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Rh Christopher had still some logs over; these he kept by him on the wagon. At this moment the servant Sauer came up, and asked to whom the wood belonged.

"To Professor Gellert," answered Christopher.

"The man's mad! it isn't true. Professor Gellert has not bought any wood; it is my business to look after that."

"He has not bought it, and yet it is his!" cried Christopher.

Sauer was on the point of giving the mad peasant a hearty scolding, raising his voice so much the louder, as it was striking eleven by St. Nicholas. At this moment, however, he became suddenly mute; for yonder from the University there came, with tired gait, a man of a noble countenance: at every step he made, on this side and on that, off came the hats and the caps of the passers-by, and Sauer simply called out, "There comes the Professor himself."

What a peculiar expression passed over Christopher's face! He looked at the new-comer, and so earnest was his gaze, that Gellert, who always walked with his head bowed, suddenly looked up. Christopher said: "Mr. Gellert, I am glad to see you still alive."

"I thank you," said Gellert, and made as though he would pass on; but Christopher stepped up closer to him, and, stretching out his hand to him, said: "I have taken the liberty


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36 —I should like—will you give me your hand, Mr. Gellert?"

Gellert drew his long thin hand out of his muff and placed it in the hard oaken-like hand of the peasant; and at this moment, when the peasant's hand lay in the scholar's palm, as one felt the other's pressure in actual living grasp, there took place, though the mortal actors in the scene were all unconscious of it, a renewal of that healthy life which alone can make a people one.

How long had the learned world, wrapped up in itself, separated from the fellow-men around, thought in Latin, felt as foreigners, and lived buried in contemplation of bygone worlds! From the time of Gellert commences the ever-increasing unity of good-fellowship throughout all classes of life, kept up by mutual giving and receiving. As the scholar—as the solitary poet endeavors to work upon others by lays that quicken and songs that incite, so he in his turn is a debtor to his age, and the lonely thinking and writing become the property of all; but the effects are not seen in a moment; for higher than the most highly gifted spirit of any single man is the spirit of a nation. With the pressure which Gellert and the peasant exchanged commenced a mighty change in universal life, which never more can cease to act.

"Permit me to enter your room?" said Christopher, and Gellert nodded assent, He was so

license: Creative Commons - Attribution Share-Alike - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/


text: Author:Timothy Joseph O'Mahony

title: Author:Timothy Joseph O'Mahony


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Rh courteous that he motioned to the peasant to enter first; however, Sauer went close after him: he thought it must be a madman; he must protect his master; the man looked just as if he were drunk. Gellert, with his amanuensis, Gödike, followed them.

Gellert, however, felt that the man must be actuated by pure motives: he bade the others retire, and took Christopher alone into his study; and, as he clasped his left with his own right hand, he asked: "Well, my good friend, what is your business?"

"Eh? oh! nothing—I've only brought you a load of wood there—a fair, full load; however, I'll give you the few logs which I have in my wagon, as well."

"My good man, my servant Sauer looks after buying my wood."

"It is no question of buying. No, my dear sir, I give it to you."

"Give it to me? Why me particularly?"

"Oh! sir, you do not know at all what good you do, what good you have done me; and my wife was right; why should there not be really pious men in our day too? Surely the sun still shines as he shone thousands of years ago; all is now the same as then; and the God of old is still living."

"Certainly, certainly; I am glad to see you so pious."


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38 "Ah! believe me, dear sir, I am not always so pious; and that I am so disposed to-day is owing to you. We have no more confessionals now, but I can confess to you: and you have taken a heavier load from my heart than a wagon-load of wood. Oh! sir, I am not what I was. In my early days I was a high-spirited, merry lad, and out in the field, and indoors in the inn and the spinning-room, there was none who could sing against me; but that is long past. What has a man on whose head the grave-blossoms are growing," and he pointed to his gray head, "to do with all that trash? And besides, the Seven Years' War has put a stop to all our singing. But last night, in the midst of the fearful cold, I sang a lay set expressly for me—all old tunes go to it: and it seemed to me as though I saw a sign-post which pointed I know not whither—or, nay, I do know whither." And now the peasant related how discontented and unhappy in mind he had been, and how the words in the lay had all at once raised his spirits and accompanied him upon the journey, like a good fellow who talks to one cheerfully.

At this part of the peasant's tale Gellert folded his hands in silence, and the peasant concluded: "How I always envied others, I cannot now think why; but you I do envy, sir: I should like to be as you."

And Gellert answered: "I thank God, and


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Rh rejoice greatly that my writings have been of service to you. Think not so well of me. Would God I were really the good man I appear in your eyes! I am far from being such as I should, such as I would fain be. I write my books for my own improvement also, to show myself as well as others what manner of men we should be."

Laughing, the peasant replied: "You put me in mind of the story my poor mother used to tell of the old minister; he stood up once in the pulpit and said: 'My dear friends, I speak not only for you, but for myself also; I, too, have need of it.'"

Christopher laughed outrageously when he had finished, and Gellert smiled, and said: "Yes, whoever in the darkness lighteth another with a lamp, lighteth himself also; and the light is not part of ourselves,—it is put into our hands by Him who hath appointed the suns their courses."

The peasant stood speechless, and looked upon the ground: there was something within him which took away the power of looking up; he was only conscious that it ill became him to laugh so loudly just now, when he told the story of the old minister.

A longer pause ensued, and Gellert seemed to be lost in reflection upon this reference to a minister's work, for he said half to himself: "Oh! how would it fulfil my dearest wish to be a village-pastor! To move about among my people,


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40 and really be one with them; the friend of their souls my whole life long, never to lose them out of my sight! Yonder goes one whom I have led into the right way; there another, with whom I still wrestle, but whom I shall assuredly save; and in them all the teaching lives which God proclaims by me. Did I not think that I should be acting against my duty, I would this moment choose a country life for the remnant of my days. When I look from my window over the country, I have before me the broad sky, of which we citizens know but little, a scene entirely new; there I stand and lose myself for half an hour in gazing and in thinking. Yes, good friend, envy no man in the rank of scholars. Look at me; I am almost always ill; and what a burden is a sickly body! How strong, on the contrary, are you! I am never happier than when, without being remarked, I can watch a dinner-table thronged by hungry men and maids. Even if these folks be not generally so happy as their superiors, at table they are certainly happier."

"Yes, sir; we relish our eating and drinking. And, lately, when felling and sorting that wood below, I was more than usually lively; it seems as though I had a notion I was to do some good with it."

"And must I permit you to make me a present?" asked Gellert, resting his chin upon his left hand.


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Rh The peasant answered: "It is not worth talking about."

"Nay, it might be well worth talking about; but I accept your present. It is pride not to be ready to accept a gift. Is not all we have a gift from God? And what one man gives another, he gives, as is most appropriately said, for God's sake. Were I your minister, I should be pleased to accept a present from you. You see, good friend, we men have no occasion to thank each other. You have given me nothing of yours, and I have given you nothing of mine. That the trees grow in the forest is none of your doing, it is the work of the Creator and Preserver of the world; and the soil is not yours; and the sun and the rain are not yours; they all are the works of His hand; and if, perchance, I have some healthy thoughts rising up in my soul, which benefit my fellow-men, it is none of mine, it is His doing. The word is not mine, and the spirit is not mine; and I am but an instrument in His hand. Therefore one man needs not to utter words of thanks to his fellow, if every one would but acknowledge who it really is that gives."

