Children
had
grown up looking at them daily, their young imaginations wan-
dering far away under the guiding influence of art.
grown up looking at them daily, their young imaginations wan-
dering far away under the guiding influence of art.
Warner - World's Best Literature - v20 - Phi to Qui
In 1886, as literary executor of General
George B. McClellan, he edited 'McClellan's Own Story. '
## p. 11822 (#452) ##########################################
11822
WILLIAM COWPER PRIME
Perhaps Mr. Prime's greatest service to the public has been in
connection with the Metropolitan Museum of Art. As a director,
vice-president, and for many years acting president, he brought to
the building-up of this institution, qualities indispensable to such an
enterprise, wide classic, art, and archæological knowledge, enthusi
asm, the perfection of organizing and business methods, and sound
common-sense. He gave to the work time without stint, and the
experience of the scholar and the man of affairs. It is not too much
to say that the great success of this splendid enterprise is largely
due to the wise guidance of Dr. Prime.
As a writer Mr. Prime is always interesting, vigorous, lucid, con-
vincing, equally facile in condensation and amplification, with a style
that is marked by simplicity, and often rises to the charm of melo-
dious periods. His versatility is shown in the rare combination of
sentiment with the most practical and clear view of affairs.
―
THE OLD MAN AT THE WATER-WHEEL
From 'Boat Life in Egypt and Nubia. ' Copyright 1857, by Harper &
Brothers
L
IFE in such a country has no great amount of variety, as one
might well imagine.
There was an old man that I found one day on shore as
I walked by the boat, whose history was strange and worth the
hearing.
He was a puny, dried-up old fellow, whose weight, I think,
might come within seventy pounds. He sat on the end of the
pole of the water-wheel, immediately behind the tails of the bul-
locks, and followed them around the little circle which they
walked, his knees up to his chin, which was buried between them,
and his blear eyes gazing listlessly on the cattle and the outer
wall of the sakea,- for it was inclosed in a stone-and-mud wall.
The everlasting creaking of the wheels-that strange sound that
no other machinery on earth emits seemed, and was to him,
the familiar music of his life.
I questioned him, and his story was simply this: He was born
just there. It was long before the days of Mohammed Ali, when
Hassan Kasheef was king, that he was a boy, sitting on the pole
of the sakea and following the bullocks around. He sat there
more years than he knew anything about, and grew to be a man.
Life was to him still the same round. His view was bounded by
## p. 11823 (#453) ##########################################
WILLIAM COWPER PRIME
11823
the mountains around him, and he never went beyond them.
He rode the sakea, and at every circle he caught through the
open doorway a vision of one mighty hill, with a grove of palms
at its foot. In the night he saw it still and solemn among the
stars, and sometimes he had seen tempests gathered around it.
It was the one idea of his life; and it was something to find
in such a brain one idea, though it was but a rock. He looked
out at it as he told me of it, with a sort of affection that I well
understood, but which surprised me none the less. But so he
had lived. He grew heavier as he grew older, and then he could
ot ride the pole, but sat down in the doorway and watched his
bullocks, looking behind him often at the hill; and so the years
slipped along, and age came and he wasted away; and when his
second childhood was on him, he mounted the pole again, and
was riding to his grave.
He had been a great traveler. I know not how many thou-
sand miles he had been carried around that centre-pin. Had he
never been away from the valley? Yes once: he climbed the
hill yonder, and from its summit saw the dreary wastes of sand
that stretched far away in all directions, and he came back con-
tented. Did nothing occur in his lifetime that he now remem-
bered as marking some one day more than another? Nothing.
Yes! one day the wheel broke, and he was startled and fright-
ened; but they came and mended it, and all went on as before.
I left him there to follow his weary round till death overtake
him; and if I find life oppressive at any time hereafter, I shall
know where to seek a hermitage and undisturbed calm.
THE DEFEAT OF THE CHRISTIAN HOST AT GALILEE, A. D. 1187
From Tent Life in the Holy Land. ' Copyright 1857, by Harper & Brothers
R
EGINALD OF CHATILLON, a Knight of the Cross, had come to
Palestine with Louis le Jeune, and joined the forces of
Raymond of Poictiers, Prince of Antioch. Keen as a hawk
and brave as a lion, the young soldier, nameless and of low ori-
gin, not only won a name, but on the death of Raymond won
his widow Constance and his throne. The stories of his bravery
and beauty, sung by the troubadours of those days, were count-
less; nor was any one more often mentioned, as stout knight and
## p. 11824 (#454) ##########################################
11824
WILLIAM COWPER PRIME
valiant soldier, than Reginald of Chatillon. His career is the
theme for a history. His arm never grew weary of battle, nor
did his sword rust until he was taken prisoner by the Moslems,
and kept in chains for years at Aleppo. Released at last, he
found his wife dead and his son on his throne. He himself
gathered around him the most daring and reckless of the Tem-
plars, and having by a second marriage obtained other castles
and possessions, he made it the business of his life to harass and
annoy the Saracens wherever he could find them; and at length,
emboldened by his success, conceived the idea of marching to
Medinah and Mecca, and plundering the holy Kaaba itself. With
his hitherto invincible band of warriors he set out on this peril-
ous enterprise. They surprised and captured the Egyptian cara-
van crossing the desert from India, and advanced in triumph to
the valley of Rabid, scarcely thirty miles from Medinah, where
they were met by an overwhelming force and routed with ter-
rible slaughter.
Reginald escaped even here; but Salah-e'deen was aroused by
this sacrilegious undertaking. He swore by an oath that could
not be violated that the knight should die and Jerusalem should
fall.
It was the morning of July 4th, 1187, that the Christians
advanced over the plain. Annoyed by the shafts of the Sara-
cens and their constant sallies on both flanks, they yet advanced
steadily to the middle of the plain, intending to cut their way
through the ranks of the enemy and gain the shore of the sea.
It was here that Salah-e'deen came down on them like a
thunderbolt, at the head of twenty thousand horsemen. It was
one of the most terrible charges on record. But the Christians,
closing up their ranks, received it as the rock receives the sea,
and it went back like the foam.
Now high up among the Christian host, the Holy Cross itself
was elevated, and men knew for what they were to fight and
die. Around it, to use the words of Salah-e'deen himself, they
gathered with the utmost bravery and devotion, as if they be-
lieved it their greatest blessing, strongest bond of union, and
sure defense. The battle became general. On all sides the foe
pressed the brave knights and their followers. The latter fell by
hundreds, from exhaustion and thirst; for they had been short
of bread and water for a week.
## p. 11825 (#455) ##########################################
WILLIAM COWPER PRIME
11825
Twice did Salah-e'deen repeat that tremendous charge, pen-
etrating into the ranks of his enemies, and fighting his way out
again without breaking their array
Night came down on the battle-field while its fate was yet
undetermined, and they rested for the morrow.
What wild, despairing prayers went up to God before the
Cross of Christ that night, we may not know until those vials
of the elders shall be opened.
Long before day, by the admirable disposition of his army,
Salah-e'deen had decided the battle even before it was fought.
But he had not decided how many of his host were to be
slain on the soil of Galilee by the swords of the Christians.
As the day advanced, the two armies beheld each other.
Salah-e'deen waited till the sun was up, and then "the sons of
heaven and the children of fire fought their great battle. "
The Christians fought as they were accustomed. Their heat
and thirst were terrible, and increased by the enemy setting fire
to the dry brush and grass, from which the strong wind blew a
dense smoke toward them, nearly suffocating them.
