Chapter 15. Masterpieces of Oratory, Poetry, Choice Selections, Etc.

Ingersoll at the Tomb of Napoleon

Read carefully the following wonderful word picture by Ingersoll. Try and visualize each scene. Let the mental image of Napoleon dominate each picture. Note the ordering of thought and expression increasing in significance, interest and intensity until the climax is reached. Note the contrast in the last paragraph between the peasant and Napoleon. Then memorize the entire selection by the principles of the Three Laws of Memory, using 'Interrogative Analysis." Do not attempt to memorize this selection, or indeed any selection, without first forming in your mind a mental picture. Then repeat aloud the idea, the thought, the word picture of each sentence and ask and answer every question you can think of aloud. Do not memorize silently. If you cannot afford to disturb others at study by talking aloud, articulate with the lips and whisper the words. This will do for all practical purposes.

A little while ago I stood by the grave of the old Napoleon-a magnificent tomb of gilt and gold, fit almost for a dead deity-and gazed upon the sarcophagus of rare and nameless marble, where rest at last the ashes of that restless man. I leaned over the balustrade and thought about the career of the greatest soldier of the modern world.

I saw him walking upon the banks of the Seine, contemplating suicide. I saw him at Toulon-I saw him putting down the mob in the streets of Paris-I saw him at the head of the army of Italy-I saw him crossing the bridge of Lodi with the tricolor in his hand-I saw him in Egypt in the shadow of the pyramids-I saw him conquer the Alps and mingle the eagles of France with the eagles of the crags. I saw him at Marengo-at Ulm and Austerlitz. I saw him in Russia, where the infantry of the snow and the cavalry of the wild blast scattered his legions like winter's withered leaves. I saw him at Leipsic in defeat and disaster-driven by a million bayonets back upon Paris-clutched like a wild beast- banished to Elba. I saw him escape and retake an empire by the force of his genius. I saw him upon the frightful field of Waterloo, where Chance and Fate combined to wreck the fortunes of their former king. And I saw him at St. Helena, with his hands crossed behind him, gazing out upon the sad and solemn sea.

I thought of all the orphans and widows he had made-of the tears that had been shed for his glory, and of the only woman who ever loved him, pushed from his heart by the cold hand of ambition. And I said I would rather have been a French peasant and worn wooden shoes. I would rather have lived in a hut with a vine growing over the door, and the grapes growing purple in the amorous kisses of the autumn sun. I would rather have been that poor peasant, with my loving wife by my side, knitting as the day died out of the sky, with my children upon my knees and their arms about me. I would rather have been this man and gone down to the tongue less silence of the dreamless dust, than to have been that imperial impersonation of force and murder known as Napoleon the Great.

The following sketch of Thomas Jefferson was written by a pupil with no special literary experience or training. Although it is modeled on "Ingersoll's Tomb of Napoleon," it is most interesting and will encourage Others to prepare like sketches. Let the ambitious student outline a sketch of George Washington on the same model. Paraphrasing, translating written thought into his own words as rapidly as possible is excellent practice. Popular poems, public speeches can all be treated in a similar manner.

THOMAS JEFFERSON

A short time ago I stood before that beautiful painting, the Signing of the Declaration of Independence. My eyes passed from one patriot to another until they rested on a face which revealed benevolence and intelligence. It was that great commoner, Thomas Jefferson. I looked at that face and I reviewed the life of one of the greatest patriots of America.

In imagination I saw him as a boy pursuing his favorite studies of mathematics and philosophy. I saw him as a young man in the House of Burgesses pulling up the roots of aristocracy by advocating the passage of the laws of entail and primogeniture. I saw him at that early day, eighty years before Lincoln's proclamation introducing a bill for the emancipation of the slaves. I thought of the Declaration of Independence, that great American Magna Charta, the noblest and most daring assertion of the rights of man ever written or uttered. I saw him as Governor of Virginia, plunging his steed through the pathless woods and escape from a regiment of pursuing red coats. I saw him in the Cabinet meetings battling against the aristocratic tendencies of Alexander Hamilton. I saw him become president of a republic in whose construction he was one of the principal architects, and I wondered at the marvelous foresight of this man, as I thought of the purchase of Louisiana. Louisiana, stretching from the frontiers of Canada to the Gulf of Mexico; from the Mississippi River to the snow crested mountains of the west. Louisiana, drained by the Mississippi River and developed by the brain and muscle of the American pioneer has helped to place this nation in the front rank of nations. I also thought of the Lewis and Clark expedition into the unknown and untrodden wilds of the west and the spreading of the wings of the American Eagle from the Atlantic to the Pacific Coast. I saw him retire from public life to his beloved Monticello, loved and respected by his countrymen to whom he was ever generous and whose cause he was ever ready to defend.

Now I heard the ringing of bells and the firing of cannon, proclaiming to the world the joy of millions of liberty-loving people, celebrating the birthday of a new nation. Now, the cannons roar change to deep groans and the bells seemed to say: "Alas, Thomas Jefferson's soul has passed away.

And I said to myself, as I gazed, I would rather have been Thomas Jefferson, living in pure democratic simplicity and whose life was filled with a continuous and earnest endeavor to elevate mankind, than to have been some foreign potentate of infinite power, surrounded by all the pleasures and luxuries of life. I would rather have been that great defender of religious and civil liberty, that first great emancipator, that great champion of humanity's cause, than to have been Ivan the Terrible, imperious ruler of all the Russias, master of a nation of cowering serfs.

INGERSOLL'S VISION OF THE WAR

This selection, the peroration of a Decoration Day oration, has never been surpassed. Ingersoll recited the whole from memory. He was a marvelous master of language and possessed a wonderful power for visualizing. He could enter into an exalted, dreamy mood and weave pictures of the past fascinating in the extreme.

The past rises before me, as it were, like a dream. Again we are in the great struggle for national life. We hear the sounds of preparation-the music of boisterous drums-the silver voices of heroic bugles. We see thousands of assemblages, and hear the appeals of orators; we see the pale cheeks of women, and the flushed faces of men; and in those assemblages we see all the dead whose dust we have covered with flowers. We lose sight of them no more. We are with them when they enlist in the great army of freedom. We see them part with those they love. Some are walking for the last time in quiet, woody places, with the maidens they adore. We hear the whisperings and the sweet vows of eternal love as they lingeringly part forever. Others are bending over cradles, kissing babes that are asleep. Some are receiving the blessings of old men. Some are parting with mothers who hold them and press them to their hearts again and again, and say nothing. And some are talking with wives, and endeavoring with brave words, spoken in the old tones, to drive from their hearts the awful fear. We see them part. We see the wife standing in the door with the babe in her arms-standing in the sunlight sobbing-at the turn of the road a hand waves-she answers by holding high in her loving arms the child. He is gone, and forever.