The peasant looked up in astonishment. Gellert remarked it, and said: "Understand me aright. I thank you from my heart; you have done a kind action. But that the trees grow is none of yours, and it is none of mine that thoughts arise in me; every one simply tills his field, and


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42 tends his woodland, and the honest, assiduous toil he gives thereto is his virtue. That you felled, loaded, and brought the wood, and wish no recompense for your labor, is very thank-worthy. My wood was more easily felled; but those still nights which I and all of my calling pass in heavy thought—who can tell what toil there is in them? There is in the world an adjustment which no one sees, and which but seldom discovers itself; and this and that shift thither and hither, and the scales of the balance become even, and then ceases all distinction between 'mine' and 'thine,' and in the still forest rings an axe for me, and in the silent night my spirit thinks and my pen writes for you."

The peasant passed both his hands over his temples, and his look was as though he said to himself, "Where are you? Are you still in the world? Is it a mortal man who speaks to you? Are you in Leipzig, in that populous city where men jostle one another for gain and bare existence?"

Below might be heard the creaking of the saw as the wood was being sundered: and now the near horse neighs, and Christopher is in the world again. "It may injure the horse to stand so long in the cold; and no money for the wood! but perhaps a sick horse to take home into the bargain; that would be too much," he thought.


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Rh "Yes, yes, Mr. Professor," said he—he had his hat under his arm, and was rubbing his hands—"yes, I am delighted with what I have done; and I value the lesson, believe me, more than ten loads of wood: and never shall I forget you to my dying day. And though I see you are not so poor as I had imagined, still I don't regret it. Oh! no, certainly not at all."

"Eh! did you think me so very poor, then?"

"Yes, miserably poor."

"I have always been poor, but God has never suffered me to be a single day without necessaries. I have in the world much happiness which I have not deserved, and much unhappiness I have not, which perchance I have deserved. I have found much favor with both high and low, for which I cannot sufficiently thank God. And now tell me, cannot I give you something, or obtain something for you? You are a local magistrate, I presume?"

"Why so?"

"You look like it: you might be."

Christopher had taken his hat into his hands, and was crumpling it up now; he half closed his eyes, and with a sly, inquiring glance, he peered at Gellert. Suddenly, however, the expression of his face changed, and the muscles quivered, as he said: "Sir, what a man are you! How you can dive into the recesses of one's heart! I have really pined night and day, and been cross


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44 with the whole world, because I could not be magistrate, and you, sir, you have actually helped to overcome that in me. Oh! sir, as soon as I read that verse in your book, I had an idea, and now I see still more plainly that you must be a man of God, who can pluck the heart from one's bosom, and turn it round and round. I had thought I could never have another moment's happiness, if my neighbor, Hans Gottlieb, should be magistrate: and with that verse of yours, it has been with me as when one calms the blood with a magic spell."

"Well, my good friend, I am rejoiced to hear it: believe me, every one has in himself alone a whole host to govern. What can so strongly urge men to wish to govern others? What can it profit you to be local magistrate, when to accomplish your object you must perhaps do something wrong? What were the fame, not only of a village, but even of the whole world, if you could have no self-respect? Let it suffice for you to perform your daily duties with uprightness; let your joys be centred in your wife and children, and you will be happy. What need you more? Think not that honor and station would make you happy. Rejoice, and again I say, rejoice: 'A contented spirit is a continual feast.' I often whisper this to myself, when I feel disposed to give way to dejection: and although misery be not our fault, yet lack of


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Rh and of patience in misery is undoubtedly our fault."

"I would my wife were here too, that she also might hear this; I grudge myself the hearing of it all alone; I cannot remember it all properly, and yet I should like to tell it to her word for word. Who would have thought that, by standing upon a load of wood, one could get a peep into heaven!"

Gellert in silence bowed his head; and afterwards he said: "Yes, rejoice in your deed, as I do in your gift. Your wood is sacrificial-wood. In olden time—and it was right in principle, because man could not yet offer prayer and thanks in spirit—it was a custom and ordinance to bring something from one's possessions, as a proof of devotion: this was a sacrifice. And the more important the gift to be given, or the request to be granted, the more costly was the sacrifice. Our God will have no victims; but whatsoever you do unto one of the least of His, you do unto Him. Such are our sacrifices. My dear friend, from my heart I thank you; for you have done me a kindness, in that you have given me a real, undeniable proof, that my words have penetrated your heart, and that I do not live on for nothing: and treasure it up in your heart, that you have caused real joy to one who is often, very often, weighed down with heaviness and sorrow. You have not only kindled bright tapers upon my


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46 Christmas-tree, but the tree itself burns, gives light, and warms: the bush burns, and is not consumed, which is an image of the presence of the Holy Spirit, and its admonition to trust in the Most High in this wilderness of life, in mourning and in woe. Oh! my dear friend, I have been nigh unto death. What a solemn, quaking stride is the stride into eternity! What a difference between ideas of death in the days of health, and on the brink of the grave! And how shall I show myself worthy of longer life? By learning better to die. And, mark, when I sit here in solitude pursuing my thoughts, keeping some and driving away others, then I can think, that in distant valleys, upon distant mountains, there are living men who carry my thoughts within their hearts; and for them I live, and they are near and dear to me, till one day we shall meet where there is no more parting, no more separation. Peasant and scholar, let us abide as we are. Give me your hand—farewell!"

And once again, the soft and the hard hand were clasped together, and Christopher really trembled as Gellert laid his hand upon his shoulder. They shook hands, and therewith something touched the heart of each more impressively, more completely, than ever words could touch it. Christopher got downstairs without knowing how: below, he threw down the extra logs of wood, which he had kept back, with


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Rh a clatter from the wagon, and then drove briskly from the city. Not till he arrived at Lindenthal did he allow himself and his horses rest or food. He had driven away empty: he had nothing on his wagon, nothing in his purse; and yet who can tell what treasures he took home; and who can tell what inextinguishable fire he left behind him yonder, by that lonely scholar!

Gellert, who usually dined at his brother's, today had dinner brought into his own room, remained quite alone, and did not go out again: he had experienced quite enough excitement, and society he had in his own thoughts. Oh! to find that there are open, susceptible hearts, is a blessing to him that writes in solitude, and is as wondrous to him as though he dipped his pen in streams of sunshine, and as if all he wrote were Light. The raindrop which falls from the cloud cannot tell upon what plant it drops: there is a quickening power in it, but for what? And a thought which finds expression from a human heart; an action, nay, a whole life is like the raindrop falling from the cloud: the whole period of a life endures no longer than the raindrop needs for falling. And as for knowing where your life is continued, how your work proceeds, you cannot attain to that.

And in the night all was still around: nothing was astir; the whole earth was simple rest, as Gellert sat in his room by his lonely lamp; his


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dwells a wife by the Northern Gate,

And a wealthy wife is she;

She breeds a breed o' rovin' men

And casts them over sea,

And some are drowned in deep water,

And some in sight o' shore,

And word goes back to the weary wife

And ever she sends more.

For since that wife had gate or gear,

Or hearth or garth or bield,

She willed her sons to the white harvest,

And that is a bitter yield.

She wills her sons to the wet ploughing,

To ride the horse of tree,

And syne her sons come back again

Far-spent from out the sea.

