Thomas Gray was born in London in 1716. His father neglected his family, and the boy was dependent upon his mother, who worked hard to provide her son with an education.
Through the influence of an uncle, who was an assistant at Eton, the future poet was educated at that famous school, and at Cambridge. He spent his vacations at his uncle’s house. He cared nothing for the sports of the times, but loved nature. He would sit for hours in a quiet nook, surrounded by hills and cliffs, reading, dreaming, and watching the gambols of the hares and squirrels.
Gray was twenty-two years old when he left Cambridge. He spent the following six months at home, and then accepted the invitation of one of his college friends to accompany him, free of expense, on a tour through France and Italy. His notes and letters written during this trip show remarkable taste and learning.
After two and a half years of travel he returned to England. His father died during the next fall, after wasting his fortune. Gray began the study of law, but had not the means to finish the course. He began to devote his time to writing, left London, where he had spent the winter, and went with his mother to visit an uncle who lived in a country hamlet called Stoke Poges. In this quiet village he wrote his “Ode on the Spring,” “Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton College,” and began the “Elegy Written in a Country Church-Yard.”
The “Elegy” is one of the most celebrated poems ever written. It was begun when Gray was twenty-six years old, but he did not finish it until eight years later. Its fame spread over the world, and it still holds its rank as the most perfect of English poems.
The poet lived at Cambridge, where he devoted his time to study. The “Elegy” and a later work, “The Bard,” placed him at the head of English poets. He was offered the office of poet laureate, which he refused.
In 1768 Gray accepted the chair of Modern History and Languages at Cambridge.
The last years of the poet’s life were spent very quietly. He avoided society and was rarely seen in public. He died in London in 1771.
Belshazzar the king made a great feast to a thousand of his lords, and drank wine before the thousand. Belshazzar, while he tasted the wine, commanded to bring the golden and silver vessels, which his father Nebuchadnezzar had taken out of the temple which was in Jerusalem; that the king and his princes and his wives might drink therein.
Then they brought the golden vessels that were taken out of the temple of the house of God, which was at Jerusalem; and the king, his princes and his wives, drank in them.
They drank wine, and praised the gods of gold, and of silver, of brass, of iron, of wood, and of stone.
In the same hour came forth fingers of a man’s hand, and wrote over against the candlestick upon the plaster of the wall of the king’s palace: and the king saw the part of the hand that wrote.
Then the king’s countenance was changed, and his thoughts troubled him, so that the joints of his loins were loosed, and his knees smote one against another. The king cried aloud to bring in the astrologers, the Chaldeans, and the soothsayers. And the king spake and said to the wise men of Babylon: “Whosoever shall read this writing, and show me the interpretation thereof, shall be clothed with scarlet, and have a chain of gold about his neck, and shall be the third ruler in the kingdom.”
Then came in all the king’s wise men: but they could not read the writing, nor make known to the king the interpretation thereof.
Then was King Belshazzar greatly troubled, and his countenance was changed in him, and his lords were astonished.
Now the queen, by reason of the words of the king and his lords, came into the banquet house: and the queen spake and said: “O king, live for ever: let not thy thoughts trouble thee, nor let thy countenance be changed:
“There is a man in thy kingdom in whom is the spirit of the holy gods; and in the days of thy father light and understanding and wisdom, like the wisdom of the gods, was found in him; whom the king Nebuchadnezzar thy father, the king, I say, thy father, made him master of the magicians, astrologers, Chaldeans, and soothsayers;
“Forasmuch as an excellent spirit, and knowledge, and understanding, interpreting of dreams, and showing of hard sentences, and dissolving of doubts, were found in the same Daniel, whom the king named Belteshazzar: now let Daniel be called, and he will show the interpretation.”
Then was Daniel brought in before the king. And the king spake and said unto Daniel: “Art thou that Daniel, which art of the children of the captivity of Judah, whom the king, my father, brought out of Jewry?
“I have even heard of thee, that the spirit of the gods is in thee, and that light and understanding and excellent wisdom is found in thee.