We see them all as they march proudly away under the flaunting flags, keeping time to the grand, wild music of war-marching down the streets of the great cities- through the towns and across the prairies-down to the fields of glory, to do and to die for the eternal right.

We go with them, one and all. We are by their side on all the gory fields-in all the hospitals of pain- on all the weary marches. We stand guard with them in the wild storm and under the quiet stars. We are with them in ravines running with blood-in the furrows of old fields. We are with them between contending hosts, unable to move, wild with thirst, the life ebbing slowly away among the withered leaves. We see them pierced by balls and torn with shells, in the trenches, by forts, and in the whirlwind of the charge, where men become iron, with nerves of steel.

We are with them in the prisons of hatred and famine; but human speech can never tell what they endured.

We are at home when the news comes that they are dead. We see the maiden in the shadow of her first sorrow. We see the silvered head of the old man bowed with the last grief.

The past rises before us, and we see four millions of human beings governed by the lash-we see them bound hand and foot-we hear the strokes of cruel whips-we see the hounds tracking women through tangled swamps. We see babes sold from the breasts of mothers. Cruelty unspeakable! Outrage infinite!

Four million bodies in chains-four million souls in fetters. All the sacred relations of wife, mother, father and child trampled beneath the brutal feet of might. And all this was done under our own beautiful banner of the free.

The past rises before us. We hear the roar and shriek of the bursting shell. The broken fetters fall. These heroes die. We look. Instead of slaves we see men and women and children. The wand of progress touches the auction-block, the slave-pen, the whipping post, and we see homes and firesides and school houses and books, and where all was want and crime and cruelty and fear we see the faces of the free.

These heroes are dead. They died for liberty-they died for us. They are at rest. They sleep in the land they made free, under the flag they rendered stainless, under the solemn pines, the sad hemlocks, the tearful willows, and the embracing vines. They sleep beneath the shadows of the clouds, careless alike of sunshine or storm, each in the windowless palace of Rest. Earth may run red with other wars-they are at peace. In the midst of battle, in the roar of conflict, they found the serenity of death. I have one sentiment for soldiers living and dead: Cheers for the living; tears for the dead.

SPARTACUS TO THE GLADIATORS - E. KELLOGG

Contrast is a law of memory by which any given idea or emotional state is made more striking by setting it over against its opposite. No greater contrast in literature is afforded than in the following selection where Spartacus contrasts the touching picture of his happy, youthful life, with the ruin and desolation of his home after the invasion of the Romans. His voice is full of tenderness as he dwells upon his boyhood days and the loving care of his mother, but in an instant gives way to violent rage as he recalls the murder of his father and mother and the ruin of his home. The author first contrasts the quietness of the moon-silvered amphitheatre with the shouts of revelry and day of triumph just past.

It had been a day of triumph in Capua. Lentulus, returning with victorious eagles, had amused the populace with the sports of the amphitheatre to an extent hitherto unknown even in that luxurious city. The shouts of revelry had died away; the roar of the lion had ceased; the last loiterer had retired from the banquet, and the lights in the palace of the victor were extinguished. The moon, piercing the tissue of fleecy clouds, silvered the dew-drops on the corselet of the Roman sentinel, and tipped the dark waters of the Vulturnus with a wavy, tremulous light. No sound was heard, save the last sob of some retiring wave, telling its story to the smooth pebbles of the beach; and then all was still as the breast when the spirit has departed. In the deep recesses of the amphitheatre a band of gladiators were assembled, their muscles still knotted with the agony of conflict, the foam upon their lips, the scowl of battle yet lingering on their brows, when Spartacus, starting forth from amid the throng, thus addressed them:

"Ye call me chief; and ye do well to call him chief who, for twelve long years, has met upon the arena every shape of man or beast the broad empire of Rome could furnish, and who never yet lowered his arm. If there be one among you who can say that ever, in public fight or private brawl, my actions did belie my tongue, let him stand forth and say it. If there be three in all your company dare face me on the bloody sands, let them come on. And yet I was not always thus,-a hired butcher, a savage chief of still more savage men! My ancestors came from old Sparta, and settled among the vine-clad rocks and citron-groves of Syrasella. My early life ran quiet as the brooks by which I sported; and when at noon I gathered the sheep beneath the shade, and played upon the shepard's flute, there was a friend, the son of a neighbor, to join me in the pastime. We led our flocks to the same pasture, and partook together of our rustic meal. One evening, after the sheep were folded, and we were all seated beneath the myrtle which shaded our cottage, my grandsire, an old man, was telling of Marathon and Leuctra, and how in ancient times, a little band of Spartans, in a defile of the mountains, had withstood a whole army. I did not then know what war was; but my cheeks burned, I knew not why, and I clasped the knees of that venerable man, until my mother, parting the hair from off my forehead, kissed my throbbing temples and bade me go to rest, and think no more of those old tales and savage wars.

That very night the Romans landed on our coast. I saw the breast that had nourished me trampled by the hoof of the war-horse, and the bleeding body of my father flung amidst the blazing rafters of our dwelling !

" Xo-day I killed a man in the arena, and when I broke his helmet-clasps, behold! he was my friend. He knew me, smiled faintly, gasped, and died;-the same sweet smile upon his lips that I had marked, when in adventurous boyhood, we scaled the lofty cliff to pluck the first ripe grapes, and bear them home in childish triumph, I told the praetor that the dead man had been my friend, generous and brave, and I begged that I might bear away the body, to burn it on a funeral pile, and mourn over its ashes. Ay upon my knees, amid the dust and blood of the arena, I begged that poor boon, while all the assembled maids and matrons, and the holy virgins they call Vestals, and the rabble, shouted in derision, deeming it rare sport, forsooth, to see Rome's fiercest gladiator turn pale and tremble at sight of that piece of bleeding clay. And the praetor drew back as if I were pollution, and sternly said, ' Let the carrion rot; there are no noble men but Romans,' And so fellow-gladiators, must you, and so must I, die like dogs. O Rome, Rome, thou hast been a tender nurse to me. Ay thou hast given to that poor, gentle, timid, shepherd lad, who never new a harsher tone than a flute-note, muscles of iron and a heart of flint: taught him to drive the sword through plaited mail and links of rugged brass, and warm it in the marrow of his foe;- to gaze into the glaring eye-balls of the fierce Namibian lion, even as a boy upon a laughing girl. And he shall pay thee back, until the yellow Tiber is -red as frothing wine, and in its deepest ooze thy life-blood lies curdled. "Ye stand here now like giants, as ye are. The strength of brass is in your toughened sinews; but tomorrow some Roman Adonis, breathing sweet perfume from his curly locks, shall with his lily fingers pat your red brawn, and bet his sesterces upon your blood. Hark! hear ye yon lion roaring in his den ? 'Tis three days since he tasted flesh, but to-morrow he shall break his fast upon yours,-and a dainty meal for him ye will be! If ye are beasts, then stand here like fat oxen, waiting for the butcher's knife! If ye are men,-follow me! Strike down yon guard, gain the mountain passes, and there do bloody work, as did your sires at old Thermo-pylas. Is Sparta dead ? Is the old Grecian spirit frozen in your veins, that you do crouch and cower like a belabored hound beneath his master's lash? O comrades, warriors, Thracians,-if we must fight, let us fight for ourselves! If we must slaughter, let us slaughter our oppressors! If we must die, let it be under the clear sky, by the bright waters, in noble, honorable battle!