The scene was like a very hell; knights and devils contending
among flames. Again and again the bands of Templars threw
themselves on the Saracen front, and endeavored to pierce their
way through its steel wall to reach the citadel of Tiberias, but
in vain. The cry of the battle-field went up, among smoke and
flame, before God, and he permitted the end to come. "Holy
Cross! " shouted the grand-master of the Templars, as he fought
his way toward the banner of the Kalif, followed by his brave
knights. "Raymond for the Sepulchre! " rang over the clash of
steel in the front of the battle. "Ha! Ha! Renaud - Renaud —
Chatillon-Carrac - No rescue! Strike, strike! " shouted the
proud retainers of the old knight, who were reveling in the blood
of the conflict.
By this time, in the centre of the field, the fight had grown
thickest and most fierce around the True Cross, which was up-
held on a slight eminence by the bishop of Ptolemais. Around
it the bravest knights were collected. There Geoffrey of Lusig-
nan, brother to the King, performed miracles of valor; and the
Knights of the Temple and the Knights of St. John vied with
each other in bravery. As the fray grew darker, and shafts flew
swifter around them, and one by one they fell down before the
holy wood, the stern, calm voice of the bishop was heard, chanting,
XX-740
## p. 11826 (#456) ##########################################
11826
WILLIAM COWPER PRIME
"De profundis clamavi ad te, Domine; Domine, exaudi vocem
meam! ” in tones that overpowered the din of battle, and reached
the ears of the dying even as they departed. Nearest of all to
the Cross was a man wielding a sword which had already done
fearful work on the Saracens. The sign on his back was not
sufficient to distinguish him from other soldiers; but they who
fought by his side well knew the brave precentor of the Sepul-
chre, bishop of Lydda, the city of St. George. How many souls
he had sent to hell that day it is impossible to relate. He and
four others remained around the old bishop of Ptolemais, who
was fainting for loss of blood; for many arrows had pierced him,
and his life was fast failing. "Bohemond for the Cross! shouted
the young Prince of Antioch, as he swept the Paynims down by
scores. "St. George! St. George! " shouted the holy bishop, his
bright eye flashing around him. He caught sight of the totter-
ing Cross, as the bishop of Ptolemais went down dead. Springing
toward it, he seized it with his left arm, and with prodigious
strength threw himself into the faces of the foe. The lightning
is not more fierce and fast than were the blows of his sword, as
he hewed his way along, followed by Bohemond of Antioch, and
Renaud of Sidon, and one unknown Knight of the Temple. The
latter pressed forward to the side of the brave bishop. Bohemond
and Renaud were separated from them, but the two fought on
alone, in the midst of thousands of their enemies.
At length the unequal contest was well-nigh over.
The eye of Salah-e'deen was fixed on the dense mass that
surrounded the Cross. He smiled bitterly as he saw it trembling
and ready to fall from the hands of the gallant bishop, who held
it with his left arm, while with his right he cursed the Infidels
with the curse of steel, that damned them then, there, and for-
ever. Well might the Soldan believe that as long as he held
that holy wood, so long his mighty arm would remain strong,
and blood replace in his brave heart the floods that issued from
his wounds. But he grew faint at length, and yet shouting in
clear tones, "St. George! St. George! " knelt down by the Cross,
shielded by the stout arm of the brave Templar, who fought
above him, unwounded and undaunted, though he now found
himself last knight at the Cross of his Lord.
One glance of his eye over the plain told him that all was
lost; and nothing now remained for him but to die bravely for
God and for Jerusalem. Far over the field, above the summit of
## p. 11827 (#457) ##########################################
WILLIAM COWPER PRIME
11827
the Mount of Transfiguration, he beheld the heavens opened, and
saw the gates of pearl. Clear and distinct above the clash of
arms and loud cries of the field of blood, he heard the voices
of the angels singing triumphant songs. So he took courage as
the darkness of the battle gathered blacker around him.
For now, as the bishop of Lydda fell prostrate on the ground,
the Cross had nearly fallen, and the Paynims, raising a shout of
triumph, rushed in on their solitary foe. But they rushed through
the gates of hell, sheer down the depths of death, to everlasting
perdition. Down came the flashing axe on head and shoulder
and limb; down through eyes and chin and breast; so that when
they went to Hades in that plight, their prophet had difficulty in
recognizing them even as of mortal shape.
The dead lay all around him. He trod down his iron heel
in their faces, and crushed it in their chests, and laughed as he
dealt those more than human blows with cool, calm aim, but
lightning force and velocity. No sound but the clashing steel was
heard in this part of the plain, where for a while it appeared as
if the saint of the fallen bishop were standing over him in arms
for the cause of the Sepulchre.
But every inch of his armor bristled with arrows that were
drinking his blood; a well-sped javelin had made a hideous open-
ing in his throat, and the foam from his lips was dropping red
on his steel breastplate.
Looking up once more, far over hill and plain, he saw again
the battlements of heaven, and a shining company that were
approaching even to his very front. The battle-field was visible
no longer; but close beside him, the Divine eyes of the Virgin
Mother were fixed on him with the same look that she of old
fixed on that Cross when holier blood than his ran down its beam.
But that was not all that he saw.
There was a hideous sin on the soul of the Knight of the
Cross. To expiate that sin he had long ago left the fair land of
France, where he had lordly possessions, to become an unknown
brother of the order of the Temple. And now through the fast-
gathering gloom he saw the face of that one so beloved and so
wronged, as she lay on the very breast of the matchless Virgin;
and the radiance of her countenance was the smile of heaven
Though he saw all this, the gallant knight fought on, and his
swift falchion flashed steadfastly above the mêlée. But then
there was a sudden pause: his lost love lay warm and close on
## p. 11828 (#458) ##########################################
11828
WILLIAM COWPER PRIME
his breast, lay clasped in his arms, on his heart of hearts! He
murmured a name long forbidden to his priestly lips, and then,
waking one instant to the scene around him, he sprang at the
throat of a Saracen, grasped it with his stiffening fingers, and the
soul of the Paynim went out with his, as he departed to join
the great assembly of the soldiers of the Cross. So the Cross
was lost on the field of Galilee.
Guy of Lusignan, eighth and last King of Jerusalem, with a
small band of faithful knights, still held his ground on the hill
of Hattin. When the Cross vanished from the field, a wail of
anguish rose from all the plain, and quivered in the air at the
very gates of the celestial city. Raymond of Tripoli and Renaud
of Sidon cut their way through the ranks of Saracens, and
escaped around the foot of Mount Tabor to Ptolemais. All the
rest that were living fell into the hands of Salah-e'deen; and
the next day, with his own sword, he executed his threatened
vengeance on Reginald of Chatillon, hewing him down to the
ground and leaving him to be dispatched by his followers. The
fearful sacrifice which he then made of the Templars; how they
crowded to it, and others sought to be included in the martyr-
dom, is a well-known page of history. Not so the statement of
an old chronicler, that "during the three following nights, when
the bodies of the holy martyrs were lying still unburied, a ray
of celestial light shone over them from above. "
The Cross which was lost on this field was never regained by
Christians. It remained for some time in the custody of Salah-
e'deen; and a few years later—that is, in A. D. 1192—the same
chronicler describes the visits of pilgrims to Jerusalem, where
they were allowed by the Kalif "to have a sight of the Holy
Cross. "
A NEW ENGLAND AUCTION: THE LONELY CHURCH IN THE
VALLEY
From Along New England Roads. ' Copyright 1892, by Harper and Brothers
IT
T WAS in May. The forests further north had been just tinged
with that delicious mauve color which is caused by the swell-
ing buds of the maples, and which from day to day changes
into pink and hazy sky-blue, and at length, when the buds burst,
into green.