100


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Rh The good wife's sons come home again

With little into their hands,

But the lore of men that ha' dealt with men

In the new and naked lands;

But the faith of men that ha' brothered men

By more than easy breath,

And the eyes o' men that ha' read wi' men

In the open books of death.

Rich are they, rich in wonders seen,

But poor in the goods o' men;

So what they ha' got by the skin o' their teeth

They sell for their teeth again.

For whether they lose to the naked life

Or win to their hearts' desire,

They tell it all to the weary wife

That nods beside the fire.

Her hearth is wide to every wind

That makes the white ash spin;

And tide and tide and 'tween the tides

Her sons go out and in;


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102 (Out with great mirth that do desire

Hazard of trackless ways,

In with content to wait their watch

And warm before the blaze);

And some return by failing light,

And some in waking dream,

For she hears the heels of the dripping ghosts

That ride the rough roof-beam.

Home, they come home from all the ports,

The living and the dead;

The good wife's sons come home again

For her blessing on their head!


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earth is full of anger,

The seas are dark with wrath,

The Nations in their harness

Go up against our path:

Ere yet we loose the legions—

Ere yet we draw the blade,

Jehovah of the Thunders,

Lord God of Battles, aid!

High lust and froward bearing,

Proud heart, rebellious brow—

Deaf ear and soul uncaring,

We seek Thy mercy now!

The sinner that forswore Thee,

The fool that passed Thee by,

Our times are known before Thee—

Lord, grant us strength to die!

103


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104 For those who kneel beside us

At altars not Thine own,

Who lack the lights that guide us,

Lord, let their faith atone.

If wrong we did to call them,

By honour bound they came;

Let not Thy Wrath befall them,

But deal to us the blame.

From panic, pride, and terror,

Revenge that knows no rein,

Light haste and lawless error,

Protect us yet again.

Cloak Thou our undeserving,

Make firm the shuddering breath,

In silence and unswerving

To taste Thy lesser death!

Ah, Mary pierced with sorrow,

Remember, reach and save

The soul that comes to-morrow

Before the God that gave!


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Rh Since each was born of woman,

For each at utter need—

True comrade and true foeman—

Madonna, intercede!

E'en now their vanguard gathers,

E'en now we face the fray—

As Thou didst help our fathers,

Help Thou our host to-day!

Fulfilled of signs and wonders,

In life, in death made clear—

Jehovah of the Thunders,

Lord God of Battles, hear!


text:
Author:Mary Helen Agnes Allies

Contributions to the Catholic Encyclopedia

 * (her father)

title: Author:Mary Helen Agnes Allies


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Through wantonness if men profess

They weary of Thy parts,

E'en let them die at blasphemy

And perish with their arts; 106


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Rh But we that love, but we that prove

Thine excellence august,

While we adore discover more

Thee perfect, wise, and just.

Since spoken word Man's Spirit stirred

Beyond his belly-need,

What is is Thine of fair design

In thought and craft and deed;

Each stroke aright of toil and fight,

That was and that shall be,

And hope too high, wherefore we die,

Has birth and worth in Thee.

Who holds by Thee hath Heaven in fee

To gild his dross thereby,

And knowledge sure that he endure

A child until he die—

For to make plain that man's disdain

Is but new Beauty's birth—

For to possess in loneliness

The joy of all the earth.


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108 As Thou didst teach all lovers speech

And Life all mystery,

So shalt Thou rule by every school

Till love and longing die,

Who wast or yet the Lights were set,

A whisper in the Void,

Who shalt be sung through planets young

When this is clean destroyed.

Beyond the bounds our staring rounds,

Across the pressing dark,

The children wise of outer skies

Look hitherward and mark

A light that shifts, a glare that drifts,

Rekindling thus and thus,

Not all forlorn, for Thou hast borne

Strange tales to them of us.

Time hath no tide but must abide

The servant of Thy will;

Tide hath no time, for to Thy rhyme

The ranging stars stand still—


text:
Catholic Encyclopedia (1913)/St. Sophronius

Sophronius,, Patriarch of Jerusalem and Greek ecclesiastical writer, b. about 560 at Damascus of noble parentage; d. probably March 11, 638, at Jerusalem. In company with John Moschus he traveled extensively through the East and also went to Rome. He probably became a monk in Egypt about 580 and later removed to Palestine. From the year 633 until his death he was the principal opponent of Monothelitism. Conspicuous for his learning and piety he became in 634 Patriarch of Jerusalem, and sorrowfully witnessed during his reign the conquest of Palestine by the Arabs and their capture of Jerusalem. He must very probably be identified with the Sophronius known as the rhetorician (Greek: sophists), and was the author of biographies, homilies, and hymns. Among the first named are: his Life of John the Almoner, written in collaboration with J. Moschus and only partly preserved in Symeon Metaphrastes; the lives of Sts. Cyrus and John; and probably a Life of St. Mary of Egypt. Ten homilies which have been preserved deal chiefly with ecclesiastical festivals, and are remarkable for their dogmatic contents and oratorical style. Numerous anacreontic odes entitle him to a place among Greek ecclesiastical poets. A large work in which he collected 600 testimonies of the Fathers in favor of the two wills of Christ has perished.

N. A. WEBER


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Rh Regent of spheres that lock our fears

Our hopes invisible,

Oh 'twas certes at Thy decrees

We fashioned Heaven and Hell!

Pure Wisdom hath no certain path

That lacks thy morning-eyne,

And captains bold by Thee controlled

Most like to Gods design;

Thou art the Voice to kingly boys

To lift them through the fight,

And Comfortress of Unsuccess,

To give the dead good-night—

A veil to draw 'twixt God His Law

And Man's infirmity,

A shadow kind to dumb and blind

The shambles where we die;

A rule to trick th' arithmetic

Too base of leaguing odds—

The spur of trust, the curb of lust,

Thou handmaid of the Gods!


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110 O Charity, all patiently

Abiding wrack and scaith!

O Faith, that meets ten thousand cheats

Yet drops no jot of faith!

Devil and brute Thou dost transmute

To higher, lordlier show,

Who art in sooth that lovely Truth

The careless angels know!


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my English posies!

You that scorn the May,

Won't you greet a friend from home

Half the world away? 111


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112 Green against the draggled drift,

Faint and frail and first —

Buy my Northern blood-root

And I'll know where you were nursed:

Buy my English posies!

Here's to match your need—

Buy a tuft of royal heath,

Buy a bunch of weed

White as sand of Muysenberg

Spun before the gale—

Buy my heath and lilies

And I'll tell you whence you hail!


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48 hand lay upon an open book, and his eyes were fixed upon the empty air; and on a sudden came once more upon him that melancholy gloom, which so easily resumes its place after more than usual excitement.

It is as though the soul, suddenly elevated above all, must still remember the heaviness it but now experienced, though that expresses itself as tears of joy in the eye.

In Gellert, however, this melancholy had a more peculiar phase: a sort of timidity had rooted itself in him, connected with his weak chest, and that secret gnawing pain in his head; it was a fearfulness which his manner of life only tended to increase. Surrounded though he was by nothing but love and admiration in the world, he could not divest himself of the fear that all which is most horrible and terrible would burst suddenly upon him: and so he gazed fixedly before him. He passed his hand over his face, and with an effort concentrated his looks and thoughts upon surrounding objects, saying to himself almost aloud: "How comforting is light! Were there no light from without to illumine objects for us, we should perish in gloom, in the shadows of night. And light is a gentle friend that watches by us, and, when we are sunk in sorrow, points out to us that the world is still here, that it calls, and beckons us, and requires of us duty and cheerfulness. 'You must not be


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Rh

Buy my English posies!