The "Mona Lisa" of Leonardi da Vinci

THE MASTERPIECE OF GOD. ELBERT HUBBARD.

Extract from an essay on Leonardo da Vinci in Volume X of Little Journeys."

The "Mona Lisa" of Leonardo da Vinci, the most famous portrait in the world, for which an offer of $5,000,000 is said to have been refused, has been as much a riddle as the sphinx itself. For four years,-1501 to 1504-Leonardo, friend of Francesco del Gio-condo, of Florence, spent his spare moments at work on the painting. The model was Mona Lisa, third wife of Gio-condo. The artist worked at the painting only when a certain expression appeared on his model's face, brought about by a peculiar strain of music. Leonardo sold the portrait to his patron Francis I, of France, who kept it locked jealously in his palace at Fontainebleau. On his death Louis XIV had it hung in his bed-chamber at Versailles. Following his demise it was transferred to the Louvre, where it since has attracted world-wide attention.

"What is she smiling at?" ever has been the unsolved riddle. She has been declared the emanation of the intellectual, sentimental and poetic power of her time, with all the mystery of the human soul and all its destiny. The painting is also called "La Joconde " or " Gio-conda," and is known as the most perfect work of art ever produced.

Among Da Vinci's other works the most famous are "The Last Supper," painted on the walls of Santa Maria Della Grazie about 1498. It faded after about ten years, and has frequently been restored.

The human face is the masterpiece of God. A woman's smile may have in it more sublimity than a sunset; more pathos than a battle-scarred landscape; more warmth than the sun's bright rays; more love than words can say. The human face is the masterpiece of God.

The eyes reveal the soul, the mouth the flesh, the chin stands for purpose, the nose means will. But over and behind all is that fleeting Something we call "expression." This Something is not set or fixed; it is fluid as the ether, changeful as the clouds that move in mysterious majesty across the surface of a summer sky, subtle as the sob of rustling leaves,-too faint at times for human ears,-elusive as the ripples that play hide-and-seek over the bosom of a placid lake.

And yet men have caught expression and held it captive. On the walls of the Louvre hangs the " Mona Lisa" of Leonardo da Vinci. This picture has been for four hundred years an exasperation and an inspiration to every portrait-painter who has put brush to palette. Well does Walter Pater call it " The Despair of Painters." The artist was over fifty years of age when he began the work, and he was four years in completing the task.

Completing, did I say? Leonardo's dying regret was that he had not completed this picture. And yet we might say of it, as Ruskin said of Turner's work, "By no conceivable stretch of the imagination can we say where this picture can be bettered or improved upon."

There is in the face all you can read into it and nothing more. It gives you what you bring and nothing else. It is as silent as the lips of Memnon, as voiceless as the Sphinx. It suggests to you every joy that you have ever felt, every sorrow you have ever known, every triumph you have ever experienced.

This woman is beautiful, just as all life is beautiful when we are in health. She has no quarrel with the world-she loves and she is loved again. No vain longing fills her heart, no feverish unrest disturbs her dreams, for her no crouching fears haunt the passing hours-that ineffable smile which plays around her mouth says plainly that life is good. And yet the circles about the eyes and the drooping lids hint of world-weariness and speak the message of Koheleth, and say, "Vanity of vanities, all is vanity."

"La Gio-conda" is infinitely wise, for she has lived. That supreme poise is only possible to one who knows. All the experiences and emotions of manifold existence have etched and molded that form and face until the body has become the perfect instrument of the soul.

Back of her stretches her life, a mysterious purple shadow. Do you not see the palaces turned to dust, the broken columns, the sunken treasures, the creeping mosses, and the rank ooze of fretted waters that have undermined cities and turned kingdoms into desert seas? The galleys of pagan Greece have swung wide for her on the unforgetting tide, for her soul dwelt in the body of Helen of Troy, and Pallas Athene has followed her ways and whispered to her even the secrets of the gods. Aye! not only was she Helen, but she was Leda, the mother of Helen. Then she was St. Anne, mother of Mary; and next she was Mary, visited by an angel in a dream, and followed by the wise men who had seen the Star in the East. The centuries, that are but thoughts, found her a Vestal Virgin in Pagan Rome, when brutes were kings and lust stalked rampant through the streets. She was the bride of Christ and her fair frail body was flung to the wild beasts, and torn limb from limb while the multitude feasted on the sight.

True to the central impulse of her soul the Dark Ages rightly called her Cecilia, and then St. Cecilia, mother of sacred music, and later she ministered to men as Melania, the Nun of Tagaste; next as the daughter of William the Conqueror, the Sister of Charity who went through Italy, Spain, and France, and taught the women of the nunneries how to sew, to weave, to embroider, to illuminate books and make beauty, truth, and harmony manifest to human eyes. And so to this Lady of the Beautiful Hands stood to Leonardo as the embodiment of a perpetual life; moving in a constantly ascending scale, gathering wisdom, graciousness, love, even as he himself in this life met every experience halfway and counted it joy, knowing that experience is the germ of power.

Life writes its history upon the face, so that all those who have had a like experience read and understand. The human face is the masterpiece of God.

ELMER E. ROGERS ON ABRAHAM LINCOLN

The speaker who succeeds in interesting an audience of children will have no trouble with older persons. Of all methods of acquiring the art of speaking impressively to an audience, attempting to interest children from five to fifteen years of age is the most helpful. The following address by Elmer E. Rogers, of the Chicago bar, was given under the auspices of The Lincoln Centennial Memorial Committee, before the Public Schools of Chicago. The subject was: "Lincoln's Pluck and Luck-What About Ours?"

Principal, Teachers, Ladies and Gentlemen, Girls and Boys: The world first hears from us when we are born; and sees the last of us when we die. What we do while in life is called Deeds,-good, bad, or otherwise. Our parents and friends remember us after we are gone. But if after we are dead we are remembered by our Ward, City, State, Nation or the World-why, that's Fame! President Abraham Lincoln is Famous.