But here the green had won the day; and the view
## p. 11829 (#459) ##########################################
WILLIAM COWPER PRIME
11829
in all directions, as I drove along, was fresh and full of promise.
When the road led through forest, both sides were luxuriant
with the close-packed masses of ferns just commencing summer
life; and in the woods were hosts of purple and striped blossoms
of the trilium, the glory of our northern forests in the early sea-
son. I came out from a piece of woods on a plain where the
road went straight ahead in full view for a half-mile. Nearly
that distance ahead stood a farm-house, with its barns and out-
buildings. The house stood back from the road among fruit-
trees, some of which were in blossom. But what especially
attracted attention was a large number of horses and wagons,
vehicles of various descriptions, which made the front yard and
the road near the house look black.
Only two events in the country life are likely to cause such a
gathering around a house. When you see it, you are quite safe
in thinking that there is a funeral or an auction sale. Either is
sure to bring together all the wagons of a very wide-spread pop-
ulation. There is this difference, however, that to the funeral
men and women and children come, but to the "vandue" only
men.
―――――
As I approached the house, I began to pass horses tied to
fences and small trees. Everything in the shape of a hitching-
post, everything to which a halter could be tied, was in use; and
when I reached the front gate there were groups of men SO
occupied here and there that no doubt could exist that this was
an auction sale. It was undoubtedly a funeral in one sense,-
not of any one dead, but of a home. It was the extinguishment
of a fire that had been burning on a hearth a great many years.
It took but a little while to learn from those who were grouped
near the gate the reasons for the auction. This group consisted
of men who had come only because it was an occasion for meet-
ing people; a chance for general talk and exchange of little
news, a break in the monotony of country life. Near the barn
was another group inspecting cows. They had no interest in the
sale of furniture in the house. On the front lawn was another
group. I fancied they were discussing the value of the farm,
whether it was worth the mortgage on it, whether any one was
likely to bid on it. As I walked in towards the door I saw that
there were people in all parts of the house, most of them in the
large kitchen, whence the voice of the auctioneer was audible.
As I entered he was selling cooking utensils, getting from a
## p. 11830 (#460) ##########################################
11830
WILLIAM COWPER PRIME
cent to six cents apiece, rarely as much as ten cents for any
article.
I confess that as I looked around this kitchen, on this scene,
I felt very much as if it were a funeral, and began to think that
I had an interest in, a personal acquaintance with, the departed.
It had been for a long lifetime the home of an honest, respected
farmer, who had recently died; an old man whose work was
ended. His children, all but one daughter, had gone to distant
parts of the country. His wife had died a year before. The
property must be sold to settle his small estate, pay his funeral
expenses and perhaps other claims. There was to be also an
attempt to find a purchaser for the farm, but it was thought the
holder of a mortgage on it would be the only possible bidder.
That life was to be closed out forever. Wherein much of
it had consisted was here visible. It was displayed for public
view, and any stranger was free to rove from room to room and
see the record; for nothing was reserved, -not even the clothing,
or the old man's silver watch, or his wife's work-basket with
knitting-needles and scissors, and a knife with a broken blade,
and a ball of blue yarn and a half-knit woolen stocking.
Here was a summing-up of the total reward in this world's
valuables which a long, laborious life had earned. I can never
cease to feel indignation at the preachers about labor and its
rewards, who imagine that workmen in the trades are the only
laborers to be considered; who are deceived by the idea that the
various societies of "working-men" represent one-tenth of the
hard-working men of our country; who imagine that the labor
question relates only to that small number of persons who work
for fixed pay, eight or ten hours a day.
The life of this man from his childhood had been one of
incessant labor, hard work; beginning daily long before daylight,
ending so wearily after dark that he welcomed sleep as the only
rest he knew. Your ten-hour city laborer does not know what
work means; and never will know till he acquires a farm, and
has to support life by digging for himself, paying himself for
his work, and finding that to the vast body of American farm-
ers, fourteen hours a day of labor earns bare subsistence.
The life labor in this house and on this farm showed in the
end, as the laborer's pay when all work was done, just nothing
beyond the bare support of the life. Less, indeed, than that; for
there was a mortgage on the farm, which represented a demand
## p. 11831 (#461) ##########################################
WILLIAM COWPER PRIME
11831
of some pressing need, or a steady, slow falling behind, from year
to year.
The home furniture was not luxurious; far otherwise. But it
was not altogether without interest. There was an old chest of
drawers in one room, which probably belonged to the mother;
possibly came from her mother when she was married.
It was
made of solid cherry-wood; and the old brass mountings were,
for a wonder, brilliant as if new. There was a small looking-
glass hanging on a wall, in a frame once of great beauty, the
relief ornaments on it being ears of golden grain. There were
some pictures in black-pine frames, without glass. None had
any money value, but each had higher than money value, because
they had been the delights of that family life.
Children had
grown up looking at them daily, their young imaginations wan-
dering far away under the guiding influence of art.
Mark you,
my friend, art brings its blessings not alone by the power of
renowned artists, by the works of great masters.
There are
very rude pictures, pictures which provoke the derision of ignor-
ant critics, pictures which have had mighty influence in swaying
human minds. There was a fifteenth-century artist in Cologne
whose Bible pictures, in rough, hard outlines, were the educators
of millions of people for a century and more after he was dead.
It is the thought written in the picture which is its power; not
the execution, which is of account to very few who see it. There
is no possible doubt that that old painted print of Ruth glean-
ing, and that other of the raising of the Widow's Son, of Nain,
had impressed lessons on young minds not to be effaced in this
world's experiences, perhaps not in any other world.
The old kitchen seemed to be the place wherein the life had
left its strongest marks. And yet they were not many. There
was a little printed calendar of a long year ago pasted on the
side of the chimney. There was a clock (not worth your pur-
chasing, my friend) standing high up on a wooden shelf. There
was a dresser whereon the family crockery was piled for sale.
Having in mind friends who want old crockery, I looked over
the pieces, one by one; but found nothing worth a stranger's
purchasing, except perhaps one English plate, with a blue print,
—the rich dark blue wherein the cheap Staffordshire wares sur-
passed all other, Oriental and Occidental, potteries or porcelains.
But the table was there,- a very old square table, made of
black ash, with four solid legs. It had no claim to notice for
## p. 11832 (#462) ##########################################
11832
WILLIAM COWPER PRIME
any beauty about it. But around it the family had been gath-
ered, morning, noon, and evening. First the young man and
his wife had sat there alone, happy, hopeful. Years had fulfilled
all they had hoped for, had brought little heads to the sides of
the table, and years had changed them into older and perhaps
wiser heads. All the troubles and all the happiness of every
one of them had been brought to the assemblies at that kitchen
table. Christmases, Thanksgiving days, wedding days of daugh-
ters, days when the minister was to make his annual visit,- all
the gala days of life had loaded the table with unusual feasts.
And always, with unfailing humility and gratitude, the voice of
the father had been heard at the head of the board, thanking
God as sincerely as if the farm had been a gold mine instead of
slow-yielding soil.
