« ПредыдущаяПродолжить »
gentlemen, step this way," and the voice is Now, let me say seriously that Battle the voice of Straw-hat.
Abbey, one of the most ancient ruins in Straw-hat leads us into a crumbling old England, and particularly interesting to all hall, with the tiled back of an old fire-place Englishmen conversant with the history of still apparent, all the windows bare, with their country, is a relic that belongs to the the green leaves looking in at them; this, public, and should be cared for by Governhe tells us, is the Refractory! “Here,” he ment. Battle Abbey is owned by someadds, “the monks had a fire, and I suppose body or other—I cannot now say for certain they had a fire nowhere else except in the who—and is a private place; it is made a kitchen.” We are shown the dormitory, private residence. I think it is a shame. If where the monks slept, and outside the you want to see Battle, you must go there place where the monks slept their last on Tuesdays or Fridays. If you want to sleep. In one of the old chambers our see Battle Abbey, the owner will not allow voluble friend informs us, generally, that you to do so without enforcing the infliction there Cromwell littered his horses. The of an ignorant “guide, philosopher, and guide indignantly responds he never did. friend.” If you want to see Battle Abbey, "Cromwell never come into these parts : he you must run through it in the course of a was afeard of being drownded.” Straw-hat, few minutes, and cross the hand of your branching off from Art to Nature, next tormentor with a piece of money.
If I exhibits the plantation, and shows us some were owner of Battle Abbey, I would be “Cedair o' Lebnon, which is considered more considerate and more generous, and, remarkable fine trees.” Other interesting above all, I would not allow my retainers varieties of the same sort follow, and then to cry largesseI would not let my serwe fee the guide, and are taken to the place vants beg. from whence we came, not much wiser, So much for that. I want you to underperhaps, than when we came, and are told, stand that I am sparing no pains to get up there we may stop for a little while, if we “Harold Deceased” in the most complete like it. Says a timid stranger :
way possible. I have been to Pevensey, “May we walk on the lawn ?”
and seen the dreary marsh where William “Yes."
landed on Michaelmas Day, 1066, and on “He says we may walk on the lawn!” Michaelmas Day, with a racking headache,
So the mild stranger and his friends walk watching the sea he came over, I thought on the grass ; I play for a few minutes with of him and of—well, of Gooses dead and in the two white cats ; I am civil to the por- their gravies. tress, and depart,
Yours very truly,
THE ODD BOY.
THE BOY'S RECITER.
27. TITUS BEFORE JERUSALEM. (Milman.) | Each to his fixed inevitable end.
Yea, even eternal Rome, and father Jove, [An example of sustained sublimity and Sternly submissive, sail that onward tide. dignity, blended with the subdued style of And now am I upon its rushing bosom ; deep thought.]
I feel its silent billows swell beneath me, Ir must be ;
Bearing me and the conquering arms of And yet it moves me, Romans : it confounds Rome The counsels of my firm philosophy, 'Gainst yon devoted city! That ruin's merciless ploughshare must pass o'er,
28. SPEECH OF CATALINE. (Croly.) And barren salt be sown on yon proud city. [This extract exemplifies the fiercest emoAs on our olive-crowned hill we stand, tions of anger, hatred, and revenge. The Where Kedron at our feet, its scanty waters tones are, throughout, harsh and aspirated ; Distils from stone to stone with gentle | the manner intensely vehement in action ; motion,
the attitudes bold and defiant.] As through a valley sacred to sweet peace, ARE there not times, Patricians, when great How boldly doth it front us! how majesti- states cally!
Rush to their ruin ?-Rome is no more like Like a luxurious vineyard, the hill side
Rome Is hung with marble fabrics, line o'er line, Than a foul dungeon's like the glorious sky. Terrace o'er terrace, nearer still, and nearer What is she now 2-Degenerate, gross, deTo the blue heavens. Here bright and filed; sumptuous palaces,
The tainted haunt, the gorged receptacle With cool and verdant gardens interspersed; Of every slave and vagabond of earth : Here towers of war that frown in massy A mighty grave that luxury has dug, strength.