You that will not turn—

Buy my hot-wood clematis,

Buy a frond o' fern

Gathered where the Erskine leaps

Down the road to Lorne—

Buy my Christmas creeper

And I'll say where you were born!

Buy my English posies!

Here's your choice unsold!

Buy a blood-red myrtle-bloom,

Buy the kowhai's gold


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Rh lost in self,' it says, 'see! the world is still here:' and a friend beside us is as a light which illumines surrounding objects; we cannot forget them, we must see them and mingle with them. How hard is life, and how little I accomplish! I would fain awaken the whole world to goodness and to love; but my voice is weak, my strength is insufficient: how insignificant is all I do!"

And now he rose up and strode across the room; and he stood at the hearth where the fire was burning, made of wood given to him that very day, and his thoughts reverted to the man who had given it. Why had he not asked his name, and where he came from? Perchance he might have been able in thought to follow him all the way, as he drove home; and now. . . but yet 'tis more, 'tis better as it is: it is not an individual, it is not So-and-so, who has shown his gratitude, but all the world by the mouth of one. "The kindnesses I receive," he thought, "are indeed trials; but yet I ought to accept them with thanks. I will try henceforth to be a benefactor to others as others are to me, without display, and with grateful thanks to God, our highest Benefactor: this will I do. and search no further for the why and for the wherefore." And once more a voice spoke within him, and he stood erect, and raised his arms on high. "Who knows," he thought, "whether at this moment I have not been in this or that place, to this or that


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114 Flung for gift on Taupo's face,

Sign that spring is come—

Buy my clinging myrtle

And I'll give you back your home!

Buy my English posies!

Ye that have your own

Buy them for a brother's sake

Overseas, alone.

Weed ye trample underfoot

Floods his heart abrim—

Bird ye never heeded,

Oh, she calls his dead to him!


text: Author:John Francis Xavier O'Conor

title: Author:John Francis Xavier O'Conor


text:
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50 man, a brother, a friend, a comforter, a saviour; and from house to house, may be, my spirit travels, awakening, enlivening, refreshing—yonder in the attic, where burns a solitary light; and afar in some village a mother is sitting by her child, and hearing him repeat the thoughts I have arranged in verse; and peradventure some solitary old man, who is waiting for death, is now sitting by his fireside, and his lips are uttering my words."

"And yonder in the church, the choir is chanting a hymn of yours; could you have written this hymn without its vigor in your heart? Oh! no, it must be there." And with trembling he thought: "There is nothing so small as to have no place in the government of God! Should you not then believe that He suffered this day's incident to happen for your joy? Oh! were it so, what happiness were yours! A heart renewed." . . . He moved to the window, looked up to heaven, and prayed inwardly: "My soul is with my brothers and my sisters: nay, it is with Thee, my God, and in humility I acknowledge how richly Thou hast blessed me. And if, in the kingdom of the world to come, a soul should cry to me: 'Thou didst guide and cheer me on to happiness eternal!' all hail! my friend, my benefactor, my glory in the presence of God. . . . In these thoughts let me die, and pardon me my weakness and my sins!"


text:
Page:Stories by Foreign Authors (German II).djvu/53

Rh "And the evening and morning were the first day."

At early morning, Gellert was sitting at his table, and reading according to his invariable custom, first of all in the Bible. He never left the Bible open—he always shut it with a peaceful, devotional air, after he had read therein: there was something grateful as well as reverential in his manner of closing the volume; the holy words should not lie uncovered.

To-day, however, the Bible was lying open when he rose. His eye fell upon the history of the creation, and at the words, "And the evening and the morning were the first day," he leaned back his head against the arm-chair, and kept his hand upon the book, as though he would grasp with his hand also the lofty thought, how night and day were divided.

For a long while he sat thus, and he was wondrously bright in spirit, and a soft reminiscence dawned upon him; of a bright day in childhood, when he had been so happy, and in Haynichen, his native place, had gone out with his father for a walk. An inward warmth roused his heart to quicker pulsation; and suddenly he started and looked about him: he had been humming a tune.

Up from the street came the busy sound of day: at other times how insufferable he had found it! and now how joyous it seemed that men


text:
Executive Order 13624

By the authority vested in me as President by the Constitution and the laws of the United States of America, and in order to promote American manufacturing by helping to facilitate investments in energy efficiency at industrial facilities, it is hereby ordered as follows:

 * In implementing this section, these agencies should consult with the Federal Energy Regulatory Commission, as appropriate.

Barack Obama The White House, August 30, 2012. [FR Doc. 2012–22030 Filed 9–4–12; 2:00 pm] Billing Code 3295–F2–P

title: Executive Order 13624


text:
Page:Stories by Foreign Authors (German II).djvu/54

52 should bestir themselves, and turn to all sorts of occupations! There was a sound of crumbling snow: and how nice to have a house and a blaze upon the hearth! "And the evening and the morning were the first day!" And man getteth himself a light in the darkness: but how long, O man! could you make it endure? What could you do with your artificial light, if God did not cause His sun to shine? Without it grows no grass, no corn. On the hand lying upon the book there fell a bright sunbeam. How soon, at other times, would Gellert have drawn the defensive curtain! Now he watches the little motes that play about in the sunbeam.

The servant brought coffee, and the amanuensis, Gödike, asked if there were anything to do. Generally, Gellert scarce lifted his head from his books, hastily acknowledging the attention and reading on in silence; to-day, he motioned to Gödike to stay, and said to Sauer, "Another cup: Mr. Gödike will take coffee with me. God has given me a day of rejoicing." Sauer brought the cup, and Gellert said: "Yes, God has given me a day of rejoicing, and what I am most thankful for is, that He has granted me strength to thank Him with all my heart: not so entirely, however, as I should like."

"Thank God, Mr. Professor, that you are once more in health, and cheerful: and permit me, Mr. Professor, to tell you that I was myself also ill a


text:
Page:Stories by Foreign Authors (German II).djvu/55

Rh short time ago, and I then learned a lesson which I shall never forget. Who is most grateful? The convalescent. He learns to love God and His beautiful world anew; he is grateful for everything, and delighted with everything. What a flavor has his first cup of coffee! How he enjoys his first walk outside the house, outside the gate! The houses, the trees, all give us greeting: all is again in us full of health and joy!" So said Gödike, and Gellert rejoined:

"You are a good creature, and have just spoken good words. Certainly, the convalescent is the most grateful. We are, however, for the most part, sick in spirit, and have not strength to recover: and a sickly, stricken spirit is the heaviest pain."

Long time the two sat quietly together: it struck eight. Gellert started up, and cried irritably: "There, now, you have allowed me to forget that I must be on my way to the University."

"The vacation has begun: Mr. Professor has no lecture to-day."

"No lecture to-day? Ah! and I believe to-day is just the time when I could have told my young friends something that would have benefited them for their whole lives."

There was a shuffling of many feet outside the door: the door opened, and several boys from St. Thomas' School-choir advanced and sang to


text:
Page:Stories by Foreign Authors (German II).djvu/56

54 Gellert some of his own hymns; and as they chanted the verse—

"And haply there—oh! grant it, Heaven! Some blessed saint will greet me too;  'All hail! all hail! to you was given To save my life and soul, to you!'  O God! my God! what joy to be

 The winner of a soul to thee!"