I was in the house but a few minutes. As I drove rapidly
down the road, I overtook a man going home from the sale. I
am not fond of "buying bargains" in such cases. If there had
been anything to tempt me, I could not comfortably own a pur-
chase out of that household at the poor prices things were bring-
ing. But this man was carrying home something. As I turned
out and drove by him he held it up for me to see. We went
along side by side.
"What have you got there? "
"I don't know. I think it's an old pitcher they used in a
church. "
"What did you buy it for? "
"I don't know. I s'pose I can sell it to some one. "
"How much do you want for it? "
"I don't know what it's worth. "
"Well, speak quick, if you want to sell," and my horses were
pulling ahead hard.
"I don't know as I care to sell it. "
"All right," and I went ahead rapidly.
"Will you give two dollars? " came in a shout after me.
"Will you take it? "
"Yes. "
It
He came up alongside of me, and I took my purchase.
was never church property; quite otherwise. It was a fine, tall
old two-quart pewter mug with cover. It had done duty in times
when men sat together while the pewter, filled with foaming
beer, went around from hand to hand and lip to lip. It was in
## p. 11833 (#463) ##########################################
WILLIAM COWPER PRIME
11833
perfect order, but there was nothing about it which seemed in
keeping with the old farm-house. When, four miles on, I stopped
to feed my horses, the landlord, looking in my carriage, ex-
claimed, "Hello, did you buy Jake's pewter pitcher? " and then
said Jake had bought it at another sale years ago, on specula-
tion, and had carried it afterwards to every "vandue," trying to
find a purchaser.
In the autumn of that year I drove again through the same
country, sometimes on the same, mostly on other roads. The
aspect of the hills and valleys was now very different. October
is a golden month for carriage travel; on some accounts more
pleasant than any other month in the year, both for horses and
travelers.
The road passed through a forest, unbroken for half a mile.
On the right a stream wandered over rocks, and under little
bluffs of moss, bright green miniature copies of mountain bluffs
along the courses of mighty rivers. Now and then, where the
stream fell into a pool, th lower end of the pool was dammed
with autumn leaves, yellow and red and brown, and in the whirl
of the pool you could see the same colored leaves going around
and around, and the water looked as if it were clearer and
colder for their presence. The road was covered over with
leaves, a yellow carpet, and every few minutes the light
breeze would freshen up a little and shake the higher branches
of the trees, and send down a shower of leaves, which flitted
and darted to and fro, flashing in the sunshine, and falling on
our laps and all around us.
-
At length the road, which going up a gentle ascent left the
brook away in the woods, emerged into open country, and we
found ourselves on the top of a hill. Before us spread one of
those beautiful landscapes in which New England is richer than
any other part of the world that I know of. The road descended
into an oval basin, some three miles long and a mile broad, the
bottom and sides of which were, or had been, cultivated farm
lands, except where a small lake slept motionless. It was sur-
rounded by low hills, up the sides of which the fields extended,
here and there one of them glowing with the buff and gold of
corn stubble and scattered pumpkins. Along the ridges, where
the fields did not go over them, were groves of maple and
birch whose autumn colors were intensely bright, while down
the slopes lay many abandoned fields gone to brush,-mauve,
## p. 11834 (#464) ##########################################
11834
WILLIAM COWPER PRIME
maroon, crimson, and purple-colored with their dense growth of
bushes, scarlet-lined along the fences by rows of sumac.
If you can show me anywhere in the world landscapes which
are as rich and varied in color as our northern landscapes in
America, or which are more beautiful in the form and contrast
of valley and hill, I will go far with you to see them. Autumnal
foliage with many is thought to be the changed color of the
forest leaves, and few have observed the wonderful painting of
landscapes in the autumnal colors of the low bushes. Many of
our New England rivers, in October, flow between banks and
around low gravel islands which are unbroken masses of crimson,
from a plant not a foot high, covering every inch for acres.
And the shades are even more beautiful than the intense colors,
-soft, rich, and delicate as old embroideries.
There was no village in the valley. As I drove along the
road which led nearly through the middle of it, I came, at a
cross-road, to a grave-yard of an old church. That it was once a
church, the remains of a tower or spire indicated, and its loca-
tion,— a hundred feet from both roads, in the grave-yard,— dem-
onstrated. There had never been any fence around the lot
except the rough-laid loose stone wall which serves for fence in
all parts of our country where stone is plenty. And no better
or more picturesque fencing can be, especially if people will
plant along such walls any of the many beautiful vines which
abound everywhere, and thrive luxuriantly in just such places.
But no vines had ever been planted here. Not a solitary bush
or tree grew in the grave-yard. Even grass seemed to have run
out from lonesomeness and neglect, so that the ground looked
like an old worn-out pasture lot; the only break in the desolate
aspect being a stunted sprig of golden-rod which gleamed in
front of the church door.
I passed it, careful not to tread on it, and tried the door,
found it open, and went in. The interior was a sad ruin,
through which the breeze was free to blow; for there was no
glass in any window, nor indeed now any need of glass, since
it was plain enough that there had not been for long time any
assembling of people here to worship. The pulpit, nearly
round and high up, backed by a large window, had once been
reached by a winding stairway, now broken down. The pews,
which were built of pine without paint, were in fair preservation.
The plaster on the walls and flat ceiling had mostly fallen off,
## p. 11835 (#465) ##########################################
WILLIAM COWPER PRIME
11835
I could see
and lay in the pews and on the floor of the aisles.
the blue sky through one great rift overhead, where the roof
timber had fallen in and crushed down the ceiling.
No places are filled with such profound interest to thoughtful
men as those spots in which their fellow-men of former gener-
ations were accustomed to assemble for the worship of God.
And places of Christian worship are more deeply interesting,
because of the characteristics of that worship which distinguish
it from all others. In no other have men approached Deity with
the sense of personal unworthiness which only their God can
remove, and with faith in his fatherhood and brotherhood, his
personal presence among them, and his love for them. From
the early ages of the Christian Church this immediate and close
relationship between God and man has been a distinguishing
characteristic of old Christian art; whose earliest representations
of his personality are as the Good Shepherd, carrying home a
lost and found lamb of his flock. If that faith which directs
their prayers be indeed the substance of the things hoped for,
then the place where men meet their God is so truly the house
of God that one is at a loss to understand those who deny any
special sanctity in it. But however irreverent be their regard for
the church which they themselves frequent, I think there are very
few who can without some serious emotion enter an old church,
in which generations of men and women and children have wor-
shiped, who are now lying in silent graves around it.
I don't think you, my friend, whatever your creed or your
sympathies, could have sat with me in one of those plain pine
pews, seeing the sunshine of that autumn falling through the
shattered building on the ruined interior, and have failed to ap-
preciate something of the sanctity of the old place of prayer.
It was early noon. Through the broken roof one broad stream
of golden light fell on the open place between the front pew
and the pulpit. There the table used to stand which they called
their Lord's Table, and from which they received, as their cate-
chism expressed it, "by faith, "—that is, by the highest assurance
men can have,-unhesitating belief, the body and blood of Him
they worshiped. There one by one, when the work and worry,
the sorrow and sin, of this life were ended, they were laid with
closed eyes and calm faces, and thence carried out to the
gathering-place of the dead. Where are they now, strong men
and matrons, young men and maidens, little children and patri-
archs? As I asked myself the question, I walked across the floor
## p. 11836 (#466) ##########################################
11836
WILLIAM COWPER PRIME
to a window and looked out. Yes, they were all lying there, as
so many millions of the Christian dead all over the world lie, in
circles that sweep over the surface of the globe, ever-widening
circles as their faith has extended among men, all with their
faces heavenward and their feet towards Jerusalem.