To rid the other realms of pestilence ; While over all hangs the rich purple eve, And, of the mountain of corruption there, As conscious of its being her last farewell Which once was human beings, procreate Of light and glory to that fated city ; A buzzing, fluttering swarm ; or venom. And, as our clouds of battle dust and smoke toothed, Are melted into air, behold the temple, A viper brood ; insects and reptiles only! In undisturbed and lone serenity,
Consul !-Look on me on this brow—these Finding itself a solemn sanctuary In the profound of heaven! It stands be- Look on this bosom, black with early
wounds : A mount of snow,
fretted with golden pin- Have I not served the state from boyhood up, nacles !
Scattered my blood for her, laboured for, Thevery sun, as though heworshipped there, loved her ? Lingers upon the gilded cedar roofs ; I had no chance ; wherefore should I be And down the long and branching porticoes, Consul ? On every flowery sculptured capital, Patricians ! they have pushed me to the gulf; Glitters the homage of his parting beams. I have worn down my heart, wasted my By Hercules ! the sight might almost win means, The offended majesty of Rome to mercy. Humbled my birth, bartered my ancient
But thus it is—I know not whence or how, name, There is a stern command upon my soul. For the rank favour of the senseless m':88 I feel the inexorable fate within
That frets and festers in your common. That tells me carnage is a duty here,
wealth : And that the appointed desolation chides Ay, stalked about with bare head and The tardy vengeance of our war. Destiny stretched hand, Is over all, and hard Necessity
Smiling on this slave, and embracing that, Holds o'er the shifting course of human things Coining my conscience into beggar words, Her paramount dominion. Like a flood Doing the candidate's whole drudgery. The irresistible stream of fate flows on, What is't to me that all have stooped in turn? And urges in its vast and sweeping motion Does fellowship in chains make bondage Kings, consuls, Cæsars, with their mightiest
proud ? armies,
Does the plague lose its venom, if it taint
My brother with myself? Is’t victory, But self-abasement is beyond all cure ! If I but find, stretched by my bleeding The brand is there, burned in the living side,
flesh, All who came with me in the golden morn, That bears its mark to the grave.--That And shouted as my banner met the sun ? dagger's plunged I cannot think of't. There's no faith on Into the central pulses of the heart; earth;
The act is the mind's suicide ; for which The very men with whom I walked through There is no after-health, -no hope,-no life,
29. ATHENS. (Mrs. Hemans.)
[An example of the tranquil style of proThis day, as if the heavens had stamped me
found admiration, extending to awe.
orotund quality, moderate force, pitch inTurned on their heel, just at the point of clining low, movement deliberate,—tones fate,
expressive, but subdued, are the chief cha. Left me a mockery in the rabble's midst,
racteristics of voice, in the recitation of this And followed their plebeian consul, Cicero! piece.] No! I have run my course.
Another year! City of Theseus !-bursting on the mind, Why taunt me, sir ? No,-if their curule
Thus dost thou rise, in all thy glory fled! chair,
Thus guarded by the mighty of mankind, Sceptre, and robe, and all their mummery, Thus hallowed by the memory of the dead: Their whole embodied consulate, were flung, Alone in beauty and renown, --a scene Here at my feet,--and all assembled Rome
Whose tints are drawn from Freedom's Knelt to me, but to stretch my finger out, And pluck them from the dust,-I'd scorn
'Tis but a vision now ; yet thou hast been to do it.
More than the brightest vision might be. This was the day to which I looked through
And every stone with but a vestige fraught And it has failed me,—vanished from my Of thee, hath latent power to wake some grasp,
lofty thought. Like air. I must not throw the honourable stake,
Fallen are thy fabrics, that so oft have That won, is worth the world,-is glory,
To choral melodies, and tragic lore; But, like a beaten slave, must stand aloof,
Now is the lyre of Sophocles unstrung, While others sweep the board !
The song that hails Harmodius peals no 'Tis fixed !—past talking now !-By Tartarus !