Gellert wept aloud, folded his hands, and raised his eyes to heaven.

A happier Christmas than that of 1768 had Gellert never seen; and it was his last. Scarcely a year after, on the 13th of December, 1769, Gellert died a pious, tranquil death, such as he had ever coveted.

As the long train which followed his bier moved to the churchyard of St. John's, Leipzig, a peasant with his wife and children in holiday clothes entered among the last. It was Christopher with his family. The whole way he had been silent: and whilst his wife wept passionately at the pastor's touching address, it was only by the working of his features that Christopher showed how deeply moved he was.

But on the way home he said: "I am glad I did him a kindness in his lifetime; it would now be too late."

The summer after, when he built a new house,


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1901 supplement/Corner, Julia


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1901 supplement/Cory, William Johnson


text:
Page:Stories by Foreign Authors (German II).djvu/57

Rh he had this verse placed upon it as an inscription:

"Accept God's gifts with resignation, Content to lack what thou hast not:  In every lot there's consolation; There's trouble, too, in every lot."


text: Author:Maurice M. Hassett

title: Author:Maurice M. Hassett


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1901 supplement/Cotton, Henry (1821-1892)


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1901 supplement/Cotton, John (1584-1652)


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1901 supplement/Cowie, Benjamin Morgan


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1901 supplement/Cowper, William Francis


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1901 supplement/Cox, Samuel


text: Author:Christian van den Biesen

title: Author:Christian van den Biesen


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1901 supplement/Coxwell, Henry


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1901 supplement/Crake, Augustine David


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1901 supplement/Crampton, Thomas Russell


text: Author:Harold Cyril Palmer Castle

title: Author:Harold Cyril Palmer Castle


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1901 supplement/Craven, Pauline Marie Armande Aglaé


text: Author:Leo Ehrhard

title: Author:Leo Ehrhard


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1901 supplement/Creighton, Mandell


text:
The Encyclopedia Americana (1920)/Williams College

WILLIAMS COLLEGE, located at Williamstown, Mass. It owes its origin to the bequest of Col. Ephraim Williams, for establishing a “Free School” in Williamstown. The bequest was made in 1755; the property was sold, and the funds were allowed to accumulate until 1785, when a free school was incorporated by the legislature, and a lottery granted for raising funds to erect a building; in 1790 the building (now West College) was completed, and the school was opened 20 Oct. 1791. In 1793 the institution was incorporated as a college under its present name, the property vested in the free school was transferred to the college, and a grant of $4,000 was made by the State to purchase a library and apparatus. The college subsequently received other appropriations from the State; in 1796 the legislature granted two townships of land; in 1809 an additional township; and in 1814 appropriated the taxes from the Massachusetts bank for 10 years to Harvard, Williams and Bowdoin, Williams' share in which amounted to $30,000; in 1859 the legislature appropriated $25,000, and in 1868, $75,000. In 1806 the first foreign missionary society in the United States was formed at Williams. In 1836-72 Mark Hopkins (q.v.) was president of the college, and during his administration it attained a high degree of prosperity.

The curriculum prescribes the work of the freshman year, and organizes the courses of the last three years in 11 major groups arranged in three divisions. The aim is to secure the concentration of part of the student's work in one well-defined field and the distribution of another part among different subjects. The degree of A.B. is conferred, and A.M. for graduate work and thesis. There are 76 general scholarships and one special prize scholarship. The principal college buildings are West College, the oldest, erected 1790; East College, erected in 1798, burned in 1841, and rebuilt; South College; Griffin Hall; Hopkins Observatory, built in 1837, under the direction of Prof. Albert Hopkins, the first college observatory in the United

States; Lawrence Hall Library; Jackson Hall; Alumni Hall Chapel; College Hall; Clark Hall; Field Memorial Observatory, erected 1882, containing a fine meridian circle by A. Repsold and Sons, Hamburg; Morgan Hall; Lasell Gymnasium; Hopkins Memorial Hall; Thompson Chemical Laboratory; Thompson Biological Laboratory; Thompson Physical Laboratory; College Infirmary; Jesup Hall; Williams Hall; Grace Hall. The library contains about 89,000 volumes. The productive fund amounts to $2,900,883.58; the student attendance is 552 and the faculty 61; the total number of graduates nearly 6,000.


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1901 supplement/Creswick, William


text:
Page:The Seven Seas (Kipling, 1896).djvu/137

 THE LAST RHYME OF TRUE THOMAS

King has called for priest and cup,

The King has taken spur and blade

To dub True Thomas a belted knight,

And all for the sake o' the songs he made.

They have sought him high, they have sought him low,

They have sought him over down and lea;

They have found him by the milk-white thorn

That guards the gates o' Faerie.

'Now cease your song,' the King he said,

'Oh, cease your song and get you dight

To vow your vow and watch your arms,

For I will dub you a belted knight.

115


text:
Page:The Seven Seas (Kipling, 1896).djvu/138

116 'For I will give you a horse o' pride,

Wi' blazon and spur and page and squire;

Wi' keep and tail and seizin and law,

And land to hold at your desire.'

True Thomas smiled above his harp,

And turned his face to the naked sky,

Where, blown before the wastrel wind,

The thistle-down she floated by.

'I ha' vowed my vow in another place,

And bitter oath it was on me,

I ha' watched my arms the lee-long night,

Where five-score fighting men would flee.

'My lance is tipped o' the hammered flame,

My shield is beat o' the moonlight cold;

And I won my spurs in the Middle World,

A thousand fathom beneath the mould.

'And what should I make wi' a horse o' pride,

And what should I make wi' a sword so brown,

But spill the rings o' the Gentle Folk

And flyte my kin in the Fairy Town?


text:
Page:The Seven Seas (Kipling, 1896).djvu/139

Rh 'And what should I make wi' blazon and belt,

Wi' keep and tail and seizin and fee,

And what should I do wi' page and squire

That am a king in my own countrie?

'For I send east and I send west,

And I send far as my will may flee,

By dawn and dusk and the drinking rain,

And syne my Sendings return to me.

'They come wi' news of the groanin' earth,

They come wi' news o' the roarin' sea,

Wi' word of Spirit and Ghost and Flesh,

And man, that's mazed among the three.'

The King he bit his nether lip,

And smote his hand upon his knee:

'By the faith o' my soul, True Thomas,' he said,

'Ye waste no wit in courtesie!

'As I desire, unto my pride,

Can I make Earls by three and three,

To run before and ride behind

And serve the sons o' my body.'


text:
Page:The Seven Seas (Kipling, 1896).djvu/140

118 'And what care I for your row-foot earls,

Or all the sons o' your body?

Before they win to the Pride o' Name,

I trow they all ask leave o' me.

'For I make Honour wi' muckle mouth,

As I make Shame wi' mincin' feet,

To sing wi' the priests at the market-cross,

Or run wi' the dogs in the naked street.

'And some they give me the good red gold,

And some they give me the white money,

And some they give me a clout o' meal,

For they be people o' low degree.

'And the song I sing for the counted gold

The same I sing for the white money,

But best I sing for the clout o' meal

That simple people given me.'

The King cast down a silver groat,

A silver groat o' Scots money,

'If I come wi' a poor man's dole,' he said,

'True Thomas, will ye harp to me?'