We spent more than a half-hour in the old church. I climbed
by the wrecked stairway into the pulpit. Its interior casing
was falling to pieces, and in a recess within were some scraps
of paper, which had slipped between the boards from the shelf
under the desk. On one was a memorandum of the minister for
notices to be given of the weekly prayer-meeting at Mr. 's
house, and a Thursday night lecture at the school-house on the
mountain. On another was a funeral notice. There was noth-
ing else legible, except a torn scrap, the lower part of a leaf of
a hymn-book, and on this was a stanza not unfitting the asso-
ciations of the place. So, for the moment, I assumed the posi-
tion of the erstwhile minister, and said from the pulpit, "Let us
sing: -
«Oh, what amazing joys they feel,
While to their golden harps they sing,
And sit on every heavenly hill
And spread the triumphs of their King! >»
There were only three of us, but one was leader of a choir
in an up-country church; and we sang a good old tune, which
perhaps they who were now silent around the church used to sing
to the same words—and perhaps will some day sing again.
And while we were singing I saw a vision; not supernatural,
but as lovely for the moment as any imagination.
In the open
doorway, at the other end of the church, was standing a little
child, a girl of five years old, dressed in white, with masses of
red-gold hair, which the wind, coming in from behind her, was
waving and shaking. Her great blue eyes were looking with
wonderment while she listened. As the sound ceased she van-
ished. We might have thought it an apparition, but that, going
to the door, we saw her running down the road as fast as her
little feet would carry her, towards a large farm-house nearly
a half-mile off. Her story told at the house might have been
the foundation of a midday ghost story for the neighborhood,-
the coming back of old-time people to sing an old hymn in the
ruined church. But they could hardly suppose that ghosts would
come in a traveling carriage drawn by a very solid pair of gray
horses.
## p. 11837 (#467) ##########################################
11837
MATTHEW PRIOR
(1664-1721)
ONE is better qualified to speak of Matthew Prior than the
accomplished writer of vers de société (and work of a higher
order), Austin Dobson, who brought out in 1889 an edition
of 'Prior's Selected Poems,' with an introduction containing several
corrections of generally accepted data. He concludes his introduc-
tory essay with the words: "Prior has left behind him not a few
pieces which have never yet been equaled for grace, ease, good-
humor, and spontaneity; and which are certain of immortality so long
as there is any saving virtue in 'fame's
great antiseptic-Style. ""
There is doubt regarding the place of
Prior's birth, on July 21st, 1664; but the evi-
dence points to Wimborne Minster in East
Dorset, England. His father is thought to
have been a joiner, who removed to Lon-
don, and sent his son to Westminster. After
his parents' early death, young Matt was
adopted by his uncle, a vintner, who lived
in Channel (now Cannon) Row; and it was
here behind the bar that he attracted the
attention of the Earl of Dorset, who found
him reading Horace and Ovid. Aided by
this rich patron, he returned to Westminster
school, forming a friendship with Charles and James Montagu (the
former afterwards founder of the Bank of England, and Earl of Hali-
fax,- dubitably Pope's "Bufo" in the Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot'),
and going with them to Cambridge, where he took his bachelor's
degree in 1686. His first piece of clever writing, a parody of Dryden's
poem The Hind and the Panther,' was executed at this period in
collaboration with Charles Montagu, who, like Prior, was freshly wear-
ing his college honors. The greater part was Prior's, and the jeu
d'esprit was published as 'The Hind and the Panther Transvers'd to
the Story of the Country Mouse and the City Mouse' (London, 1687),
and bore such mottoes as "Much Malice mingled with a little Wit. "
It has no great merit aside from boyish animal spirits, but may be
accepted as a prophecy of better work now that we know the better
MATTHEW PRIOR
## p. 11838 (#468) ##########################################
11838
MATTHEW PRIOR
work to have been accomplished. Some idea of the style of its
humor-exceedingly like that of the stock newspaper humorist in
the American press of to-day-may be appreciated by comparing
Dryden's lines,-
"A milk-white Hind, immortal and unchanged,
Fed on the lawns, and o'er the forest ranged;
Without unspotted, innocent within,
She feared no danger, for she knew no sin,"
-
with Prior's corresponding ones, ridiculing the idea of a quadruped
guiltless of sin:-
"A milk-white mouse, immortal and unchanged,
Fed on soft cheese, and o'er the dairy ranged;
Without unspotted, innocent within,
She feared no danger, for she knew no gin. »
In 1688 Prior obtained a fellowship, and was also made tutor to
Lord Exeter's sons; and having won distinguished patronage, was
appointed secretary to the ambassador to Holland. After spending
three years at The Hague, he was sent to France in the same ca-
pacity. Returning to England in 1701, he entered Parliament, became
a Tory, and in 1711 was sent on a secret mission to Paris, where he
attracted the favor of Louis XIV. A letter from le Grand Monarque
to Queen Anne said at its close: "I expect with impatience the
return of Mr. Prior, whose conduct is very agreeable to me;" and
the English Queen replied: "I send back Mr. Prior to Versailles,
who, in continuing to conduct himself in the manner that shall be
entirely agreeable to you, does no more than execute, to a tittle, the
orders which I have given him. " Bolingbroke and Swift greatly ad-
mired his diplomatic qualities (although Pope sneered at them), and
archives exist in Paris that attest his faithful service. One of Prior's
favorite sayings was, "I had rather be thought a good Englishman
than be the best poet or greatest scholar that ever wrote. » When
the Whigs came into power, Prior returned to England in 1715 to
suffer imprisonment; and when discharged he settled at Down-Hall,
Essex, on an estate that he had purchased. He died at Lord Har-
ley's country-seat of Wimpole, Cambridge, September 18th, 1721, and
was buried in Westminster Abbey.
Prior considered a long poem, Solomon, or the Vanity of the
World,' his most important work. It was greatly admired by Cow-
per, but is seldom read to-day. 'Alma, or the Progress of the Mind,' is
also long, but contains many witty Hudibrastic passages. The 'Tales'
are rather coarse for modern taste, and Prior's fame rests upon his
## p. 11839 (#469) ##########################################
MATTHEW PRIOR
11839
lyrics, epigrams, and playful poems. In 'An English Padlock' occur
the often quoted lines as advice to a husband:-
"Be to her virtues very kind;
Be to her faults a little blind;
Let all her ways be unconfined,
And clap your Padlock-on her mind. "
Prior has always been a favorite with men of letters.
Gay said
that he was beloved by every Muse"; Allan Ramsay wrote a pastoral
on his death, beginning "Dear, sweet-tongued Matt! thousands shall
greet for thee;" Swift was extremely fond of him, and took great
trouble to find subscribers for his poems; and Thackeray in his 'Eng-
lish Humorists' calls him "a world-philosopher of no small genius,
good-nature, and acumen," and considers his "among the easiest, the
richest, the most charmingly humorous of English lyrical poems.
Horace is always in his mind," he continues; "and his song, and his
philosophy, his good sense, his happy, easy turns and melody, his
loves, and his epicureanism bear a great resemblance to that most
delightful and accomplished master. " His poem 'To a Child of Qual-
ity Swinburne calls "the most adorable of nursery idyls that ever
was or will be in our language. " His own estimation of himself may
be learned by the following verses from his poem entitled 'For my
Own Monument':-
"Yet counting as far as to fifty his years,
His virtue and vice were as other men's are;
High hopes he conceived, and he smothered great fears,
In a life particolored, half pleasure, half care.
