted to join the circle one afternoon when a lot of them sat on deck smoking and reading aloud. Well, so it happened that in his turn Nolan took the book and read to the others; and he read very well, as I know. Nobody in the circle knew a line of the poem, only it was all magic and Border chivalry, and was ten thousand years ago. Poor Nolan read steadily through the fifth canto, stopped a minute and then began, without a thought of what was coming:—

“Breathes there the man, with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said.”

It seems impossible to us that anybody ever heard this for the first time, but all these fellows did then, and poor Nolan himself went on, still unconsciously or mechanically:—

“ ‘This is my own, my native land!’ ”

Then they all saw something was to pay; but he expected to get through, I suppose, turned a little pale, but plunged on:—

“Whose heart hath ne’er within him burned, As home his footsteps he hath turned, From wandering on a foreign strand? If such there breathe, go, mark him well.”

By this time the men were all beside themselves, wishing there was any way to make him turn over two pages; but he had not quite presence of mind for that; he colored crimson and staggered on:—

“For him no minstrel raptures swell;
High though his titles, proud his name,
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim;
Despite those titles, power, and pelf,
The wretch, concentered all in self,”—

And here the poor fellow choked, could not go on, but started up, swung the book into the sea, vanished into his stateroom, and we did not see him for two months again. He never read aloud again unless it was the Bible or Shakespeare, or something else he was sure of. But it was not that merely. He never entered in with the other young men exactly as a companion again.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

In one of the great frigate duels with the English, it happened that a round-shot from the enemy entered one of our ports square, and took right down the officer of the gun himself, and almost every man of the gun’s crew. Now you may say what you choose about courage, but that is not a nice thing to see. But, as the men who were not killed picked themselves up, and as they and the surgeon’s people were carrying off the bodies, there appeared Nolan, in his shirt sleeves, with the rammer in his hand, and, just as if he had been the officer, told them off with authority—who should go to the cockpit with the wounded men, who should stay with him—perfectly cheery, and with that way which makes men feel sure all is right and is going to be right. And he finished loading the gun with his own hands, aimed it, and bade the men fire. And there he stayed, captain of that gun, keeping those fellows in spirits, till the enemy struck,—sitting on the carriage while the gun was cooling, though he was exposed all the time,—showing them easier ways to handle heavy shot, making the raw hands laugh at their own blunders, and when the gun cooled again, getting it loaded and fired twice as often as any other gun on the ship. The captain walked forward by way of encouraging the men, and Nolan touched his hat and said: “I am showing them how we do this in the artillery, sir.”

The commodore said: “I see you are, and I thank you, sir; and I shall never forget this day, sir, and you never shall, sir.”

And after the whole thing was over, and he had the Englishman’s sword, in the midst of the state and ceremony of the quarter-deck, he said: “Where is Mr. Nolan? Ask Mr. Nolan to come here.”

And when Nolan came he said: “Mr. Nolan, we are all very grateful to you to-day; you are one of us to-day; you will be named in the dispatches.”

And then the old man took off his own sword of ceremony and gave it to Nolan, and made him put it on. The man told me this who saw it. Nolan cried like a baby, and well he might. He had not worn a sword since that day at Fort Adams. But always afterwards, on occasions of ceremony, he wore that quaint old French sword of the commodore’s.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

I first came to understand anything about “the man without a country” one day when we overhauled a dirty little schooner which had slaves on board. An officer was sent to take charge of her, and after a few minutes he sent back his boat to ask that some one might be sent him who could speak Portuguese. Nolan stepped out and said he should be glad to interpret if the captain wished, as he understood the language.

“Tell them they are free,” said Vaughan.

Then there was a yell of delight, clinching of fists, leaping and dancing, kissing of Nolan’s feet.

“Tell them,” said Vaughan, well pleased, “that I will take them all to Cape Palmas.”