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1901 supplement/Crofts, William


text:
Page:The Seven Seas (Kipling, 1896).djvu/141

Rh 'Whenas I harp to the children small,

They press me close on either hand.

And who are you,' True Thomas said,

'That you should ride while they must stand?

'Light down, light down from your horse o' pride,

I trow ye talk too loud and hie,

And I will make you a triple word,

And syne, if ye dare, ye shall 'noble me.'

He has lighted down from his horse o' pride,

And set his back against the stone.

'Now guard you well,' True Thomas said,

'Ere I rax your heart from your breast-bone!'

True Thomas played upon his harp,

The fairy harp that couldna lee,

And the first least word the proud King heard,

It harpit the salt tear out o' his e'e.

'Oh, I see the love that I lost long syne,

I touch the hope that I may not see,

And all that I did o' hidden shame,

Like little snakes they hiss at me.


text:
Page:The Seven Seas (Kipling, 1896).djvu/142

120 'The sun is lost at noon—at noon!

The dread o' doom has grippit me.

True Thomas, hide me under your cloak,

God wot, I'm little fit to dee!'

'Lie down, lie down,' True Thomas said.

'The God shall judge when all is done.

But I will bring you a better word

And lift the cloud that I laid on.'

True Thomas played upon his harp,

That birled and brattled to his hand,

And the next least word True Thomas made,

It garred the King take horse and brand.

'Oh, I hear the tread o' the fighting men,

I see the sun on splent and spear.

I mark the arrow outen the fern

That flies so low and sings so clear!


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1901 supplement/Croll, James


text:
Page:The Seven Seas (Kipling, 1896).djvu/143

Rh 'Advance my standards to that war,

And bid my good knights prick and ride;

The gled shall watch as fierce a fight

As e'er was fought on the Border side!'

True Thomas sighed above his harp,

And turned the song on the midmost string;

And the last least word True Thomas made,

He harpit his dead youth back to the King.

'Now I am prince, and I do well

To love my love withouten fear;

To walk wi' man in fellowship,

And breathe my horse behind the deer.

'My hounds they bay unto the death,

The buck has couched beyond the burn,

My love she waits at her window

To wash my hands when I return.


text:
Page:The Seven Seas (Kipling, 1896).djvu/144

122 'For that I live am I content

(Oh! I have seen my true love's eyes)

To stand wi' Adam in Eden-glade,

And run in the woods o' Paradise!'

True Thomas laid his harp away,

And louted low at the saddle-side;

He has taken stirrup and hauden rein,

And set the King on his horse o' pride.

'Sleep ye or wake,' True Thomas said,

'That sit so still, that muse so long;

Sleep ye or wake?—till the latter sleep

I trow ye'll not forget my song.

'I ha' harpit a shadow out o' the sun

To stand before your face and cry;

I ha' armed the earth beneath your heel,

And over your head I ha' dusked the sky.


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1901 supplement/Cromwell, Ralph


text:
Page:The Seven Seas (Kipling, 1896).djvu/145

Rh 'I ha' harpit ye up to the throne o' God,

I ha' harpit your midmost soul in three;

I ha' harpit ye down to the Hinges o' Hell,

And—ye—would—make—a Knight o' me!"


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1901 supplement/Crowe, Joseph Archer


text:
User talk:Avocato

Please, Do not leave your message here. You can contact me using any of the following: w:ar:user talk:Avocato | w:en:user talk:Avocato | meta:user talk:Avocato

title: User talk:Avocato


text:
Page:The Seven Seas (Kipling, 1896).djvu/146

 IN THE NEOLITHIC AGE

the Neolithic Age savage warfare did I wage

For food and fame and two-toed horses' pelt;

I was singer to my clan in that dim, red Dawn of Man,

And I sang of all we fought and feared and felt.

Yea, I sang as now I sing, when the Prehistoric spring

Made the piled Biscayan ice-pack split and shove;

And the troll and gnome and dwerg, and the Gods of Cliff and Berg

Were about me and beneath me and above.

124


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1901 supplement/Crowther, Samuel Adjai


text:
Page:The Seven Seas (Kipling, 1896).djvu/147

Rh But a rival, of Solutré, told the tribe my style was outré—

'Neath a hammer, grooved of dolomite, he fell.

And I left my views on Art, barbed and tanged, below the heart

Of a mammothistic etcher at Grenelle.

Then I stripped them, scalp from skull, and my hunting dogs fed full,

And their teeth I threaded neatly on a thong;

And I wiped my mouth and said, 'It is well that they are dead,

For I know my work is right and theirs was wrong.'

But my Totem saw the shame; from his ridgepole shrine he came,

And he told me in a vision of the night:—

'There are nine and sixty ways of constructing tribal lays,

And every single one of them is right!'


text:
Page:The Seven Seas (Kipling, 1896).djvu/148

126 Then the silence closed upon me till They put new clothing on me

Of whiter, weaker flesh and bone more frail;

And I stepped beneath Time's finger, once again a tribal singer

[And a minor poet certified by Tr—ll].

Still they skirmish to and fro, men my messmates on the snow,

When we headed off the aurochs turn for turn;

When the rich Allobrogenses never kept amanuenses,

And our only plots were piled in lakes at Berne.

Still a cultured Christian age sees us scuffle, squeak, and rage,

Still we pinch and slap and jabber, scratch and dirk;

Still we let our business slide—as we dropped the half-dressed hide—

To show a fellow-savage how to work.


text:
Page:The Seven Seas (Kipling, 1896).djvu/149

Rh Still the world is wondrous large,—seven seas from marge to marge,—

And it holds a vast of various kinds of man;

And the wildest dreams of Kew are the facts of Khatmandhu,

And the crimes of Clapham chaste in Martaban.

Here's my wisdom for your use, as I learned it when the moose

And the reindeer roared where Paris roars to-night:—

There are nine and sixty ways of constructing tribal lays,

And—every—single—one—of—them—is—right!


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1901 supplement/Cumming, Arthur


text:
Page:The Seven Seas (Kipling, 1896).djvu/150

 THE STORY OF UNG

, on a glittering ice-field, ages and ages ago,

Ung, a maker of pictures, fashioned an image of snow.

Fashioned the form of a tribesman—gaily he whistled and sung,

Working the snow with his fingers. Read ye the Story of Ung!

Pleased was his tribe with that image—came in their hundreds to scan—

Handled it, smelt it, and grunted: 'Verily, this is a man!

Thus do we carry our lances—thus is a war-belt slung.

Lo! it is even as we are. Glory and honour to Ung!'

128


text:
Page:The Seven Seas (Kipling, 1896).djvu/151

Rh Later he pictured an aurochs—later he pictured a bear—

Pictured the sabre-tooth tiger dragging a man to his lair—

Pictured the mountainous mammoth, hairy, abhorrent, alone—

Out of the love that he bore them, scribing them clearly on bone.

Swift came the tribe to behold them, peering and pushing and still—

Men of the berg-battered beaches, men of the boulder-hatched hill—

Hunter and fishers and trappers, presently whispering low:

'Yea, they are like—and it may be——But how does the Picture-man know?

'Ung—hath he slept with the Aurochs—watched where the Mastodon roam?

Spoke on the ice with the Bow-head—followed the Sabre-tooth home?


text:
Page:The Seven Seas (Kipling, 1896).djvu/152

130 'Nay! These are toys of his fancy! If he have cheated us so,

How is there truth in his image—the man that he fashioned of snow?'