“And now the wise men, the astrologers, have been brought in before me, that they should read this writing, and make known unto me the interpretation thereof: but they could not show the interpretation of the thing:
“And I have heard of thee, that thou canst make interpretations, and dissolve doubts: now if thou canst read the writing, and make known to me the interpretation thereof, thou shalt be clothed with scarlet, and have a chain of gold about thy neck, and shalt be the third ruler in the kingdom.”
Then Daniel answered and said before the king: “Let thy gifts be to thyself, and give thy rewards to another; yet I will read the writing unto the king, and make known to him the interpretation.
“O thou king, the most high God gave Nebuchadnezzar thy father a kingdom, and majesty, and glory, and honor:
“And for the majesty that he gave him, all people, nations, and languages trembled and feared before him: whom he would he slew, and whom he would he kept alive; and whom he would he set up, and whom he would he put down.
“But when his heart was lifted up, and his mind hardened in pride, he was deposed from his kingly throne, and they took his glory from him:
“And he was driven from the sons of men; and his heart was made like the beasts, and his dwelling was with the wild asses: they fed him with grass like oxen, and his body was wet with the dew of heaven; till he knew that the most high God ruled in the kingdom of men, and that he appointeth over it whomsoever he will.
“And thou his son, O Belshazzar, hast not humbled thine heart, though thou knewest all this;
“But hast lifted up thyself against the Lord of heaven; and they have brought the vessels of his house before thee, and thou and thy lords and thy wives, have drunk wine in them; and thou hast praised the gods of silver, and gold, of brass, iron, wood, and stone, which see not, nor hear, nor know: and the God in whose hand thy breath is, and whose are all thy ways, hast thou not glorified:
“Then was the part of the hand sent from him; and this writing was written.
“And this is the writing that was written:—
MENE, MENE, TEKEL, UPHARSIN.
This is the interpretation of the thing:—
MENE;
TEKEL;
PERES;
Then commanded Belshazzar, and they clothed Daniel with scarlet and put a chain of gold about his neck, and made a proclamation concerning him, that he should be the third ruler in the kingdom.
In that night was Belshazzar, the king of the Chaldeans, slain.
And Darius, the Median, took the kingdom, being about threescore and two years old.
From “The Bible,” Book of Daniel, Chap. V.
Francis Parkman was born in Boston in 1823. He was graduated from Harvard College when he was twenty-one. He visited Europe and on his return went on a tour in the far West, across the prairies and among the Rocky Mountains. He became well acquainted with the Indians, sharing their camps and hunting buffaloes with them. His book, “The California and Oregon Trail,” contains a vivid account of his explorations. This book was followed by “The History of the Conspiracy of Pontiac” and a novel called “Vassal Morton.”
Mr. Parkman devoted a number of years to writing histories of the attempts of the French and English to settle North America. His qualities as a writer were of a high order. His style is marked by uncommon vigor. His pages are alive with thrilling adventure, brilliant description, and romantic episodes. He has left no room for a competitor in the same field. Mr. Parkman died in 1893.
The eventful night of the 12th was clear and calm, with no light but that of the stars. Within two hours before daybreak thirty boats, crowded with sixteen hundred soldiers, cast off from the vessels and floated downward, in perfect order, with the current of the ebb tide. To the boundless joy of the army, Wolfe’s malady had abated, and he was able to command in person. His ruined health, the gloomy prospects of the siege, and the disaster at Montmorenci had oppressed him with the deepest melancholy, but never impaired for a moment the promptness of his decisions or the impetuous energy of his action. He sat in the stern of one of the boats, pale and weak, but borne up to a calm height of resolution. Every order had been given, every arrangement made, and it only remained to face the issue. The ebbing tide sufficed to bear the boats along, and nothing broke the silence of the night but the gurgling of the river and the low voice of Wolfe, as he repeated to the officers about him the stanzas of Gray’s “Elegy in a Country Churchyard,” which had recently appeared and which he had just received from England. Perhaps, as he uttered those strangely appropriate words,—
the shadows of his own approaching fate stole with mournful prophecy across his mind. “Gentlemen,” he said as he closed his recital, “I would rather have written those lines than take Quebec to-morrow.”