This did not answer so well. Cape Palmas was practically as far from the homes of most of them as New Orleans or Rio Janeiro was; that is, they would be eternally separated from home there. And their interpreters, as we could understand, instantly said: “Ah, non Palmas.” The drops stood on poor Nolan’s white forehead as he hushed the men down and said: “He says, ‘Not Palmas.’ He says, ‘Take us home, take us to our own country, take us to our own house, take us to our own pickaninnies and our own women.’ He says he has an old father and mother who will die if they do not see him. And this one says he left his people all sick, and paddled down to Fernando to beg the white doctor to come and help them, and that these caught him in the bay just in sight of home, and that he has never seen anybody from home since then. And this one says,” choked out Nolan, “that he has not heard a word from his home in six months, while he has been locked up in a barracoon.”

As quick as Vaughan could get words, he said: “Tell them yes, yes, yes; tell them they shall go to the mountains of the Moon, if they will. If I sail the schooner through the Great White Desert, they shall go home.”

And after some fashion Nolan said so. And then they all fell to kissing him again, and wanted to rub his nose with theirs.

But he could not stand it long; and getting Vaughan to say he might go back, he beckoned me down into our boat. As we lay back in the stern sheets and the men gave way, he said to me: “Youngster, let that show you what it is to be without a family, without a home, and without a country. And if you are ever tempted to say a word or to do a thing that shall put a bar between you and your family, your home and your country, pray God in his mercy to take you that instant home to his own heaven. Stick by your family, boy; forget you have a self, while you do everything for them. Think of your home, boy; write and send, and talk about it. Let it be nearer and nearer to your thought, the farther you have to travel from it; and rush back to it when you are free, as that poor black slave is doing now. And for your country, boy,” and the words rattled in his throat, “and for that flag,” and he pointed to the ship, “never dream a dream but of serving her as she bids you, though the service carry you through a thousand hells. No matter what happens to you, no matter who flatters you or who abuses you, never look at another flag, never let a night pass but you pray God to bless that flag. Remember, boy, that behind all these men you have to do with, behind officers and government, and people even, there is the Country Herself, your Country, and that you belong to Her as you belong to your own mother. Stand by Her, boy, as you would stand by your mother.”

I was frightened to death by his calm, hard passion; but I blundered out that I would by all that was holy, and that I had never thought of doing anything else. He hardly seemed to hear me; but he did, almost in a whisper, say: “Oh, if anybody had said so to me when I was of your age!”

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Extract from a letter written in 1863:—

“Levant, 2° 2´ S. @ 131° W.

“Dear Fred:

“I try to find heart and life to tell you that it is all over with dear old Nolan. The doctor has been watching him very carefully, and yesterday morning came to me and told me that Nolan was not so well, and he said he should like to see me. Well, I went in, and there, to be sure, the poor fellow lay in his berth, smiling pleasantly as he gave me his hand, but looking very frail. I could not help a glance round, which showed me what a little shrine he had made of the box he was lying in. The stars and stripes were triced up above and around a picture of Washington, and he had painted a majestic eagle, with lightnings blazing from his beak, and his foot just clasping the whole globe, which his wings overshadowed. The dear old boy saw my glance and said with a sad smile: ‘Here, you see, I have a country!’

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

“An hour after I had left him, when the doctor went in gently, he found Nolan had breathed his life away with a smile.

“We looked in his Bible, and there was a slip of paper at the place where he had marked the text: ‘They desire a country, even a heavenly: wherefore God is not ashamed to be called their God: for He hath prepared for them a city.’

“On this slip of paper he had written: ‘Bury me in the sea; it has been my home, and I love it. But will not some one set up a stone for my memory at Fort Adams, or at Orleans, that my disgrace may not be more than I ought to bear? Say on it:

In Memory of
PHILIP NOLAN,
Lieutenant in the Army of the United States.
He loved his country as no other man has
loved her; but no man deserved
less at her hands.’ ”

LOVE OF COUNTRY.
SIR WALTER SCOTT.