Thy proud Piræus is a desert strand; From this curst day I seek and sue no more: Thy stately shrines are mouldering on If there be suing, it shall be by those
their hill; Who have awaked the fever in
Closed are the triumphs of the sculptor's No matter !-Nobles, when we deign to
The magic voice of eloquence is still ; We should be trampled on.
Minerva's veil is rent,-her image gone, swords,—
Silent the sage's bower,—the warrior's tomb They're the true canvassers :- -The tince
o'erthrown. Never for me! My name's extinguished, — Yet in decay thine exquisite remains dead,
Wondering we view, and silently revere Roman no more ;--the rabble of the streets As traces left on earth's forsaken plains Have seen me humbled,-slaves may gibe By vanished beings of a nobler sphere!
Not all the old magnificence of Rome, Crime may be cleared, and sorrow's eyes be All that dominion there hath left to time, dried,
Proud Coliseum, or commanding dome, The lowliest poverty be gilded yet,
Triumphal arch, or obelisk sublime, The neck of airless, pale imprisonment Can bid such reverence o'er the spirit Be lightened of its chains ! For all the ills steal, That chance or nature lays upon our heads, As aught by thee impressed with beauty's In chance or nature there is found a cure :
may come !
may be ?
Though still the empress of the sunburnt | Where hate was stamped on each rigid face, waste,
As foe met foe in the death-embrace ; Palmyra rises, desolately grand, Where the groans of the wounded and dy. Though with rich gold and massy sculp- ing rose ture graced,
Till the heart of the listener with horror Commanding still, Persepolis may stand froze, In haughty solitude,-though sacred Nile And the wide expanse of crimsoned plain The first-born temples of the world sur- Was piled with heaps of uncounted slain ;veys,
But a fiercer combat, a deadlier strife, And many an awful and stupendous pile Is that which is waged in the Battle of Life. Thebes of the hundred gates e'en yet dis- The hero that wars on the tented field, plays ;
With his shining sword and burnished shield, City of Pericles ! Oh! who like thee Goes not alone with his faithful brand : Can teach how fair the works of mortal hand Friends and comrades around him stand;
The trumpets sound and the war steeds Thou led’st the way to that illumined To join in the shock of the coming fray;
And he flies to the onset, he charges the foe, Where sovereign beauty dwells ; and Where the bayonets gleam and the red tides
thence didst bear, Oh! still triumphant in that high career!
And he bears his part in that conflict dire, Bright archetypes of all the grand and fair, With an arm all nerve and a heart all fireAnd still to thee the enlightened mind
What though he fall ? At the battle's close, hath flown,
In the flush of the victory won, he goes As to her country ;-thou hast been to With martial music and waving plume, earth
From a field of fame-to a laurelled tomb! A cynosure ;-and, even from victory's But the hero that wars in the Battle of Life, throne,
Must stand alone in the fearful strife; Imperial Rome gave homage to thy worth ; Alone in his weakness or strength must go,
And nations rising to their fame afar,
Hero or coward, to meet the foe :
He must win or lose, he must conquer or Glory to those whose relics thus arrest yield. The gaze of ages! Glory to the free! Warrior,-who com'st to this battle now, For they, they only, could have thus im- With a careless step and a thoughtless brow, pressed
As if the day were already won, Their mighty image on the years to be!
Pause, and gird all thy armour on! Empires and cities in oblivion lie, Dost thou bring with thee hither a dauntless Grandeur may vanish, conguest be for
An ardent soul that no fear can chill,got:To leave on earth renown that cannot die, Thy shield of faith hast thou tried and Of high-souled genius is the unrivalled lot. proved, Honour to thee, O Athens thou hast Canst thou say to the mountain, “Be thou shown
removed?" What mortals may attain, and seized the In thy hand does the sword of Truth flame palm alone.
Is thy banner inscribed—“For God and the 30. THE BATTLE OF LIFE. (Anne C. Lynch.) Right?”.
[An example of profound moral sentiment In the might of prayer dost thou wrestle and deep emotion, rising to tones of triumph, and plead ? with correspondent action. The whole style Never had warrior greater need !is that of the loftiest declamation when Unseen foes in thy pathway hide, elevated by the spirit of exalted poetry, sus- Thou art encompassed on every side : tained by the music of the most harmonious There Pleasure waits with her syren train, verse.]