That little log-cabin, backwoods boy (called by his chums Abe Linkern), now our deified martyr, enjoyed no schooling except the equivalent of a term or two; yet he figured actively in deeds of war, law, peace and politics, attaining distinction in each and all. From log hut, or shanty, to White House is a long political jump, yet Lincoln, the rail-splitter and athlete, spanned it! Jefferson wrote the Declaration of Independence, Lincoln wrote the Emancipation Proclamation. Washington was the "father of his country," Jefferson its organizer, and Lincoln its Conservator.

Lincoln's birth occurred 100 years ago. 1809 was the birth year of many women and men wondrous wise and great. Lincoln was obliged to dress in clothing made from the skins of wild beasts; to live on roasted corn, hominy and "Johnny-cake." Nevertheless, he almost committed to memory, as Bonaparte had done, Pilgrim's Progress, Robinson Crusoe, Aesop's Fables, Plutarch's Lives, and particularly Weem's Washington. Dennis Hanks and Abe said that they learned by "sight, scent and hearing." Lincoln was a school within himself, and despite misfortune, he lived to be honored with a degree by Princeton University. In the early times the teacher scarcely new beyond the "rule of three"; while any person with a knowledge of Latin was a neighborhood wonder; and a college graduate would have been a good drawing-card for a dime museum.

President Lincoln had read of an attempt to make the Negro's skin white by persistent washing, which only gave him a cold from which he nearly died. Gave not Lincoln a cold but the negro. There is a better way, soliloquizes Lincoln; and so he set about to free the Slave, and sent Rebellion reeling to the grave. Lincoln and Lee were the greatest men involved in the Rebellion. Lincoln's death was deplored as a great loss to the South during the period of reconstruction. Lincoln was one of the most bitterly assailed men in public life- by press and public, and in cartoon-but President Lincoln was one of the most speedy to recover his prestige. Mr. Lincoln deplored the harsh criticism and indiscriminate abuse of anybody as well as of public personages. Even assassination has never changed the trend of events in the world.

No other country in the world presents such Opportunities for the Boy and Girl of today as America. In the American Commonwealth we are informed that "America is only another Name for Opportunity." President Garfield once remarked that the best thing that could happen to a boy or girl was to get thrown overboard into the water; he never knew of one to drown who was worth saving. "Luck is only Pluck, In trying over and over; Patience and Will, Courage and Skill, Are the four leaves of Luck's clover."

"Genius," says Thomas A. Edison, the great inventor, "is partly inspiration, but mostly perspiration. "With Lincoln it was mostly perspiration. Gladstone and Mendelssohn, born the same year as Lincoln, had wealth and influence at their command, while Lincoln had nothing but his own pluck to forge him to the front.

Lincoln's name is in the Hall of Fame. Among the Greats! To miss our object in life is not necessarily to fail. Henry Clay and William J. Bryan thrice "run" for the presidency. Who will say that both are not great men ? Bryan is probably our most distinguished private citizen. Clay's and Bryan's lives are not failures. The world needs just such men to keep the balance wheel of civilization in balance. They are of much service to mankind. Lincoln himself proved to be a failure in 'business." While running a store he was so deeply absorbed in books that the customers ate his apples and forgot to pay their bills. Artemus Ward once was patted on the head with the remark, " My boy, there is a great future before you." Abraham's stepmother had faith in Lincoln's great future, but while he was engaged in the business of storekeeping, it must have appeared to Lincoln that his future was mostly behind him.

But Lincoln was resourceful. Resourcefulness is a Great Secret of Success today as well as in the olden days. Somebody asked Lincoln how long a man's legs ought to be. Lincoln replied that he thought they ought to be about long enough to reach to the ground. Crook and Hook were two officers in the Civil War. Lincoln said, "Well, we'll win by Hook or Crook." During the war a delegation of prominent men came on from New York to plead with the President to send a warship to protect New York harbor, which proved that Lincoln was never abashed in the presence of distinguished personages. The men said they represented hundreds of millions of dollars worth of property which must be protected. Lincoln replied that if he had as much money as they he believed he would build a warship himself and present it to the government.

Study critically the careers of great and successful men and women. President McKinley is said to have made a careful study of the life work of the presidents who preceded him in his own efforts to reach the office of Chief Magistracy of our Republic. Carnegie offers some wholesome advice on how to get on in the world. Instead of being a "jack-of-all-trades" he says, "put all of your eggs in one basket and then watch the basket." This means to concentrate your efforts. We hear so much about finding that "lost speech" of Lincoln's. Most of our speakers are so different from Lincoln that before they have gone very far the audiences begin to wish that both the speakers and their speeches had got lost before they mounted the platform. Lincoln's habits of study, writing and speaking marked everything he said or wrote notable for its brevity. A good lesson for us of today.

Three ideals I hold up for your emulation-Lincoln, Roosevelt, Bryan. All of these men are distinguished for exemplary characters. None, I believe, ever used liquor or tobacco, besides, they are good models in a multitude of characteristics.

LIBERTY ELOQUENT TRIBUTE TO LIBERTY, BY HENRY GEORGE.

Liberty came to a race of slaves crouching under Egyptian whips, and let them forth from the House of Bondage. She hardened them in the desert and made of them a race of conquerors. The free spirit of the Mosaic law took their thinkers up to heights where they beheld the unity of God, and inspired the poets with strains that yet phrase the highest exaltations of thought. Liberty dawned on the Phenician coast, and ships passed the Pillars of Hercules to plow the unknown sea. She shed a partial light on Greece, and marble grew to shapes of ideal beauty, words became the instruments of subtlest thought, and against scanty militia of free cities the countless hosts of the Great King broke like surges against a rock. She cast her beams on the four-acre farms of Italian husbandmen, and born of her strength a power came forth that conquered the world. They glinted from shields of Germany warriors, and Augustus wept his legions. Out of the night that followed her eclipse, her slanting rays fell again on free cities, and a lost learning revived; modern civilization began, a new world was unveiled; and as Liberty grew, so grew art, wealth, power, knowledge and refinement. In the history of every nation we may read the same truth. It was strength born of Magna Charta that won Crecy and Agincourt. It was the revival of Liberty from the despotism of the Tudors that glorified the Elizabethan age. It was the spirit that brought a crowned tyrant to the block, that planted here the seed of a mighty tree.

GREATNESS OF THE UNIVERSE JEAN PAUL RICHTER

One may search in vain through literature for a more beautiful description of the length and breadth, the height and depth of the universe, than is given in this extract.