Wroth was that maker of pictures—hotly he answered the call:

'Hunters and fishers and trappers, children and fools are ye all!

Look at the beasts when ye hunt them!' Swift from the tumult he broke,

Ran to the cave of his father and told him the shame that they spoke.

And the father of Ung gave answer, that was old and wise in the craft,

Maker of pictures aforetime, he leaned on his lance and laughed:

'If they could see as thou seest they would do what thou hast done,

And each man would make him a picture, and—what would become of my son?


text:
Page:The Seven Seas (Kipling, 1896).djvu/153

Rh 'There would be no pelts of the reindeer, flung down at thy cave for a gift,

Nor dole of the oily timber that comes on the Baltic drift;

No store of well-drilled needles, nor ouches of amber pale;

No new-cut tongues of the bison, nor meat of the stranded whale.

 'Thou hast not toiled at the fishing when the sodden trammels freeze,

Nor worked the war-boats outward through the rush of the rock-staked seas,

Yet they bring thee fish and plunder—full meal and an easy bed—

And all for the sake of thy pictures.' And Ung held down his head.

 'Thou hast not stood to the Aurochs when the red snow recks of the fight;

Men have no time at the houghing to count his curls aright.


text:
Page:The Seven Seas (Kipling, 1896).djvu/154

132 And the heart of the hairy Mammoth, thou sayest, they do not see,

Yet they save it whole from the beaches and broil the best for thee.

'And now do they press to thy pictures, with opened mouth and eye,

And a little gift in the doorway, and the praise no gift can buy:

But—sure they have doubted thy pictures, and that is a grievous stain—

Son that can see so clearly, return them their gifts again!'

And Ung looked down at his deerskins—their broad shell-tasselled bands—

And Ung drew downward his mitten and looked at his naked hands;

And he gloved himself and departed, and he heard his father, behind:

'Son that can see so clearly, rejoice that thy tribe is blind!'


text:
Page:The Seven Seas (Kipling, 1896).djvu/155

Rh Straight on the glittering ice field, by the caves of the lost Dordogne,

Ung, a maker of pictures, fell to his scribing on bone

Even to mammoth editions. Gaily he whistled and sung,

Blessing his tribe for their blindness. Heed ye the Story of Ung!


text:
Page:The Seven Seas (Kipling, 1896).djvu/156

 THE THREE-DECKER

thirty foot she towered from waterline to rail.

It cost a watch to steer her, and a week to shorten sail;

But, spite all modern notions, I found her first and best—

The only certain packet for the Islands of the Blest.

Fair held the breeze behind us—'twas warm with lovers' prayers.

We'd stolen wills for ballast and a crew of missing heirs.

They shipped as Able Bastards till the Wicked Nurse confessed,

And they worked the old three-decker to the Islands of the Blest.

134


text:
Page:The Seven Seas (Kipling, 1896).djvu/157

Rh By ways no gaze could follow, a course unspoiled of cook,

Per Fancy, fleetest in man, our titled berth we took

With maids of matchless beauty and parentage unguessed,

And a Church of England parson for the Islands of the Blest.

We asked no social questions—we pumped no hidden shame—

We never talked obstetrics when the Little Stranger came:

We left the Lord in Heaven, we left the fiends in Hell.

We weren't exactly Yussufs, but—Zuleika didn't tell.

No moral doubt assailed us, so when the port we neared,

The villain had his flogging at the gangway, and we cheered.


text:
Page:The Seven Seas (Kipling, 1896).djvu/158

136 'Twas fiddle in the forc's'le—'twas garlands on the mast,

For everyone got married, and I went ashore at last.

I left 'em all in couples a'kissing on the decks.

I left the lovers loving and the parents signing cheques.

In endless English comfort by county-folk caressed,

I left the old three-decker at the Islands of the Blest!

That route is barred to steamers: you'll never lift again

Our purple-painted headlands or the lordly keeps of Spain.

They're just beyond your skyline, howe'er so far you cruise

In a ram-you-damn-you liner with a brace of bucking screws.


text:
Page:The Seven Seas (Kipling, 1896).djvu/159

Rh Swing round your aching search-light—'twill show no haven's peace.

Ay, blow your shrieking sirens to the deaf, greybearded seas!

Boom out the dripping oil-bags to skin the deep's unrest—

And you aren't one knot the nearer to the Islands of the Blest!

But when you're threshing, crippled, with broken bridge and rail,

At a drogue of dead convictions to hold you head to gale,

Calm as the Flying Dutchman, from truck to taff rail dressed,

You'll see the old three-decker for the Islands of the Blest.

'You'll see her tiering canvas in sheeted silver spread;

You'll hear the long-drawn thunder 'neath her leaping figure-head;


text:
Page:The Seven Seas (Kipling, 1896).djvu/160

138 While far, so far above you, her tall poop-lanterns shine

Unvexed by wind or weather like the candles round a shrine!

Hull down—hull down and under—she dwindles to a speck,

With noise of pleasant music and dancing on her deck.

All's well—all's well aboard her—she's left you far behind,

With a scent of old-world roses through the fog that ties you blind.

Her crew are babes or madmen? Her port is all to make?

You're manned by Truth and Science, and you steam for steaming's sake?

Well, tinker up your engines—you know your business best—

She's taking tired people to the Islands of the Blest!


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1901 supplement/Cunningham, Alexander (1814-1893)


text:
Page:The Seven Seas (Kipling, 1896).djvu/161

 AN AMERICAN

'If the Led Striker call it a strike,

Or the papers call it a war,

They know not much what I am like,

Nor what he is, My Avatar.'

Through many roads, by me possessed,

He shambles forth in cosmic guise;

He is the Jester and the Jest,

And he the Text himself applies.

The Celt is in his heart and hand,

The Gaul is in his brain and nerve;

Where, cosmopolitanly planned,

He guards the Redskin's dry reserve.

His easy unswept hearth he lends

From Labrador to Guadeloupe;

Till, elbowed out by sloven friends,

He camps, at sufferance, on the stoop.

139


text:
Page:The Seven Seas (Kipling, 1896).djvu/162

140 Calm-eyed he scoffs at sword and crown,

Or panic-blinded stabs and slays:

Blatant he bids the world bow down,

Or cringing begs a crust of praise;

Or, sombre-drunk, at mine and mart,

He dubs his dreary brethren Kings.

His hands are black with blood—his heart

Leaps, as a babe's, at little things.

But, through the shift of mood and mood,

Mine ancient humour saves him whole—

The cynic devil in his blood

That bids him mock his hurrying soul;

That bids him flout the Law he makes,

That bids him make the Law he flouts,

Till, dazed by many doubts, he wakes

The drumming guns that—have no doubts;

That checks him foolish-hot and fond,

That chuckles through his deepest ire,

That gilds the slough of his despond

But dims the goal of his desire;


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Rh Inopportune, shrill-accented,

The acrid Asiatic mirth

That leaves him, careless 'mid his dead,

The scandal of the elder earth.

How shall he clear himself, how reach

Your bar or weighed defence prefer?

A brother hedged with alien speech

And lacking all interpreter.

Which knowledge vexes him a space;

But, while Reproof around him rings,

He turns a keen untroubled face

Home, to the instant need of things.

