DEFINITIONS.--1. Frig"ate, a war vessel, usually carrying from twenty-eight to forty-four guns, arranged in two tiers on each side.
Eq"ui-page (pro. ek"wi-paj), furniture, fitting out. 4. Ar"ti-fice.
skillful contrivance, trick. Broad"side, a discharge of all the guns on one side of a ship, above and below, at the same time. 7. Man"i-fest, visible to the eye, apparent. 11. As-sur"ance (pro. a-shur"ans), full confidence, courage. 13. Sway, control, rule.
NOTES.--2. The Pilot, who appears in this story, under disguise, is John Paul Jones, a celebrated American naval officer during the Revolution. He was born in Scotland, in 1747, and was apprenticed when only twelve years old as a sailor. He was familiar with the waters about the British Islands, and during part of the war he hovered about their coasts in a daring way, capturing many vessels, often against heavy odds, and causing great terror to the enemy.
8. The ninety, refers to a large ninety-gun ship, part of a fleet which was chasing the American vessel.
10. The Devil"s Grip; the name of a dangerous reef in the English Channel.
13. One point open. Directions for steering, referring to the compa.s.s.
14. The two-and-thirty; i.e., another of the enemy"s ships, carrying thirty-two guns.
C. BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.
Charles Wolfe (b. 1791, d. 1823), an Irish poet and clergyman, was born in Dublin. He was educated in several schools, and graduated at the university of his native city. He was ordained in 1817, and soon became noted for his zeal and energy as a clergyman. His literary productions were collected and published in 1825. "The Burial of Sir John Moore," one of the finest poems of its kind in the English language, was written in 1817, and first appeared in the "Newry Telegraph," a newspaper, with the author"s initials, but without his knowledge. Byron said of this ballad that he would rather be the author of it than of any one ever written.
1. Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, As his corse to the rampart we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O"er the grave where our hero we buried.
2. We buried him darkly, at dead of night, The sods with our bayonets turning, By the struggling moonbeam"s misty light, And the lantern dimly burning.
3. No useless coffin inclosed his breast, Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him.
4. Few and short were the prayers we said, And we spoke not a word of sorrow; But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
5. We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed, And smoothed down his lonely pillow, That the foe and the stranger would tread o"er his head, And we far away on the billow!
6. Lightly they"ll talk of the spirit that"s gone And o"er his cold ashes upbraid him; But little he"ll reck, if they"ll let him sleep on In a grave where a Briton has laid him.
7. But half of our heavy task was done, When the clock struck the hour for retiring And we heard the distant random gun That the foe was sullenly firing.
8. Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame, fresh and gory; We carved not a line, we raised not a stone, But we left him alone with his glory!
DEFINITIONS.--3. Mar"tial (pro. mar"shal), military. 6. Up-braid", to charge with something wrong or disgraceful, to reproach. Reck, to take heed, to care. 7. Ran"dom, without fixed aim or purpose, left to chance.
NOTE.--Sir John Moore (b. 1761, d. 1809) was a celebrated British general.
He was appointed commander of the British forces in Spain, in the war against Napoleon, and fell at the battle of Corunna, by a cannon shot.
Marshal Soult, the opposing French commander, caused a monument to be erected to his memory. The British government has also raised a monument to him in St. Paul"s Cathedral, while his native city, Glasgow, honors him with a bronze statue.
CI. LITTLE VICTORIES.
1. "O Mother, now that I have lost my limb, I can never be a soldier or a sailor; I can never go round the world!" And Hugh burst into tears, now more really afflicted than he had ever been yet. His mother sat on the bed beside him, and wiped away his tears as they flowed, while he told her, as well as his sobs would let him, how long and how much he had reckoned on going round the world, and how little he cared for anything else in future; and now this was the very thing he should never be able to do!
2. He had practiced climbing ever since he could remember, and now this was of no use; he had practiced marching, and now he should never march again. When he had finished his complaint, there was a pause, and his mother said,
"Hugh, you have heard of Huber?"
"The man who found out so lunch about bees?" said Hugh. "Bees and ants.
When Huber had discovered more than had ever been known about these, and when he was sure that he could learn still more, and was more and more anxious to peep into their tiny homes and curious ways, he became blind."
3. Hugh sighed, and his mother went on.
"Did you ever hear of Beethoven? He was one of the greatest musical composers that ever lived. His great, his sole delight was in music. It was the pa.s.sion of his life. When all his time and all his mind were given to music, he suddenly became deaf, perfectly deaf; so that he never more heard one single note from the loudest orchestra. While crowds were moved and delighted with his compositions, it was all silence to him." Hugh said nothing.
4. "Now do you think," asked his mother--and Hugh saw that a mild and gentle smile beamed from her countenance--"do you think that these people were without a Heavenly Parent?"
"O no! but were they patient?" asked Hugh.
"Yes, in their different ways and degrees. Would you suppose that they were hardly treated? Or would you not rather suppose that their Father gave them something better to do than they had planned for themselves?"
5. "He must know best, of course; but it does seem very hard that that very thing should happen to them. Huber would not have so much minded being deaf, perhaps; or that musical man, being blind.
"No doubt their hearts often swelled within them at their disappointments; but I fully believe that they very soon found G.o.d"s will to be wiser than their wishes. They found, if they bore their trial well, that there was work for their hearts to do far n.o.bler than any the head could do through the eye or the ear. And they soon felt a new and delicious pleasure which none but the bitterly disappointed can feel."
"What is that?"
6. "The pleasure of rousing the soul to bear pain, and of agreeing with G.o.d silently, when n.o.body knows what is in the breast. There is no pleasure like that of exercising one"s soul in bearing pain, and of finding one"s heart glow with the hope that one is pleasing G.o.d."
"Shall I feel that pleasure?"
"Often and often, I have no doubt; every time you can willingly give up your wish to be a soldier or a sailor, or anything else you have set your mind upon, you will feel that pleasure. But I do not expect it of you yet.
I dare say it was long a bitter thing to Beethoven to see hundreds of people in raptures with his music, when he could not hear a note of it."
7. "But did he ever smile again?" asked Hugh.
"If he did, he was happier than all the fine music in the world could have made him," replied his mother.
"I wonder, oh, I wonder, if I shall ever feel so!"
"We will pray to G.o.d that you may. Shall we ask him now?" Hugh clasped his hands. His mother kneeled beside the bed, and, in a very few words, prayed that Hugh might be able to bear his misfortune well, and that his friends might give him such help and comfort as G.o.d should approve.
8. Hugh found himself subject to very painful feelings sometimes, such as no one quite understood, and such as he feared no one was able to pity as they deserved. On one occasion, when he had been quite merry for a while, and his mother and his sister Agnes were chatting, they thought they heard a sob from the sofa. They spoke to Hugh, and found that he was indeed crying bitterly.
"What is it, my dear?" said his mother. "Agnes, have we said anything that could hurt his feelings?"
"No, no," sobbed Hugh. "I will tell you, presently."
9. And, presently, he told them that he was so busy listening to what they said that he forgot everything else, when he felt as if something had gotten between two of his toes; unconsciously he put down his hand as if his foot were there! Nothing could be plainer than the feeling in his toes; and then, when he put out his hand, and found nothing, it was so terrible, it startled him so! It was a comfort to find that his mother knew about this. She came, and kneeled by his sofa, and told him that many persons who had lost a limb considered this the most painful thing they had to bear for some time; but that, though the feeling would return occasionally through life, it would cease to be painful.
10. Hugh was very much dejected, and when he thought of the months and years to the end of his life, and that he should never run and play, and never be like other people, he almost wished that he were dead.