God called up a man into the vestibule of heaven, saying: "Come thou hither and see the glory of My house." And to the servants that stood around His throne He said: "Take him and undress him from the robes of flesh, cleanse his vision and put new breath into his nostrils; only touch not with any change his human heart-the heart that weeps and trembles."
It was done; and, with a mighty angel for his guide, the man stood ready for his infinite voyage; and from the terraces of heaven, without sound or farewell, at once they wheeled into endless space. Sometimes, with solemn flight of angel wings, they fled through Sahara's of darkness, through wildernesses of death that divided the worlds of life; sometimes they swept along frontiers that were quickening under prophetic motion. Then from a distance that is counted only in heaven light dawned for a time through a sleepy film; by unutterable pace the light swept to them, they, by unutterable pace, to the light. In a moment the rushing of planets was upon them; in a moment the blazing of suns was around them.

Then came eternities of twilight that revealed, but were not revealed. On the right hand and the left towered mighty constellations; here were triumphal gates whose magnificent archways rose in altitude by spans that seemed ghostly from infinitude. Without measure were the architraves, past number were the archways, beyond memory the gates. Within were stairs that scaled the eternities below; above was below-below was above to the man stripped of gravitating body- depth was swallowed up in height insurmountable, height was swallowed up in depth unfathomable.

Suddenly, as they thus rode from finite to infinite- suddenly, as they thus tilted over abysmal worlds-a mighty cry arose, that systems more mysterious, that constellations more glorious, that worlds more billowy, other heights and other depths were coming, were near-ing, were at hand!

Then the man sighed and stopped, shuddered and wept. His overburdened heart uttered itself in tears, and he said: Angel, I will go no further. For the spirit of man acheth with this infinity. Insufferable is the glory of the universe. Let me lie down in the grave and hide myself from the persecution of the infinite, for end there is none." And from all the listening stars that shone around issued a choral voice: "The man speaks truly; end there is none that even yet we have heard of. End there is none!" The angel solemnly demanded: "Is there no end, and is this the sorrow that kills you?" But no voice answered, that he may answer himself. Then the angel throws up his glorious hands toward the heaven of heavens, saying: "End there is none in the universe of God. Lo! also there was no beginning."

READING FOR THE THOUGHT JOHN RUSKIN

Especially valuable for analysis.

When you come to a good book, you must ask yourself, "Am I inclined to work as an Australian miner would? Are my pickaxes and shovels in good order, and am I in good trim myself-my sleeves well up to the elbows, and my breath good, and my temper?" And keeping the figure a little longer, even at the cost of tiresomeness, for it is a thoroughly useful one, the metal you are in search of being the author's mind or meaning, his words are as the rock which you have to crush and smelt in order to get at it. And your pickaxes are your own care, wit, and learning; your smelting furnace is your own thoughtful soul. Do not hope to get at any good author's meaning without those tools and that fire. Often you will need sharpest, finest chiseling and pa-tientest fusing before you can gather one grain of the metal.

And, therefore, first of all, I tell you earnestly and authoritatively (I know I am right in this), you must get into the habit of looking intensely at words, and assuring yourself of their meaning, syllable by syllable-nay, letter by letter. For, though it is only by reason of the opposition of letters in the function of signs to sounds, in the function of signs that the study of books is called "literature," and that a man versed in it is called, by the consent of nations, a man of letters, instead of a man of books or of words, you may yet connect with that accidental nomenclature this real fact-that you might read all the books in the British Museum (if you could live long enough) and remain an utterly illiterate, uneducated person; but that if you read ten pages of a good book letter by letter, that is to say, with real accuracy, you are forevermore in some measure an educated person. The entire difference between education and non-education (as regards the merely intellectual part of it) consists in this accuracy. A well educated gentlemen may not know many languages, may not be able to speak any but his own, may have read very few books. But whatever language he knows, he knows precisely; whatever word he pronounces he pronounces rightly. Above all, he is learned in the peerage of words, knows the words of true descent and ancient blood, at a glance, from words of modern canaille; remembers all their ancestry, their intermarriages, distant relationships, and the extent to which they were admitted, and offices they held among the national noblesse of words at any time and in any country. But an educated person may know, by memory, many languages, and talk them all, and yet truly know not a word of any-not a word even of his own. An ordinarily clever and sensible seaman will be able to make his way ashore at most ports; yet he has only to speak a sentence of any language to be known for an illiterate person. So also the accent, or turn of expression of a single sentence, will at once mark a scholar. And this is so strongly felt, so conclusively admitted, by educated persons, that a false accent or a mistaken syllable is enough, in the parliament of any civilized nation, to assign to a man a certain degree of inferior standing forever.

LIBERTY OR DEATH

Patrick Henry's impulsive outburst just previous to the breaking out of our War of Independence is the sublimity of patriotism. This is a portion of it:

It is natural to man to indulge in the illusions of Hope. We are apt to shut our eyes against a painful truth, and listen to the song of that siren, till she transforms us into beasts. Is this the part of wise men, engaged in a great and arduous struggle for liberty? Are we disposed to be of the number of those who, having eyes, see not, and having ears, hear not, the things which so nearly concern our temporal salvation? For my part, whatever anguish of spirit it may cost, I am willing to know the whole truth-to know the worst, and to provide for it!

They tell us, sir, that we are weak-unable to cope with so formidable an adversary. But when shall we be stronger? Will it be the next week, or the next year? Will it be when we are totally disarmed, and when a British guard shall be stationed in every house? Shall we gather strength by irresolution and inaction? Shall we acquire the means of effectual resistance by lying supinely on our backs and hugging the delusive phantom of hope, until our enemies shall have bound us hand and foot? Sir, we are not weak, if we make a proper use of those means which the God of nature hath placed in our power.

Three millions of people, armed in the holy cause of liberty, and in such a country as that which we possess, are invincible by any force which our enemy can send against us. Besides, sir, we shall not fight our battles alone. There is a just God who presides over the destinies of nations, and who will raise up friends to fight our battles for us. The battle, sir, is not to the strong alone; it is to the vigilant, the active, the brave. Besides, sir, we have no election. If we were base enough to desire it, it is now too late to retire from the contest. There is no retreat but in submission and slavery ! Our chains are forged! Their clanking may be heard on the plains of Boston! The war is inevitable; and let it come! I repeat it, sir, let it come!

It is in vain, sir, to extenuate the matter. Gentlemen may cry, peace, peace!-but there is no peace. The war is actually begun! The next gale that sweeps from the North will bring to our ears the clash of resounding arms! Our brethren are already in the field! Why stand we here idle? What is it that gentlemen wish? What would they have? Is life so dear, or peace so sweet, as to be purchased at the price of chains and slavery? Forbid it, Almighty God! I know not what course others may take; but, for me, give me liberty, or give me death!

HORACE MANN

The Germans and French have a beautiful phrase which would enrich any language that should adopt it. They say: "to orient;" or, "to orient one's self

When a traveler arrives at a strange city, or is overtaken by night or by a storm, he takes out his compass and learns which way is the East, or Orient. Forthwith all the cardinal points-east, west, north, south-take their true places in his mind, and he is in no danger of seeking for the sunset or the polestar in the wrong quarter of the heavens. He orients himself.

