If thine enemy be hungry, give him bread to eat; and if he be thirsty give him water to drink; for thou shalt heap coals of fire upon his head, and the Lord shall reward thee.
Proverbs, XXV.
TO THE DANDELION
Dear common flower, that grow"st beside the way, Fringing the dusty road with harmless gold, First pledge of blithesome May, Which children pluck, and, full of pride, uphold, High-hearted buccaneers, o"erjoyed that they An Eldorado in the gra.s.s have found, Which not the rich earth"s ample round May match in wealth--thou art more dear to me Than all the prouder summer-blooms that be.
Lowell
TRUE GREATNESS
On the evening of the twenty-second of May, 1509, two figures were seated at the wide doorway of a handsome house in Florence. Lillo, a boy of fifteen, sat on the ground, with his back against the angle of the door-post, and his long legs stretched out, while he held a large book open on his knee, and occasionally made a dash with his hand at an inquisitive fly, with an air of interest stronger than that excited by the finely-printed copy of Petrarch which he kept open at one place, as if he were learning something by heart.
Romola sat nearly opposite Lillo, but she was not observing him. Her hands were crossed on her lap, and her eyes were fixed absently on the distant mountains: she was evidently unconscious of anything around her.
An eager life had left its marks upon her: the finely-moulded cheek had sunk a little, the golden crown was less ma.s.sive; but there was a placidity on Romola"s face which had never belonged to it in youth. It is but once that we can know our worst sorrows, and Romola had known them while life was new.
Absorbed in this way, she was not at first aware that Lillo had ceased to look at his book, and was watching her with a slightly impatient air, which meant that he wanted to talk to her, but was not quite sure whether she would like that entertainment just now. But persevering looks make themselves felt at last. Romola did presently turn away her eyes from the distance and met Lillo"s impatient dark gaze with a brighter and brighter smile. He shuffled along the floor, still keeping the book on his lap, till he got close to her and lodged his chin on her knee.
"What is it, Lillo?" said Romola, pulling his hair back from his brow.
Lillo was a handsome lad, but his features were turning out to be more ma.s.sive and less regular than his father"s. The blood of the Tuscan peasant was in his veins.
"Mamma Romola, what am I to be?" he said, well contented that there was a prospect of talking till it would be too late to con Petrarch any longer.
"What should you like to be, Lillo? You might be a scholar. My father was a scholar, you know, and taught me a great deal. That is the reason why I can teach you."
"Yes," said Lillo, rather hesitatingly. "But he is old and blind in the picture. Did he get a great deal of glory?"
"Not much, Lillo. The world was not always very kind to him, and he saw meaner men than himself put into higher places because they could flatter and say what was false. And then his dear son thought it right to leave him and become a monk; and after that, my father, being blind and lonely, felt unable to do the things that would have made his learning of greater use to men, so that he might still have lived in his works after he was in his grave."
"I should not like that sort of life," said Lillo, "I should like to be something that would make me a great man, and very happy besides--something that would not hinder me from having a good deal of pleasure."
"That is not easy, my Lillo. It is only a poor sort of happiness that could ever come by caring very much about our own narrow pleasures. We can have the highest happiness, such as goes along with being a great man, only by having wide thoughts, and much feeling for the rest of the world as well as ourselves; and this sort of happiness often brings so much pain with it, that we can tell it from pain only by its being what we would choose before everything, because our souls see it is good.
There are so many things wrong and difficult in the world, that no man can be great--he can hardly keep himself from wickedness--unless he gives up thinking much about pleasure or rewards, and gets strength to endure what is hard and painful. My father had the greatness that belongs to integrity; he chose poverty and obscurity rather than falsehood. And so, my Lillo, if you mean to act n.o.bly and seek to know the best things G.o.d has put within reach of men, you must learn to fix your mind on that end, and not on what will happen to you because of it.
And remember, if you were to choose something lower, and make it the rule of your life to seek your own pleasure and escape from what is disagreeable, calamity might come just the same; and it would be calamity falling on a base mind, which is the one form of sorrow that has no balm in it, and that may well make a man say, "It would have been better for me if I had never been born." I will tell you something, Lillo."
Romola paused for a moment. She had taken Lillo"s cheeks between her hands, and his young eyes were meeting hers.