Her poison flowers and her hidden chain; THERE are countless fields the green earth Flattery courts with her hollow smiles ; o'er,
Passion with silvery tone beguiles ; Where the verdant turf has been dyed with Love and Friendship their charmed spells
gore : Where hostile ranks in their grim array, Trust not too deeply,—they may deceive ! With the battle's smoke have obscured the Hope with her Dead Sea fruits is there ; day;
Sin is spreading her gilded snare ;
Disease with a ruthless, hand would smite, One who hath dwelt 'with Nature well-atAnd Care spread o'er thee her withering tended, blight;
Who hath learned wisdom from her myHate and Envy, with visage black,
thic books, And the serpent Slander, are on thy track; Whose soul with all her countless lives hath Falsehood and Guilt, Remorse and Pride, blended, Do and Despair, in thy pathway glide ; So that all beauty awes us in Haggard Want, in her demon joy,
Who not with body's waste his soul hath Waits to degrade thee, and then destroy ;
pampered, And Death, the insatiate, is hovering near Who as the clear north-western wind is To snatch from thy grasp all thou holdest free, dear!
Who walks with Form's observances unhamIn war with these phantoms that gird pered, thee round,
And follows the One Will obediently ; No limbs dissevered may strew the ground : Whose eyes, like windows on a hazy summit, No blood may flow, and no mortal ear Control a lovely prospect every way; The groans of the wounded heart may hear, Who doth not sound God's sea with earthly As it struggles and writhes in their dread plummet, control,
And find a bottom still of worthless clay ; As the iron enters the riven soul.
Who heeds not how the lower gusts are But the youthful form grows wasted and working, weak,
Knowing the one sure wind blows on And sunken and wan is the rounded cheek; above, The brow is furrowed, but not with years; And sees, beneath the foulest faces lurking, The eye is dimmed with its secret tears ; One God-builtshrine of reverence and love; And streaked with white is the raven hair ; Who sees all stars that wheel their shining These are the tokens of conflict there.
marches The Battle is ended ;-the hero goes Around the centre fixed of Destiny, Worn and scarred, to his last repose. Where the encircling soul serene o'erarches He has won the day,-he has conquered The moving globe of being, like a sky; doom;
Who feels that God and Heaven's great He has sunk,unknown, to his nameless tomb: deeps are nearer For the victor's glory, no voice may plead; Him to whose heart his fellow-man is nigh, Fame has no echo, and earth no meed ;- Who doth not hold his soul's own freedom But the guardian angels are hovering near ; dearer They have watched unseen o'er the conflict Than that of all his brethren, low or high ; here :
Who to the right can feel himself the truer They bear him now on their wings away, For being gently patient with the wrong ; To a realm of peace, to a cloudless day.- Who sees a brother in the evil-doer, Ended now is earthly strife;
And finds in Love the heart's blood of his And his brow is crowned with the Crown of
song ; Life!
This, this is he for whom the world is waiting
To sing the beatings of its mighty heart, 31. THE POET OF AMERICA. (James Rus. Too long hath it been patient with the sell Lowell.)
grating Of scrannel-pipes, and heard it misnamed
Art.[The elocutionary style of this piece, throughout, is that of manly, energetic de To him the smiling soul of man shall listen, clamation, aided by the music of
verse, and Laying awhile its crown of thorns aside ; requiring attention principally to fulness of And once again in every eye shall glisten voice and spirited action.]
The glory of a nature satisfied.
His verse shall have a great, commanding Among the toil-worn poor my soul is seeking motion,
For one to bring the Maker's name to light, Heaving and swelling with a melody To be the voice of that Almighty speaking Learned of the sky, the river, and the ocean,
Which every age demands to do it right. And all the pure, majestic things that be. Proprieties our silken bards environ; Awake, then, thou ! -we pine for thy great He who would be the tongue of this wide presence land,
To make us feel the soul once more subMust string his harp with chords of sturdy iron
We are of far too infinite an essence And strike it with a toil-embrowned hand; To rest contented with the lies of Time.