When commanders of armies approach each other for the battle, on which the fate of empires may depend, each learns the localities of the ground-how best he can intrench his front or cover his flank, how best he can make a sally or repel an assault. He orients himself.

When a statesman revolves some mighty scheme of administrative policy, so vast as to comprehend surrounding nations and later times in its ample scope, he takes an inventory of his resources, he adapts means to ends, he adjusts plans and movements so that one shall not counter-work another, and he marshals the whole series of affairs for producing the grand results. He orients himself.

Young man! open your heart before me for one moment, and let me write upon it these parting words. The gracious God has just called you into being; and, during the few years you have lived, the greatest lesson you have learned is, that you shall never die. All around your body the earth lies open and free, and you can go where you will; all around your spirit the universe lies open and free, and you can go where you will.Orient yourself.

ORIENT YOURSELF! Seek frivolous and elusive pleasures if you will; expend your immortal energies upon ignoble and fallacious joys; but know, their end is intellectual imbecility, and the perishing of every good that can ennoble or emparadise the human heart. Obey, if you will, the law of the baser passions-appetite, pride, selfishness-but know, they will scourge you into realms where the air is hot with fiery-tongued scorpions, that will sting and torment your soul into unutterable agonies! But study and obey the sublime laws on which the frame of nature was constructed; study and obey the sublimer laws on which the soul of man was formed; and the fullness of the power and the wisdom and the blessedness, with which God has filled and lighted up this resple.id-ent universe, shall all be yours!

"THE TREE OUR OLDEST SERVANT" GOVERNOR STUBBS, OF KANSAS

The genial days of spring call to our memory again the duty we owe to that ancient and useful friend of man-the tree.

In all the ages of the world it's true to our interest and loyal to our service. It has furnished the cradles and coffins of our ancestors; it has given comfort and shelter to the peasant and the prince-to the poor man and the potentate.

Trees have always figured in our divine and patriotic relations. Among them the religion of man was born. Groves were the first cathedrals of our race. Birds, singing in their branches, gave us the first idea of sacred music and the choir. God planted them in Eden for the sustenance of the first parents. From their leaves were fashioned the first garments that covered their nakedness. When God's displeasure threatened the extinction of our race Noah looked into the forest and found there means of salvation. It was under that oak that Jehovah conversed with a great man in Israel. It was in the tree tops that David heard the voice of the Lord. It was among the palms of the Garden of Geth-semane that Jesus spent the last evening of his life. The battle for American freedom was consummated under the apple tree of Appomattox.

THE ISLE OF LONG AGO BENJAMIN F. TAYLOR

The leading idea of any group or word picture must first be fixed in the mind and then the association, the relation sought after. In the following poem the result is secured by asking questions and answering them as directed in Part III, of The Dickson Lessons on Memory, "Interrogative Analysis:"

1. To what is Time compared?
2. What kind of a stream?
3. Why?
4. Where does the stream flow?
5. In what manner does it flow?
6. Define rhythm and rhyme.
7. What does Time blend with?

These are but few of the many questions that may be asked and answered. After this interrogative analysis, close the eyes and picture silently a river, a long river, one that you have seen before. Observe the perspective. As we cannot imagine Time to have had any beginning, so we cannot see the source of the river. The River Time did not originate in this life, but was flowing long before. The reader will recall many scenes in his own life that will suggest a flood of remembrances. This habit of mental vision if persevered in will always enable you to see everything in the boldest relief. In calling up each vision to the mind wait patiently until it arrives. Afterward fill in the detail.

O a wonderful stream is the river Time,
As it runs through the realm of tears, With a faultless rhythm and a musical rhyme, And a boundless sweep and a surge sublime,
As it blends with the Ocean of Years.
How the Winters are drifting, like flakes of snow,
And the summers like buds between, And the year in the sheaf; so they come and they go, On the river's breast, with its ebb and flow,
As it glides in the shadow and sheen.
There's a magical isle up the river Time,
Where the softest of airs are playing; There's a cloudless sky and a tropical clime, And a song as sweet as a vesper chime,
And the Junes with the roses are straying.
And the name of that Isle is the Long Ago,
And we bury our treasures there ; There are brows of beauty and bosoms of snow; There are heaps of dust-but we loved them so!
There are trinkets and tresses of hair.
There are fragments of song that nobody sings,
And a part of an infant's prayer; There's a lute unswept, and a harp without strings; There are broken vows and pieces of rings,
And the garments that she used to wear.
There are hands that are waved when the fairy shore
By the mirage is lifted in air;
And we sometimes hear through the turbulent roar Sweet voices we heard in the days gone before,
When the wind down the river is fair.
O, remember'd for aye be the blessed Isle,
All the day of our life until night; When the evening comes with its beautiful smile, And our eyes are closing to slumber awhile,
May that "Greenwood" of Soul be in sight!

THANATOPSIS

This exquisite poem of Bryant's was written at the age of eighteen. It was at Cumming ton, Mass., the poet's birthplace, during his wanderings in the primeval forests, where gigantic trunks of fallen trees lay decaying, and where silent rivulets flowed through mossy banks, and mountains of dead leaves-suggesting to the poet's mind the most remote antiquity, that Bryant conceived the idea of depicting the future state of man. The poet represents that generation after generation of the human race, as they pass away, find an "eternal resting place" in the bosom of the Earth, who thus claims the form she has nourished with her fruits, and mixes it "for ever with the elements." The universality of mortal fate is depicted with a serious iteration and impressive-ness which operate with reconciling force.

To him who, in the love of Nature, holds Communion with her visible forms, she speaks A various language: for his gayer hours She has a voice of gladness, and a smile And eloquence of beauty; and she glides Into his darker musings, with a mild And healing sympathy, that steals away Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts Of the last bitter hour come like a blight Over thy spirit, and sad images Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, And breathless darkness, and the narrow house, Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart, Go forth under the open sky, and list To Nature's teachings, while from all around- Earth and her waters, and the depths of air- Comes a still voice-Yet a few days, and thee

The all-beholding sun shall see no more
In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground,
Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears,
Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist
Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim
Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again;
And, lost each human trace, surrendering up
Thine individual being, shalt thou go
To mix forever with the elements;
To be a brother to the insensible rock,
And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain
Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak
Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould.
Yet not to thine eternal resting place
Shalt thou retire alone-nor couldst thou wish
Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down
With patriarchs of the infant world-with kings,
The powerful of the earth-the wise, the good,
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,
All in one mighty sepulcher. The hills,
Rock-ribbed, and ancient as the sun; the vales
Stretching in pensive quietness between ;
The venerable woods; rivers that move
In majesty, and the complaining brooks,
That make the meadows green; and, poured round all,
Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste-
Are but the solemn decorations all
Of the great tomb of man! . . .
... As the long train
Of ages glides away, the sons of men-

The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes In the full strength of years, matron and maid, And the sweet babe and the gray-headed man- Shall, one by one, be gathered to thy side, By those who in their turn shall follow them.