As they approached the landing-place, the boats edged closer in towards the northern shore, and the woody precipices rose high on their left, like a wall of undistinguished blackness.
They reached the landing-place in safety—an indentation in the shore about a league above the city, and now bearing the name of Wolfe’s Cove. Here a narrow path led up the face of the heights, and a French guard was posted at the top to defend the pass. By the force of the current the foremost boats, including that which carried Wolfe himself, were borne a little below the spot. The general was one of the first on shore.
Meanwhile the vessels had dropped downward with the current, and anchored opposite the landing-place. The remaining troops were disembarked, and, with the dawn of day, the whole were brought in safety to the shore.
The sun rose, and, from the ramparts of Quebec, the astonished people saw the Plains of Abraham glittering with arms, and the dark-red lines of the English forming in array of battle. Breathless messengers had borne the evil tidings to Montcalm, and far and near his wide-extended camp resounded with the rolling of alarm drums and the din of startled preparation. He, too, had his struggles and his sorrows. The civil power had thwarted him; famine, discontent, and disaffection were rife among his soldiers; and no small portion of the Canadian militia had dispersed from sheer starvation. In spite of all, he had trusted to hold out till the winter frosts should drive the invaders from before the town, when, on that disastrous morning, the news of their successful temerity fell like a cannon shot upon his ear. Still he assumed a tone of confidence. “They have got to the weak side of us at last,” he is reported to have said, “and we must crush them with our numbers.”
At a little before ten the English could see that Montcalm was preparing to advance, and in a few moments all his troops appeared in rapid motion. They came on in three divisions, shouting, after the manner of their nation, and firing heavily as soon as they came within range. In the British ranks not a trigger was pulled, not a soldier stirred; and their ominous composure seemed to damp the spirits of the assailants. It was not till the French were within forty yards that the fatal word was given, and the British muskets blazed forth at once in one crashing explosion. Like a ship at full career, arrested with sudden ruin on a sunken rock, the ranks of Montcalm staggered, shivered, and broke before that wasting storm of lead. The smoke, rolling along the field, for a moment shut out the view; but when the white wreaths were scattered on the wind, a wretched spectacle was disclosed; men and officers tumbled in heaps, battalions resolved into a mob, order and obedience gone; and when the British muskets were leveled for a second volley, the masses of the militia were seen to cower and shrink with uncontrollable panic. For a few minutes the French regulars stood their ground, returning a sharp and not ineffectual fire. But now, echoing cheer on cheer, redoubling volley on volley, trampling the dying and the dead, and driving the fugitives in crowds, the British troops advanced and swept the field before them. The ardor of the men burst all restraint. They broke into a run and with unsparing slaughter chased the flying multitude to the gates of Quebec. Foremost of all, the light-footed Highlanders dashed along in furious pursuit, hewing down the Frenchmen with their broadswords, and slaying many in the very ditch of the fortifications. Never was victory more quick or more decisive; yet the triumph of the victors was mingled with sadness as the tidings went from rank to rank that Wolfe had fallen.
In the heat of the action, as he advanced at the head of the grenadiers of Louisburg, a bullet shattered his wrist; but he wrapped his handkerchief about the wound and showed no sign of pain. A moment more and a ball pierced his side. Still he pressed forward, waving his sword and cheering his soldiers to the attack, when a third shot lodged deep within his breast. He paused, reeled, and, staggering to one side, fell to the earth. Brown, a lieutenant of the grenadiers, Henderson, a volunteer, an officer of artillery, and a private soldier raised him together in their arms, and, bearing him to the rear, laid him softly on the grass. They asked him if he would have a surgeon; but he shook his head and answered that all was over with him. His eyes closed with the torpor of approaching death, and those around sustained his fainting form. Yet they could not withhold their gaze from the wild turmoil before them and the charging ranks of their companions rushing through fire and smoke. “See how they run!” one of the officers exclaimed as the French fled in confusion before the leveled bayonets. “Who run?” demanded Wolfe, opening his eyes, like a man aroused from sleep. “The enemy, sir,” was the reply; “they give way everywhere.” “Then,” said the dying general, “tell Colonel Burton to march Webb’s regiment down to Charles River, to cut off their retreat from the bridge. Now, God be praised! I will die in peace,” he murmured; and, turning on his side, he calmly breathed his last.