Enslaved, illogical, elate,

He greets th' embarrassed Gods, nor fears

To shake the iron hand of Fate

Or match with Destiny for beers.

Lo, imperturbable he rules,

Unkempt, desreputable, vast—

And, in the teeth of all the schools,

I—I shall save him at the last!


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1901 supplement/Cunningham, John


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 THE MARY GLOSTER

paid for your sickest fancies; I've humoured your crackedest whim—

Dick, it's your daddy, dying; you've got to listen to him!

Good for a fortnight, am I? The doctor told you? He lied.

I shall go under by morning, and—— Put that nurse outside.

'Never seen death yet, Dickie? Well, now is your time to learn,

And you'll wish you held my record before it comes to your turn.

Not counting the Line and the Foundry, the yards and the village, too,

I've made myself and a million; but I'm damned if I made you.


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Rh Master at two-and-twenty, and married at twenty-three—

Ten thousand men on the pay-roll, and forty freighters at sea!

Fifty years between 'em, and every year of it fight,

And now I'm Sir Anthony Gloster, dying, a baronite:

For I lunched with his Royal 'Ighness—what was it the papers a-had?

'Not least of our merchant-princes.' Dickie, that's me, your dad!

I didn't begin with askings. I took my job and I stuck;

And I took the chances they wouldn't, an' now they're calling it luck.

Lord, what boats I've handled—rotten and leaky and old!

Ran 'em, or—opened the bilge-cock, precisely as I was told.

Grub that 'ud bind you crazy, and crews that 'ud turn you grey,

And a big fat lump of insurance to cover the risk on the way.


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1901 supplement/Cureton, Charles Robert


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144 The others they dursn't do it; they said they valued their life

(They've served me since as skippers). I went, and I took my wife.

Over the world I drove 'em, married at twenty-three,

And your mother saving the money and making a man of me.

I was content to be master, but she said there was better behind;

She took the chances I wouldn't, and I followed your mother blind.

She egged me to borrow the money, an' she helped me to clear the loan,

When we bought half shares in a cheap 'un and hoisted a flag of our own.

Patching and coaling on credit, and living the Lord knew how,

We started the Red Ox freighters—we've eight-and-thirty now.

And those were the days of clippers, and the freights were clipper-freights,

And we knew we were making our fortune, but she died in Macassar Straits—


text:
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Rh By the Little Paternosters, as you come to the Union Bank—

And we dropped her in fourteen fathom; I pricked it off where she sank.

Owners we were, full owners, and the boat was christened for her,

And she died in the Mary Gloster. My heart, how young we were!

So I went on a spree round Java and well-nigh ran her ashore,

But your mother came and warned me and I wouldn't liquor no more:

Strict I stuck to my business, afraid to stop or I'd think,

Saving the money (she warned me), and letting the other men drink.

And I met M'Cullough in London (I'd turned five 'undred then),

And 'tween us we started the Foundry—three forges and twenty men:

Cheap repairs for the cheap 'uns. It paid, and the business grew,

For I bought me a steam-lathe patent, and that was a gold mine too.


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146 "Cheaper to build 'em than buy 'em,' I said, but M'Cullough he shied,

And we wasted a year in talking before we moved to the Clyde.

And the Lines were all beginning, and we all of us started fair,

Building our engines like houses and staying the boilers square.

But M'Cullough 'e wanted cabins with marble and maple and all,

And Brussels an' Utrecht velvet, and baths and a Social Hall,

And pipes for closets all over, and cutting the frames too light,

But M'Cullough he died in the Sixties, and Well, I'm dying to-night. . ..

I knew—I knew what was coming, when we bid on the Byfleet's keel—

They piddled and piffled with iron: I'd given my orders for steel!

Steel and the first expansions. It paid, I tell you, it paid,

When we came with our nine-knot freighters and collared the long-run trade!


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Rh And they asked me how I did it, and I gave 'em the Scripture text,

'You keep your light so shining a little in front o' the next!'

They copied all they could follow, but they couldn't copy my mind,

And I left 'em sweating and stealing a year and a half behind.

Then came the armour-contracts, but that was M'Cullough's side;

He was always best in the Foundry, but better, perhaps, he died.

I went through his private papers; the notes was plainer than print;

And I'm no fool to finish if a man'll give me a hint.

(I remember his widow was angry.) So I saw what the drawings meant,

And I started the six-inch rollers, and it paid me sixty per cent—

Sixty per cent with failures, and more than twice we could do,

And a quarter-million to credit, and I saved it all for you!


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148 I thought—it doesn't matter—you seemed to favour your ma,

But you're nearer forty than thirty, and I know the kind you are.

Harrer an' Trinity College! I ought to ha' sent you to sea—

But I stood you an education, an' what have you done for me?

The things I knew was proper you wouldn't thank me to give,

And the things I knew was rotten you said was the way to live.

For you muddled with books and pictures, an' china an' etchin's an' fans,

And your rooms at college was beastly—more like a whore's than a man's—

Till you married that thin-flanked woman, as white and as stale as a bone,

An' she gave you your social nonsense; but where's that kid o' your own?

I've seen your carriages blocking the half o' the Cromwell Road,

But never the doctor's brougham to help the missus unload.


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Rh (So there isn't even a grandchild, an' the Gloster family's done.)

Not like your mother, she isn't. She carried her freight each run.

But they died, the pore little beggars! At sea she had 'em—they died.

Only you, an' you stood it; you haven't stood much beside.

Weak, a liar, and idle, and mean as a collier's whelp

Nosing for scraps in the galley. No help—my son was no help!

So he gets three 'undred thousand, in trust and the interest paid.

I wouldn't give it you, Dickie—you see, I made it in trade.

You're saved from soiling your fingers, and if you have no child,

It all comes back to the business. Gad, won't your wife be wild!

'Calls and calls in her carriage, her 'andkerchief up to 'er eye:

'Daddy! dear daddy's dyin'!' and doing her best to cry.


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150 Grateful? Oh, yes, I'm grateful, but keep her away from here.

Your mother 'ud never ha' stood 'er, and, anyhow, women are queer. . ..

There's women will say I've married a second time. Not quite!

But give pore Aggie a hundred, and tell her your lawyers'll fight.

She was the best o' the boiling—you'll meet her before it ends;

I'm in for a row with the mother—I'll leave you settle my friends:

For a man he must go with a woman, which women don't understand—

Or the sort that say they can see it they aren't the marrying brand.

But I wanted to speak o' your mother that's Lady Gloster still—

I'm going to up and see her, without it's hurting the will.

Here! Take your hand off the bell-pull. Five thousand's waiting for you,

If you'll only listen a minute, and do as I bid you do.


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Rh They'll try to prove me crazy, and, if you bungle, they can;

And I've only you to trust to! (O God, why ain't he a man?)

There's some waste money on marbles, the same as M'Cullough tried—

Marbles and mausoleums—but I call that sinful pride.

There's some ship bodies for burial—we've carried 'em, soldered and packed;

Down in their wills they wrote it, and nobody called them cracked.

But me—I've too much money, and people might. . . All my fault:

It come o' hoping for grandsons and buying that Wokin' vault.

I'm sick o' the 'ole dam' business; I'm going back where I came.

Dick, you're the son o' my body, and you'll take charge o' the same!

I want to lie by your mother, ten thousand mile away,

And they'll want to send me to Woking; and that's where you'll earn your pay.