So live, that when thy summons comes, to join The innumerable caravan, that moves To that mysterious realm, where each shall take His chamber in the silent halls of death, Thou go not, like the quarry slave at nights Scourged to his dungeon; but, sustained and soothed By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.

THE COUNTRY CHURCHYARD BY THOMAS GRAY

Thomas Gray, known to every school boy as the author of the " Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard," was born in London, Dec. 26, 1716, and died at Cambridge, England, July 30, 1771. In English literary history he is noted as having refused the poet laureateship. Much of his later life was spent at Stoke Pogis, where he found the scene which inspired his immortal poem. It is difficult to make a selection from a poem where all is as good as in the " Elegy," but the stanzas below are those which certainly none ought to fail to know.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, 'And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Awaits alike the inevitable hour,
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, If memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise,
Where, through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault, The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.
Can storied urn or animated bust Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath ?
Can honor's voice provoke the silent dust, Or flattery soothe the dull cold ear of death?
Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid
Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;
Hands, that the rod of empire might have swayed, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.
But knowledge to their eyes her ample page, Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll;
Chill penury repressed their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.
Full many a gem of purest ray serene The dark, unfathomed caves of ocean bear;
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

AS I CAME DOWN FROM LEBANON CLINTON SCOLLARD

As I came down from Lebanon, Came winding, wandering slowly down Through mountain passes bleak and brown, The cloudless day was well-nigh done. In emerald, showed each minaret Afire with radiant beams of sun, And glistened orange, fig and lime, Where song birds made melodious chime, As I came down from Lebanon.
As I came down from Lebanon, Like lava in the dying glow, Through olive orchards far below I saw the murmuring river run; And 'neath the wall upon the sand Swart sheiks from distant Samarcand, With precious spices they had won, Lay long and languidly in wait Till they might pass the guarded gate, As I came down from Lebanon.
As I came down from Lebanon, I saw strange men from lands afar, In mosque and square and gay bazar, The Magi that the Moslem shun, And grave Effendi from Stamboul, Who sherbet sipped from corners cool; And, from the balconies o'errun With roses, gleamed the eyes of those Who dwell in still seraglios, As I came down from Lebanon,
As I came down from Lebanon, The naming flower of daytime died, And night, arrayed as is a bride Of some great king, in garments spun Of purple and the finest gold, Out bloomed in glories manifold Until the moon, above the dun And darkening desert, void of shade, Shone like a keen Damascus blade, As I came down from Lebanon.

PICTURES OF MEMORY ALICE CARY

Among the beautiful pictures
That hang on Memory's wall, Is one of a dim old forest,
That seemed best of all. Not for its gnarl'd oaks olden,
Dark with the mistletoe;* Not for the violets golden
That sprinkle the vale below; Not for the milk-white lilies
That lean from the fragrant ledge, Coquetting all day with the sunbeams,
And stealing their golden edge; Not for the vines on the upland
Where the bright red berries rest, Nor the pinks, nor the pale, sweet cowslip,
It seemed to me the best.
I once had a little brother
With eyes that were dark and deep; In the lap of that dim old forest,
He lieth in peace asleep. Light as the down of the thistle,
Free as the winds that blow, We roved there the beautiful summers,
The summers of long ago; But his feet on the hills grew weary.
And, one of the autumn eves, I made for my little brother
A bed of the yellow leaves.
Sweetly his pale arms folded
My neck in a meek embrace, As the light of immortal beauty
Silently cover'd his face;
And when the arrows of sunset Lodged in the tree-tops bright,
He fell, in his saint-like beauty, Asleep by the gates of light.
Therefore, of all the pictures That hang on Memory's wall,
The one of the dim old forest Seemed the best of all.

SANDALPHON H. W. LONGFELLOW

Have you read in the Talmud of old, In the Legends the Rabbins have told Of the limitless realms of the air, Have you read it-the marvellous story Of Sandalphon, the Angel of Glory,
Sandalphon, the Angel of Prayer?
How, erect, at the outermost gates Of the City Celestial he waits, With his feet on the ladder of light, That, crowded with angels unnumber'd, By Jacob was seen, as he slumber'd Alone in the desert at night ?
The Angels of Wind and of Fire Chant only one hymn, and expire With the song's irresistible stress; Expire in their rapture and wonder, As harp-strings are broken asunder By music they throb to express.
But, serene in the rapturous throng, Unmoved by the rush of the song, With eyes unimpassion'd and slow, Among the dead angels, the deathless Sandalphon stands listening, breathless, To sounds that ascend from below;- From the spirits on Earth that adore, From the souls that entreat and implore In the fervour and passion of prayer; From the hearts that are broken with losses And weary with dragging the crosses
Too heavy for mortals to bear.
And he gathers the prayers as he stands, And they change into flowers in his hands,
Into garlands of purple and red; And beneath the great arch of the portal, Through the streets of the City Immortal
Is wafted the fragrance they shed.
It is but a legend, I know- A fable, a phantom, a show,
Of the ancient Rabbinical lore: Yet the old mediaeval tradition, The beautiful, strange superstition,
But haunts me and holds me the more. When I look from my window at night, And the welkin above is all white,
All throbbing and panting with stars, Among them majestic is standing Sandalphon the angel, expanding
His pinions in nebulous bars.
And the legend, I feel, is a part Of the hunger and thirst of the heart,
The frenzy and fire of the brain, That grasps at the fruitage forbidden, The golden pomegranates of Eden,
To quiet its fever and pain.

THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES

This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign,
Sails the unshadowed main-
The venturous bark that flings On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings In gulfs enchanted, where the siren sings,
And coral reefs lie bare, Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair.
Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl-
Wrecked is the ship of pearl!
And every chambered cell,
Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell, As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell,
Before thee lies revealed- Its irised ceiling rent, it sunless crypt unsealed:
Year after year beheld the silent toil
That spreads his lustrous coil;
Still, as the spiral grew, He left the past year's dwelling for the new, Stole with soft step its shining archway through,
Built up its idle door, Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more.
Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee,
Child of the wandering sea,
Cast from her lap forlorn! From thy dead lips a clearer note is borne Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn!
While on mine ear it rings, Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings:
Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul,
As the swift seasons roll!
Leave thy low-vaulted past! Let each new temple, nobler than the last, Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast,
Till thou at length art free, Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea!