From “Montcalm and Wolfe.”
Laurence Sterne, an English novelist, was born in Ireland in 1713.
He was the son of an English officer, and the first ten years of his life were spent in traveling about with his father’s regiment. He then entered a school near Halifax, where he studied for eight or nine years, and completed his education at the University of Cambridge.
Mr. Sterne became a clergyman of the Church of England, but devoted a large portion of his time to the writing of fiction. He died in London in 1768.
And as for the Bastille, the terror is in the word. Make the most of it you can, said I to myself, the Bastille is but another word for a tower, and a tower is but another word for a house you can’t get out of. Mercy on the gouty! for they are in it twice a year. But with nine livres a day, and pen and ink and paper and patience, albeit a man can’t get out, he may do very well within, at least for a month or six weeks, at the end of which, if he is a harmless fellow, his innocence appears and he comes out a better and wiser man than he went in.
I had some occasion—I forget what—to step into the courtyard, as I settled this account, and remember I walked downstairs in no small triumph with the conceit of my reasoning. “Beshrew the somber pencil!” said I vauntingly; “for I envy not its power, which paints the evils of life with so hard and deadly a coloring. The mind sits terrified at the objects she has magnified herself and blackened. Reduce them to their proper size and hue, she overlooks them. ’Tis true,” said I, correcting the proposition, “the Bastille is not an evil to be despised. But strip it of its towers, fill up the fosse, unbarricade the doors, call it simply a confinement, and suppose ’tis some tyrant of a distemper, and not of a man, which holds you in it, the evil vanishes and you bear the other half without complaint.”
I was interrupted in the heyday of this soliloquy with a voice which I took to be that of a child, which complained it could not get out. I looked up and down the passage, and, seeing neither man, woman, nor child, I went out without further attention.
In my return back through the passage, I heard the same words repeated twice over; and, looking up, I saw it was a starling, hung in a little cage. “I can’t get out—I can’t get out,” said the starling.
I stood looking at the bird; and to every person who came through the passage it ran fluttering to the side towards which they approached it, with the same lamentation of its captivity. “I can’t get out,” said the starling. “God help thee!” said I; “but I’ll let thee out, cost what it will.” So I turned about the cage to get the door. It was twisted and double twisted so fast with wire there was no getting it open without pulling the cage to pieces. I took both hands to it.
The bird flew to the place where I was attempting his deliverance, and, thrusting his head through the trellis, pressed his breast against it, as if impatient. “I fear, poor creature,” said I, “I cannot set thee at liberty.” “No,” said the starling; “I can’t get out—I can’t get out.”
I never had my affections more tenderly awakened, nor do I remember an incident in my life where the dissipated spirits to which my reason had been a bubble were so suddenly called home. Mechanical as the notes were, yet so true in tune to nature were they chanted, that in one moment they overthrew all my systematic reasonings upon the Bastille; and I heavily walked upstairs, unsaying every word I had said in going down them.
“Disguise thyself as thou wilt, still, Slavery,” said I, “still thou art a bitter draught; and though thousands in all ages have been made to drink of thee, thou art no less bitter on that account. ’Tis thou, thrice sweet and gracious goddess,”—addressing myself to Liberty,—“whom all, in public or in private, worship, whose taste is grateful, and ever will be so, till Nature herself shall change. No tint of words can spot thy snowy mantle, nor chymic power turn thy scepter into iron. With thee to smile upon him as he eats his crust, the swain is happier than his monarch, from whose court thou art exiled. Gracious Heaven!” cried I, kneeling down upon the last step but one in my ascent, “grant me but health, thou great Bestower of it, and give me but this fair goddess as my companion, and shower down thy miters, if it seem good unto thy divine providence, upon those heads which are aching for them.”