Breathes there the man, with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,
“This is my own, my native land!”
Whose heart hath ne’er within him burned,
As home his footsteps he hath turned,
From wandering on a foreign strand?
If such there breathe, go, mark him well.
For him no minstrel raptures swell;
High though his titles, proud his name,
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim;
Despite those titles, power, and pelf,
The wretch, concentered all in self,
Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
And, doubly dying, shall go down
To the vile dust, from whence he sprung,
Unwept, unhonored, and unsung.

From “The Lay of the Last Minstrel.”

THE HEROINE OF NANCY.

In the year 1476, Charles the Bold, Duke of Burgundy, laid siege to the town of Nancy, capital of the duchy of Lorraine. In the absence of the young duke, René II., who had gone to raise troops among the enemies of Charles, the town and its little garrison were left in charge of a brave and patriotic governor, who had an only daughter, named Télésile. It is with the noble conduct of this heroic young girl that our story has chiefly to do.

Charles the Bold—who ought rather to have been called the Rash, or the Furious, from his headlong and violent disposition—had sought to erect a kingdom within the dominions of his great rival, Louis XI. of France. To extend his power, he had overrun provinces, which, as soon as his strong hand was withdrawn, took the first opportunity to revolt against him. Lorraine was one of these; and he now appeared before the walls of Nancy, resolved to punish its inhabitants, whom he regarded as rebels.

But, thanks to the governor and his heroic daughter, the city held out bravely, both against the assaults of his soldiers, and the threats and promises with which he tried to induce a surrender. While the governor directed and encouraged the defenders, Télésile inspired their wives and daughters.

“Let us do,” she cried, “as did the women of Beauvais when this same cruel Charles laid siege to their town. Mothers armed themselves, young girls seized whatever weapons they could find,—hatchets, broken lances, which they bound together with their hair; and they joined their sons and brothers in the fight. They drove the invader from their walls; and so will we defeat and drive him back!”

“Put no trust in the tyrant!” said the intrepid governor, addressing the people. “He is as faithless as he is cruel. He has promised to spare our lives and our property if we will accept him as our ruler; but be not deceived. Once within our walls, he will give up to massacre and pillage the city that has cost him so dear.

“But if not for our own sakes,” he went on, “then for the love of our rightful lord, Duke René, let us continue the glorious struggle. Already at the head of a brave Swiss army, he is hastening to our relief. He will soon be at our gates. Let us hold out till then; or, sooner than betray our trust, let us fall with our defenses and be buried in the ruins of our beloved city!”

Thus defended, Nancy held out until Charles, maddened to fury by so unexpected and so prolonged a resistance, made a final, desperate attempt to carry the town. By stratagem, quite as much as by force, he succeeded in gaining an entrance within the walls; and Nancy was at his mercy.

In the flush of vengeance and success, he was for putting at once all the inhabitants—men, women, and children—to the sword. A young maiden was brought before him.

“Barbarian!” she cried, “if we are all to perish, over whom will you reign?”

“Who are you, bold girl! that dare to speak to me thus?” said the astonished Charles.

“Your prisoner, and one who would prevent you from adding to the list of your cruelties!”

Her beauty, her courage, and the prophetic tones in which she spoke, arrested Charles’s fury.

“Give up to me your governor, whom I have sworn to punish,” he said, “and a portion of the inhabitants shall be spared.”

But the governor was her own father,—for the young girl was no other than Télésile. Listening to the entreaties of his friends, he had assumed the dress of a private citizen; and all loved the good old man too well to point him out to the tyrant.

When Télésile sorrowfully reported to her father the duke’s words, he smiled. “Be of good cheer, my daughter!” he said. “I will see the Duke Charles, and try what I can do to persuade him.”

When brought before the conqueror, he said, “There is but one man who can bring the governor to you. Swear on your sword to spare all the inhabitants of the town, and he shall be given up.”

“That will I not!” cried the angry duke. “They have braved my power too long; they have scorned my offers; they have laughed at my threats; now woe to the people of Nancy!”