THE PROMISED LAND TO-MORROW GERALD MASSEY

High hopes that burned like stars sublime,
Go down the heavens of freedom; And true hearts perish in the time
We bitterliest need them. But never sit we down and say:
"There's nothing left but sorrow;" We walk the wilderness to-day,
The promised land to-morrow.
Our birds of song are silent now,
There are no flowers blooming; But life beats in the frozen bough,
And freedom's spring is coming; And freedom's tide comes up alway,
Though we may strand in sorrow; And our good bark, aground to-day,
Shall float again to-morrow.
Our hearts brood o'er the past; our eyes
With smiling futures glisten; Lo, now the dawn bursts up the skies-
Lean out your souls and listen. The earth rolls freedom's radiant w.ay,
And ripens with our sorrow; And 'tis the martyrdom today
Gives victory to-morrow.
'Tis weary watching wave by wave,
And yet the tide heaves onward; We climb like corals grave by grave
Yet beat a pathway sunward. We're beaten back in many a fray,
Yet newer strength we borrow; And where our vanguard rests to-day
Our rear shall rest to-morrow.
Through all the long, dark night of years
The people's cry ascended; The earth was wet with blood and tears,
Ere their meek sufferings ended. The few shall not forever sway,
The many toil in sorrow; The bars of hell are strong to-day,
But Christ shall rise to-morrow.
Then youth, flame-earnest, still aspire
With energies immortal! To many a haven of desire
Your yearning opes a portal. And though age wearies by the way,
And hearts break in the furrow, We sow the golden grain to-day,
The harvest comes to-morrow.

THE SCULPTOR BOY OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES

Chisel in hand stood a sculptor boy,
With his marble block before him; And his face lit up with a smile of joy
As an angel dream passed o'er him. He carved that dream on the yielding stone
With many a sharp incision; In heaven's own light the sculptor shone,
He had caught that angel vision.
Sculptors of life are we, as we stand
With our lives uncarved before us, Waiting the hour when, at God's command.
Our life-dream passes o'er us. Let us carve it, then, on the yielding stone
With many a sharp incision; Its heavenly beauty shall be our own-
Our lives, that angel vision.

COLUMBUS - JOAQUIN MILLER

This selection Is one of the best short poems of Joaquin Miller. In fact, one of the best short poems by any American author, expressing as it does the true American spirit.

Behind him lay the gray Azores,
Behind the Gates of Hercules; Before him not the ghosts of shores,
Before him only shoreless seas. The good mate said: "Now must we pray,
For lo! the very stars are gone. "Brave Admiral, speak, what shall I say?"
"Why, say 'sail on! sail on! and on!' "
"My men grow mutinous day by day;
My men grow ghastly wan and weak." The stout mate thought of home; a spray
Of salt wave washed his swarthy cheek. "What shall I say, brave Admiral, say,
If we sight naught by seas at dawn?" "Why, you shall say at break of day,
'Sail on! sail on! and on!' "
They sailed and sailed, as winds might blow,
Until at last the blanched mate said, "Why, now not even God would know
Should I and all my men fall dead. These very winds forget their way,
For God from these dread seas is gone, Now speak, brave Admiral, speak and say"-
He said: "Sail on! sail on! and on!"
They sailed. They sailed. Then spake the mate:
"This mad sea shows his teeth to-night. He curls his lip, he lies in wait,
With lifted teeth, as if to bite! Brave Admiral, say but one good word:
What shall we do when hope is gone?" The words leapt like a leaping sword;-
"Sail on! sail on ! and on!"
Then, pale and worn, he kept his deck,
And peered through darkness. Ah, that night Of all dark nights! And then a speck-
A light! A light! A light! A light! It grew, a starlit flag unfurled!
It grew to be Times' burst of dawn, He gained a world; he gave that world
Its grandest lesson; "On! sail on!"

THE IMMORTALITY OF SONG EDWIN MARKHAM

(Author of "The Man With the Hoe, and Other Poems.")
In his deep breast the kingly poet bears
Eternity, the stir of mystic tides; And so the thing he touches ever wears
Some mark of the Eternal, and abides.
The kingdoms crumble and the banners go: More real than they is Richard's ghostly dream,
Iago's smile, the sigh of Romeo, Or that thin song of "Willow" by the stream.
There is no chart of Prospero's secret isle Where Ariel made a comrade of the bee;
Yet to some sun it will forever smile, And listen to the music of some sea.
Huron may waste and Andes bow with time, Yet that green Wood of Arden will stay fair,-
Still will Orlando weave his tender rhyme, And fill the forest with his sweet despair.
While empires sink to shadow and depart,
'Miranda, Juliet, Imogen, all pure And folded in the memory of the heart,
Live on in Song's eternity secure.
And that frail cloud that Shelley saw go by-
It will not crumble, it will never fade: Now is it blown about a magic sky,
And all hearts tremble to its flying shade. That skylark, soaring in the fields apart,
Passed through his soul, and now the whole world
hears: Now the glad bird that caroled to his heart
Scatters its silver music on the years. As long as Chimborazo's summit keeps
Its ancient vigil in the lonely skies, There will be violets where Shakespeare sleeps, And leaves alive with light where Shelley lies.

COMMITTING TO MEMORY

The advantages of committing to memory passages of real excellence are many. If a thing is read but once or twice there is very little to think over- indeed much reading destroys thinking, just as two pictures on the same negative blur each other. Selections from Shakespeare, the Bible, fine passages of prose and poetry, carefully memorized, furnish the mind with material, create a taste for good literature, give ease and facility of speech, and wealth and beauty of expression. The careful memorizer sees shades of meaning and a harmony of the whole, which escapes the careless reader.

A principal of a city High School recently sent out questions to many prominent citizens, asking among other things, what influence, if any, beautiful memorized thoughts had had upon their lives. The testimony was almost universal in attributing a greater success in life to the noble selections committed to memory when they were young. In every case there was some reference to the beauty in which the thought was clothed.
If a poem is chosen for memorizing it should be short.

If the poem is a long one, only so much of it should be memorized as contains the illuminating point of the selection. This "Illuminating Point" is always a noble thought, nobly expressed.

Gray's "Elegy" has been called a perfect piece of literature, but it is too long to be committed in its entirety-the illuminating points are confined to a half dozen brilliant stanzas, which may be found on pages 165 and 166. An ideal length for a complete poem is found in such as "Sandal Hon," page 169; "The Chambered Nautilus," page 171; "The Promised Land Tomorrow," page 172; "Columbus," page 174, and others in this book.
Let the student memorize one of these short poems each week, memorizing them even so well that they may be repeated backward if need be. The words and phrases will come naturally into daily use, and in a few weeks the student will find his vocabulary wonderfully enlarged. He will discover how much easier it is to speak a homely, useful English tongue.

These memorized selections should be often reviewed, for a thing to be fixed permanently in the mind, must be forgotten and relearned several times.

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