"Not to business a drudge, not to faction a slave,
He strove to make int'rest and freedom agree;
In public employments industrious and grave,
And alone with his friends, Lord! how merry was he!
"Now in equipage stately, now humbly on foot,
Both fortunes he tried, but to neither would trust;
And whirled in the round, as the wheel turned about,
He found riches had wings, and knew man was but dust. "
TO A CHILD OF QUALITY
ORDS, knights, and squires, the numerous band
L That wear the fair Miss Mary's fetters,
Were summoned by her high command
To show their passions by their letters.
## p. 11840 (#470) ##########################################
11840
MATTHEW PRIOR
My pen amo
mong the rest I took,
Lest those bright eyes that cannot read
Should dart their kindling fires, and look
The power they have to be obeyed.
Nor quality nor reputation
Forbid me yet my flame to tell;
Dear five-year-old befriends my passion,
And I may write till she can spell.
For while she makes her silkworms beds
With all the tender things I swear,
Whilst all the house my passion reads
In papers round her baby's hair,
She may receive and own my flame;
For though the strictest prudes should know it,
She'll pass for a most virtuous dame,
And I for an unhappy poet.
Then, too, alas! when she shall tear
The lines some younger rival sends,
She'll give me leave to write, I fear,
And we shall still continue friends.
For as our different ages move,
'Tis so ordained, (would Fate but mend it! )
That I shall be past making love
When she begins to comprehend it.
SONG
N VAIN you tell your parting lover,
You wish fair winds may waft him over; —
Alas! what winds can happy prove,
That bear me far from what I love?
Alas! what dangers on the main
Can equal those that I sustain
From slighted vows and cold disdain?
Be gentle, and in pity choose
To wish the wildest tempests loose;
That thrown again upon the coast,
Where first my shipwrecked heart was lost,
I may once more repeat my pain;
Once more in dying notes complain
Of slighted vows and cold disdain.
## p. 11841 (#471) ##########################################
MATTHEW PRIOR
11841
XX-741
TO A LADY
SHE REFUSING TO CONTINUE A DISPUTE WITH ME, AND LEAVING ME IN
THE ARGUMENT
SPAR
PARE, generous Victor, spare the slave,
Who did unequal war pursue;
That more than triumph he might have,
In being overcome by you.
In the dispute whate'er I said,
My heart was by my tongue belied;
And in my looks you might have read
How much I argued on your side.
You, far from danger as from fear,
Might have sustained an open fight:
For seldom your opinions err;
Your eyes are always in the right.
Why, fair one, would you not rely
On Reason's force with Beauty's joined?
Could I their prevalence deny,
I must at once be deaf and blind.
Alas! not hoping to subdue,
I only to the fight aspired;
To keep the beauteous foe in view
Was all the glory I desired.
But she, howe'er of victory sure,
Contemns the wreath too long delayed;
And armed with more immediate power,
Calls cruel silence to her aid.
Deeper to wound, she shuns the fight;
She drops her arms, to gain the field;
Secures her conquest by her flight,
And triumphs when she seems to yield.
So when the Parthian turned his steed,
And from the hostile camp withdrew,
With cruel skill the backward reed
He sent; and as he fled he slew.
## p. 11842 (#472) ##########################################
11842
MATTHEW PRIOR
AN ODE
THE
HE merchant, to secure his treasure,
Conveys it in a borrowed name:
Euphelia serves to grace my measure,
But Chloe is my real flame.
My softest verse, my darling lyre,
Upon Euphelia's toilet lay:
When Chloe noted her desire
That I should sing, that I should play,
My lyre I tune, my voice I raise;
But with my numbers mix my sighs:
And whilst I sing Euphelia's praise,
I fix my soul on Chloe's eyes.
Fair Chloe blushed; Euphelia frowned;
I sung and gazed; I played and trembled:
And Venus to the Loves around
Remarked, how ill we all dissembled.
CUPID MISTAKEN
S AFTER noon, one summer's day,
A Venus stood bathing in a river,
Cupid a-shooting went that way,
New strung his bow, new filled his quiver.
With skill he chose his sharpest dart,
With all his might his bow he drew;
Swift to his beauteous parent's heart
The too well guided arrow flew.
I faint! I die! the goddess cried;
O cruel, couldst thou find none other
To wreck thy spleen on? Parricide!
Like Nero, thou hast slain thy mother.
Poor Cupid, sobbing, scarce could speak:
Indeed, mamma, I did not know ye;
Alas! how easy my mistake,—
I took you for your likeness Chloe.
## p. 11843 (#473) ##########################################
MATTHEW PRIOR
11843
A BETTER ANSWER
D
EAR Chloe, how blubbered is that pretty face;
Thy cheek all on fire, and thy hair all uncurled:
Pr'ythee quit this caprice; and (as old Falstaff says)
Let us e'en talk a little like folks of this world.
How canst thou presume thou hast leave to destroy
The beauties which Venus but lent to thy keeping?
Those looks were designed to inspire love and joy:
More ord'nary eyes may serve people for weeping.
To be vexed at a trifle or two that I writ:
Your judgment at once, and my passion you wrong;
You take that for fact, which will scarce be found wit:
'Ods life! must one swear to the truth of a song?
What I speak, my fair Chloe, and what I write, shows
The difference there is betwixt nature and art:
I court others in verse, but I love thee in prose;
And they have my whimsies, but thou hast my heart.
The god of us verse-men,- you know, child, the sun,
How after his journeys he sets up his rest;
If at morning o'er earth 'tis his fancy to run,
At night he declines on his Thetis's breast.
So when I am wearied with wandering all day,
To thee, my delight, in the evening I come;
No matter what beauties I saw in my way,
They were but my visits, but thou art my home.
Then finish, dear Chloe, this pastoral war;
And let us, like Horace and Lydia, agree:
For thou art a girl as much brighter than her,
As he was a poet sublimer than me.
D
A SIMILE
EAR Thomas, didst thou never pop
Thy head into a tinman's shop?
George B. McClellan, he edited 'McClellan's Own Story. '
## p. 11822 (#452) ##########################################
11822
WILLIAM COWPER PRIME
Perhaps Mr. Prime's greatest service to the public has been in
connection with the Metropolitan Museum of Art. As a director,
vice-president, and for many years acting president, he brought to
the building-up of this institution, qualities indispensable to such an
enterprise, wide classic, art, and archæological knowledge, enthusi
asm, the perfection of organizing and business methods, and sound
common-sense. He gave to the work time without stint, and the
experience of the scholar and the man of affairs. It is not too much
to say that the great success of this splendid enterprise is largely
due to the wise guidance of Dr. Prime.
As a writer Mr. Prime is always interesting, vigorous, lucid, con-
vincing, equally facile in condensation and amplification, with a style
that is marked by simplicity, and often rises to the charm of melo-
dious periods. His versatility is shown in the rare combination of
sentiment with the most practical and clear view of affairs.
―
THE OLD MAN AT THE WATER-WHEEL
From 'Boat Life in Egypt and Nubia. ' Copyright 1857, by Harper &
Brothers
L
IFE in such a country has no great amount of variety, as one
might well imagine.