Then, turning to his officers, he commanded that every tenth person in the town should be slain, and they at once gave orders for the decimation. The inhabitants, young and old, women and infants, were assembled in a line which extended through the principal street of the city; while soldiers ransacked the houses, in order to drive forth or kill any that might remain concealed.

It was a terrible day for the doomed city. Families clung together, friends embraced friends; some weeping and lamenting, some trying to comfort and sustain those who were weaker than they, others calmly awaiting their fate.

Then, at a word from the conqueror, a herald went forth, and, waving his hand before the gathered multitude, began to count. Each on whom fell the fatal number ten was to be given at once to the sword. But at the outset a difficulty arose.

Near the head of the line Télésile and the governor were placed; and the devoted girl, watching the movements of the herald, and hearing him count aloud, saw by a rapid glance that the dreaded number was about to fall upon her father. Quick as thought, she slipped behind him and placed herself at his other side. Before the old man was aware of her object, the doom which should have been his had fallen upon his daughter. He stood for a moment stupefied with astonishment and grief, then called out to the herald, “Justice! justice!”

“What is the matter, old man?” demanded the herald, before passing on.

“The count is wrong! there is a mistake! Not her!” exclaimed the father, as the executioners were laying hands upon Télésile; “take me, for I was the tenth!”

“Not so,” said Télésile calmly. “You all saw that the number came to me.”

“She put herself in my way,—she took my place,—on me! let the blow fall on me!” pleaded the old man; while she as earnestly insisted that she was the rightly chosen victim.

Amazed to see two persons striving for the privilege of death at their hands, the butchers dragged them before Charles the Bold, that he might decide the question between them.

Charles was no less surprised at beholding once more the maiden and the old man who had already appeared before him, and at learning the cause of their strange dispute; for he knew not yet that they were parent and child. Notwithstanding his violent disposition, the conqueror had a heart which pity could sometimes touch, and he was powerfully moved by the sight that met his eyes.

“I pray you hear me!” cried Télésile, throwing herself at his feet. “I am a simple maiden; my life is of no account; then let me die, my lord duke! But spare, oh, spare him, the best, the noblest of men, whose life is useful to all our unhappy people!”

“Do not listen to her!” exclaimed the old man, almost too much affected to speak; “or if you do, let her own words confute her argument. You behold her courage, her piety, her self-sacrifice; and I see you are touched! You will not, you cannot, destroy so precious a life! It is I who am now worthless to my people. My days are almost spent. Even if you spare me, I have but a little while to live.”

Then Télésile, perceiving the eyes of Charles bent upon her with a look of mingled admiration and pity, said: “Do not think there is anything wonderful in my conduct; I do but my simple duty; I plead for my father’s life!”

“Yes, I am her father,” said the old man, moved by a sudden determination. “And I am something more. My lord duke, behold the man on whom you have sworn to have revenge. I am he who defended the city so long against you. Now let me die!”

At this a multitude of people broke from the line in which they had been ranged, and, surrounding the governor and his daughter, made a rampart of their bodies about them, exclaiming, “Let us die for him! We will die for our good governor!”

All the better part of the rude Charles’s nature was roused. Tears were in his own eyes, his voice was shaken by emotion. “Neither shall die!” he cried. “Old man! fair maiden! I spare your lives and, for your sake, the lives of all these people. Nay, do not thank me; for I have gained in this interview a knowledge which I could never have acquired through years of conquest—that human love is greater than kingly power, and that mercy is sweeter than vengeance!”

Well would it have been for the rash Charles could he have gained that knowledge earlier, or have shaped his future life by it even then. Still fired by ambition and love of power, he went forth to fight Duke René, who now appeared with an army to relieve his fair city of Nancy. A battle ensued, in which Charles was defeated and slain; and in the midst of joy and thanksgiving, the rightful duke entered and once more took possession of the town.

Warmly as he was welcomed, there were two who shared with him the honors of that happy day—the old man who had defended Nancy so long and well, and the young girl whose heroic conduct had saved from massacre one-tenth of all its inhabitants.

HUMANITY.
WILLIAM COWPER.