The bird in his cage pursued me into my room. I sat down close by my table, and, leaning my head upon my hand, I began to figure to myself the miseries of confinement. I was in a right frame for it, and so I gave full scope to my imagination.
I was going to begin with the millions of my fellow-creatures born to no inheritance but slavery; but finding, however affecting the picture was, that I could not bring it near me, and that the multitude of sad groups in it did but distract me, I took a single captive, and, having first shut him up in his dungeon, I then looked through the twilight of his grated door to take his picture.
I beheld his body half wasted away with long expectation and confinement, and felt what kind of sickness of the heart it was which arises from hope deferred. Upon looking nearer, I saw him pale and feverish. In thirty years the western breeze had not once fanned his blood. He had seen no sun, no moon in all that time, nor had the voice of friend or kinsman breathed through his lattice. His children!—
But here my heart began to bleed, and I was forced to go on with another part of the portrait.
He was sitting upon the ground, upon a little straw, in the farthest corner of his dungeon, which was alternately his chair and bed. A little calendar of small sticks was laid at the head, notched all over with the dismal days and nights he had passed there. He had one of these little sticks in his hand, and with a rusty nail he was etching another day of misery to add to the heap. As I darkened the little light he had, he lifted up a hopeless eye towards the door, then cast it down, shook his head, and went on with his work of affliction. I heard his chains upon his legs as he turned his body to lay his little stick upon the bundle. He gave a deep sigh. I saw the iron enter into his soul. I burst into tears. I could not sustain the picture of confinement which my fancy had drawn.
From “The Sentimental Journey.”
Nathaniel Parker Willis was born in Portland, Me., in 1807, and died near Cornwall-on-the-Hudson, N.Y., in 1867. His father was an editor and founded “The Youth’s Companion.” His sister was an authoress who wrote under the name of “Fanny Fern.”
Nathaniel was graduated at Yale College, and wrote poems and literary essays during his college course. He spent several years in traveling about Europe, and wrote a series of letters for the newspapers during this time.
Mr. Willis published a number of poems, books of travel, and novels. He possessed great natural gifts and there is much beauty in his prose and verse.
Edmund Spenser was a famous English, poet who lived in the time of Queen Elizabeth. He was born in London in 1553 and received his education at Cambridge, where he was a sizar. There is a mulberry tree which Spenser is said to have planted still standing in the garden of the college.
His early boyhood was passed in London, with frequent visits among the glens of northern England.
Spenser left Cambridge when he was twenty-four years old, and spent several years with his relations in the north of England. On his return to London, he published a series of twelve poems named after the months, and called “The Shephearde’s Calender.” This gained him a name as the first poet of the day. The next summer he went to Ireland as secretary to Lord Grey.
Several years later he was awarded the Castle of Kilcolman for his services. Here he was visited by Sir Walter Raleigh. Spenser had written three books of “The Faerie Queene,” his greatest poem, and Raleigh listened to them as the two poets sat beneath the alder trees beside the River Mulla, which flowed through the castle grounds. Raleigh was delighted with the poem, and persuaded Spenser to accompany him to England, where he was presented to the Queen.
The first three books of “The Faerie Queene” were dedicated to Queen Elizabeth. It was the first great allegorical poem that England had produced, and it has never lost its power.
Spenser possessed a wonderful imagination, and had but to close his eyes and he was in an enchanted land.
“The Faerie Queene” is the story of noble knights fighting against wrong, and a beautiful lady rescued from danger. Only six books of the twelve which Spenser planned were published.
The last years of Spenser’s life were filled with sadness. During a rebellion his castle was burnt, and he and his family fled to England.
He died in London in 1599, at the age of forty-six, and was buried in Westminster Abbey.