There was an old man that I found one day on shore as
I walked by the boat, whose history was strange and worth the
hearing.
He was a puny, dried-up old fellow, whose weight, I think,
might come within seventy pounds. He sat on the end of the
pole of the water-wheel, immediately behind the tails of the bul-
locks, and followed them around the little circle which they
walked, his knees up to his chin, which was buried between them,
and his blear eyes gazing listlessly on the cattle and the outer
wall of the sakea,- for it was inclosed in a stone-and-mud wall.
The everlasting creaking of the wheels-that strange sound that
no other machinery on earth emits seemed, and was to him,
the familiar music of his life.
I questioned him, and his story was simply this: He was born
just there. It was long before the days of Mohammed Ali, when
Hassan Kasheef was king, that he was a boy, sitting on the pole
of the sakea and following the bullocks around. He sat there
more years than he knew anything about, and grew to be a man.
Life was to him still the same round. His view was bounded by
## p. 11823 (#453) ##########################################
WILLIAM COWPER PRIME
11823
the mountains around him, and he never went beyond them.
He rode the sakea, and at every circle he caught through the
open doorway a vision of one mighty hill, with a grove of palms
at its foot. In the night he saw it still and solemn among the
stars, and sometimes he had seen tempests gathered around it.
It was the one idea of his life; and it was something to find
in such a brain one idea, though it was but a rock. He looked
out at it as he told me of it, with a sort of affection that I well
understood, but which surprised me none the less. But so he
had lived. He grew heavier as he grew older, and then he could
ot ride the pole, but sat down in the doorway and watched his
bullocks, looking behind him often at the hill; and so the years
slipped along, and age came and he wasted away; and when his
second childhood was on him, he mounted the pole again, and
was riding to his grave.
He had been a great traveler. I know not how many thou-
sand miles he had been carried around that centre-pin. Had he
never been away from the valley? Yes once: he climbed the
hill yonder, and from its summit saw the dreary wastes of sand
that stretched far away in all directions, and he came back con-
tented. Did nothing occur in his lifetime that he now remem-
bered as marking some one day more than another? Nothing.
Yes! one day the wheel broke, and he was startled and fright-
ened; but they came and mended it, and all went on as before.
I left him there to follow his weary round till death overtake
him; and if I find life oppressive at any time hereafter, I shall
know where to seek a hermitage and undisturbed calm.
THE DEFEAT OF THE CHRISTIAN HOST AT GALILEE, A. D. 1187
From Tent Life in the Holy Land. ' Copyright 1857, by Harper & Brothers
R
EGINALD OF CHATILLON, a Knight of the Cross, had come to
Palestine with Louis le Jeune, and joined the forces of
Raymond of Poictiers, Prince of Antioch. Keen as a hawk
and brave as a lion, the young soldier, nameless and of low ori-
gin, not only won a name, but on the death of Raymond won
his widow Constance and his throne. The stories of his bravery
and beauty, sung by the troubadours of those days, were count-
less; nor was any one more often mentioned, as stout knight and
## p. 11824 (#454) ##########################################
11824
WILLIAM COWPER PRIME
valiant soldier, than Reginald of Chatillon. His career is the
theme for a history. His arm never grew weary of battle, nor
did his sword rust until he was taken prisoner by the Moslems,
and kept in chains for years at Aleppo. Released at last, he
found his wife dead and his son on his throne. He himself
gathered around him the most daring and reckless of the Tem-
plars, and having by a second marriage obtained other castles
and possessions, he made it the business of his life to harass and
annoy the Saracens wherever he could find them; and at length,
emboldened by his success, conceived the idea of marching to
Medinah and Mecca, and plundering the holy Kaaba itself. With
his hitherto invincible band of warriors he set out on this peril-
ous enterprise. They surprised and captured the Egyptian cara-
van crossing the desert from India, and advanced in triumph to
the valley of Rabid, scarcely thirty miles from Medinah, where
they were met by an overwhelming force and routed with ter-
rible slaughter.
Reginald escaped even here; but Salah-e'deen was aroused by
this sacrilegious undertaking. He swore by an oath that could
not be violated that the knight should die and Jerusalem should
fall.
It was the morning of July 4th, 1187, that the Christians
advanced over the plain. Annoyed by the shafts of the Sara-
cens and their constant sallies on both flanks, they yet advanced
steadily to the middle of the plain, intending to cut their way
through the ranks of the enemy and gain the shore of the sea.
It was here that Salah-e'deen came down on them like a
thunderbolt, at the head of twenty thousand horsemen. It was
one of the most terrible charges on record. But the Christians,
closing up their ranks, received it as the rock receives the sea,
and it went back like the foam.
Now high up among the Christian host, the Holy Cross itself
was elevated, and men knew for what they were to fight and
die. Around it, to use the words of Salah-e'deen himself, they
gathered with the utmost bravery and devotion, as if they be-
lieved it their greatest blessing, strongest bond of union, and
sure defense. The battle became general. On all sides the foe
pressed the brave knights and their followers. The latter fell by
hundreds, from exhaustion and thirst; for they had been short
of bread and water for a week.
## p. 11825 (#455) ##########################################
WILLIAM COWPER PRIME
11825
Twice did Salah-e'deen repeat that tremendous charge, pen-
etrating into the ranks of his enemies, and fighting his way out
again without breaking their array
Night came down on the battle-field while its fate was yet
undetermined, and they rested for the morrow.
What wild, despairing prayers went up to God before the
Cross of Christ that night, we may not know until those vials
of the elders shall be opened.
Long before day, by the admirable disposition of his army,
Salah-e'deen had decided the battle even before it was fought.
But he had not decided how many of his host were to be
slain on the soil of Galilee by the swords of the Christians.
As the day advanced, the two armies beheld each other.
Salah-e'deen waited till the sun was up, and then "the sons of
heaven and the children of fire fought their great battle. "
The Christians fought as they were accustomed. Their heat
and thirst were terrible, and increased by the enemy setting fire
to the dry brush and grass, from which the strong wind blew a
dense smoke toward them, nearly suffocating them.
The scene was like a very hell; knights and devils contending
among flames. Again and again the bands of Templars threw
themselves on the Saracen front, and endeavored to pierce their
way through its steel wall to reach the citadel of Tiberias, but
in vain. The cry of the battle-field went up, among smoke and
flame, before God, and he permitted the end to come. "Holy
Cross! " shouted the grand-master of the Templars, as he fought
his way toward the banner of the Kalif, followed by his brave
knights. "Raymond for the Sepulchre! " rang over the clash of
steel in the front of the battle. "Ha! Ha! Renaud - Renaud —
Chatillon-Carrac - No rescue! Strike, strike! " shouted the
proud retainers of the old knight, who were reveling in the blood
of the conflict.