"There was a man to whom I was very near, so that I could see a great deal of his life, who made almost everyone fond of him, for he was young, and clever, and beautiful, and his manners to all were gentle and kind. I believe, when I first knew him, he never thought of doing anything cruel or base. But because he tried to slip away from everything that was unpleasant, and cared for nothing else so much as his own safety, he came at last to commit some of the basest deeds--such as make men infamous. He denied his father, and left him to misery; he betrayed every trust that was reposed in him, that he might keep himself safe and get rich and prosperous. Yet calamity overtook him."
George Eliot: "Romola."
THE PRIVATE OF THE BUFFS
Last night among his fellows rough He jested, quaffed, and swore: A drunken private of the Buffs, Who never looked before.
To-day, beneath the foeman"s frown, He stands in Elgin"s place, Amba.s.sador from Britain"s crown, And type of all her race.
Poor, reckless, rude, low-born, untaught, Bewildered and alone, A heart, with English instinct fraught, He yet can call his own.
Ay! tear his body limb from limb; Bring cord, or axe, or flame!-- He only knows that not through him Shall England come to shame.
Far Kentish hopfields round him seemed Like dreams to come and go; Bright leagues of cherry-blossom gleamed One sheet of living snow: The smoke above his father"s door In gray, soft eddyings hung:-- Must he then watch it rise no more, Doomed by himself, so young?
Yes, Honour calls!--with strength like steel He put the vision by: Let dusky Indians whine and kneel; An English lad must die!
And thus, with eyes that would not shrink, With knee to man unbent, Unfaltering on its dreadful brink To his red grave he went.
Vain, mightiest fleets of iron framed; Vain, those all-shattering guns; Unless proud England keep, untamed, The strong heart of her sons!
So, let his name through Europe ring-- A man of mean estate Who died, as firm as Sparta"s king, Because his soul was great.
F. H. Doyle
HONOURABLE TOIL
Two men I honour, and no third. First, the toilworn Craftsman, that, with earth-made Implement, laboriously conquers the Earth, and makes her man"s. Venerable to me is the hard Hand; crooked, coa.r.s.e; wherein, notwithstanding, lies a cunning virtue, indefeasibly royal, as of the Sceptre of this Planet. Venerable, too, is the rugged face, all weather-tanned, besoiled, with its rude intelligence; for it is the face of a Man living manlike. O, but the more venerable for thy rudeness, and even because we must pity as well as love thee! Hardly-entreated Brother! For us was thy back so bent, for us were thy straight limbs and fingers so deformed: thou wert our Conscript, on whom the lot fell, and fighting our battles wert so marred. For in thee, too, lay a G.o.d-created Form, but it was not to be unfolded; encrusted must it stand with the thick adhesions and defacements of Labour: and thy body, like thy soul, was not to know freedom. Yet toil on, toil on: _thou_ art in thy duty, be out of it who may; thou toilest for the altogether indispensable, for daily bread.
A second man I honour, and still more highly: him who is seen toiling for the spiritually indispensable; not daily bread, but the bread of Life. Is not he, too, in his duty; endeavouring towards inward Harmony; revealing this, by act or by word, through all his outward endeavours, be they high or low? Highest of all, when his outward and his inward endeavour are one; when we can name him Artist; not earthly Craftsman only, but inspired Thinker, who with heaven-made Implement conquers Heaven for us! If the poor and humble toil that we have Food, must not the high and glorious toil for him in return, that he have Light, have Guidance, Freedom, Immortality?--These two, in all their degrees, I honour: all else is chaff and dust, which let the wind blow whither it listeth.
Unspeakably touching is it, however, when I find both dignities united; and he, that must toil outwardly for the lowest of man"s wants, is also toiling inwardly for the highest. Sublimer in this world know I nothing than a Peasant Saint, could such now anywhere be met with. Such a one will take thee back to Nazareth itself; thou wilt see the splendour of Heaven spring forth from the humblest depths of Earth, like a light shining in great darkness.
Carlyle: "Sartor Resartus."
ON HIS BLINDNESS
When I consider how my light is spent Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide, And that one talent which is death to hide Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present My true account, lest He returning chide; "Doth G.o.d exact day labour, light denied?"
I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent That murmur, soon replies, "G.o.d doth not need Either man"s work, or His own gifts. Who best Bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best: His state Is kingly; thousands at His bidding speed, And post o"er land and ocean without rest: They also serve who only stand and wait."
Milton