By this time, in the centre of the field, the fight had grown
thickest and most fierce around the True Cross, which was up-
held on a slight eminence by the bishop of Ptolemais. Around
it the bravest knights were collected. There Geoffrey of Lusig-
nan, brother to the King, performed miracles of valor; and the
Knights of the Temple and the Knights of St. John vied with
each other in bravery. As the fray grew darker, and shafts flew
swifter around them, and one by one they fell down before the
holy wood, the stern, calm voice of the bishop was heard, chanting,
XX-740
## p. 11826 (#456) ##########################################
11826
WILLIAM COWPER PRIME
"De profundis clamavi ad te, Domine; Domine, exaudi vocem
meam! ” in tones that overpowered the din of battle, and reached
the ears of the dying even as they departed. Nearest of all to
the Cross was a man wielding a sword which had already done
fearful work on the Saracens. The sign on his back was not
sufficient to distinguish him from other soldiers; but they who
fought by his side well knew the brave precentor of the Sepul-
chre, bishop of Lydda, the city of St. George. How many souls
he had sent to hell that day it is impossible to relate. He and
four others remained around the old bishop of Ptolemais, who
was fainting for loss of blood; for many arrows had pierced him,
and his life was fast failing. "Bohemond for the Cross! shouted
the young Prince of Antioch, as he swept the Paynims down by
scores. "St. George! St. George! " shouted the holy bishop, his
bright eye flashing around him. He caught sight of the totter-
ing Cross, as the bishop of Ptolemais went down dead. Springing
toward it, he seized it with his left arm, and with prodigious
strength threw himself into the faces of the foe. The lightning
is not more fierce and fast than were the blows of his sword, as
he hewed his way along, followed by Bohemond of Antioch, and
Renaud of Sidon, and one unknown Knight of the Temple. The
latter pressed forward to the side of the brave bishop. Bohemond
and Renaud were separated from them, but the two fought on
alone, in the midst of thousands of their enemies.
At length the unequal contest was well-nigh over.
The eye of Salah-e'deen was fixed on the dense mass that
surrounded the Cross. He smiled bitterly as he saw it trembling
and ready to fall from the hands of the gallant bishop, who held
it with his left arm, while with his right he cursed the Infidels
with the curse of steel, that damned them then, there, and for-
ever. Well might the Soldan believe that as long as he held
that holy wood, so long his mighty arm would remain strong,
and blood replace in his brave heart the floods that issued from
his wounds. But he grew faint at length, and yet shouting in
clear tones, "St. George! St. George! " knelt down by the Cross,
shielded by the stout arm of the brave Templar, who fought
above him, unwounded and undaunted, though he now found
himself last knight at the Cross of his Lord.
One glance of his eye over the plain told him that all was
lost; and nothing now remained for him but to die bravely for
God and for Jerusalem. Far over the field, above the summit of
## p. 11827 (#457) ##########################################
WILLIAM COWPER PRIME
11827
the Mount of Transfiguration, he beheld the heavens opened, and
saw the gates of pearl. Clear and distinct above the clash of
arms and loud cries of the field of blood, he heard the voices
of the angels singing triumphant songs. So he took courage as
the darkness of the battle gathered blacker around him.
For now, as the bishop of Lydda fell prostrate on the ground,
the Cross had nearly fallen, and the Paynims, raising a shout of
triumph, rushed in on their solitary foe. But they rushed through
the gates of hell, sheer down the depths of death, to everlasting
perdition. Down came the flashing axe on head and shoulder
and limb; down through eyes and chin and breast; so that when
they went to Hades in that plight, their prophet had difficulty in
recognizing them even as of mortal shape.
The dead lay all around him. He trod down his iron heel
in their faces, and crushed it in their chests, and laughed as he
dealt those more than human blows with cool, calm aim, but
lightning force and velocity. No sound but the clashing steel was
heard in this part of the plain, where for a while it appeared as
if the saint of the fallen bishop were standing over him in arms
for the cause of the Sepulchre.
But every inch of his armor bristled with arrows that were
drinking his blood; a well-sped javelin had made a hideous open-
ing in his throat, and the foam from his lips was dropping red
on his steel breastplate.
Looking up once more, far over hill and plain, he saw again
the battlements of heaven, and a shining company that were
approaching even to his very front. The battle-field was visible
no longer; but close beside him, the Divine eyes of the Virgin
Mother were fixed on him with the same look that she of old
fixed on that Cross when holier blood than his ran down its beam.
But that was not all that he saw.
There was a hideous sin on the soul of the Knight of the
Cross. To expiate that sin he had long ago left the fair land of
France, where he had lordly possessions, to become an unknown
brother of the order of the Temple. And now through the fast-
gathering gloom he saw the face of that one so beloved and so
wronged, as she lay on the very breast of the matchless Virgin;
and the radiance of her countenance was the smile of heaven
Though he saw all this, the gallant knight fought on, and his
swift falchion flashed steadfastly above the mêlée. But then
there was a sudden pause: his lost love lay warm and close on
## p. 11828 (#458) ##########################################
11828
WILLIAM COWPER PRIME
his breast, lay clasped in his arms, on his heart of hearts! He
murmured a name long forbidden to his priestly lips, and then,
waking one instant to the scene around him, he sprang at the
throat of a Saracen, grasped it with his stiffening fingers, and the
soul of the Paynim went out with his, as he departed to join
the great assembly of the soldiers of the Cross. So the Cross
was lost on the field of Galilee.
Guy of Lusignan, eighth and last King of Jerusalem, with a
small band of faithful knights, still held his ground on the hill
of Hattin. When the Cross vanished from the field, a wail of
anguish rose from all the plain, and quivered in the air at the
very gates of the celestial city. Raymond of Tripoli and Renaud
of Sidon cut their way through the ranks of Saracens, and
escaped around the foot of Mount Tabor to Ptolemais. All the
rest that were living fell into the hands of Salah-e'deen; and
the next day, with his own sword, he executed his threatened
vengeance on Reginald of Chatillon, hewing him down to the
ground and leaving him to be dispatched by his followers. The
fearful sacrifice which he then made of the Templars; how they
crowded to it, and others sought to be included in the martyr-
dom, is a well-known page of history. Not so the statement of
an old chronicler, that "during the three following nights, when
the bodies of the holy martyrs were lying still unburied, a ray
of celestial light shone over them from above. "
The Cross which was lost on this field was never regained by
Christians. It remained for some time in the custody of Salah-
e'deen; and a few years later—that is, in A. D. 1192—the same
chronicler describes the visits of pilgrims to Jerusalem, where
they were allowed by the Kalif "to have a sight of the Holy
Cross. "
A NEW ENGLAND AUCTION: THE LONELY CHURCH IN THE
VALLEY
From Along New England Roads. ' Copyright 1892, by Harper and Brothers
IT
T WAS in May. The forests further north had been just tinged
with that delicious mauve color which is caused by the swell-
ing buds of the maples, and which from day to day changes
into pink and hazy sky-blue, and at length, when the buds burst,
into green.
But here the green had won the day; and the view
## p. 11829 (#459) ##########################################
WILLIAM COWPER PRIME
11829
in all directions, as I drove along, was fresh and full of promise.
When the road led through forest, both sides were luxuriant
with the close-packed masses of ferns just commencing summer
life; and in the woods were hosts of purple and striped blossoms
of the trilium, the glory of our northern forests in the early sea-
son. I came out from a piece of woods on a plain where the
road went straight ahead in full view for a half-mile. Nearly
that distance ahead stood a farm-house, with its barns and out-
buildings. The house stood back from the road among fruit-
trees, some of which were in blossom. But what especially
attracted attention was a large number of horses and wagons,
vehicles of various descriptions, which made the front yard and
the road near the house look black.
Only two events in the country life are likely to cause such a
gathering around a house. When you see it, you are quite safe
in thinking that there is a funeral or an auction sale. Either is
sure to bring together all the wagons of a very wide-spread pop-
ulation. There is this difference, however, that to the funeral
men and women and children come, but to the "vandue" only
men.
―――――
As I approached the house, I began to pass horses tied to
fences and small trees. Everything in the shape of a hitching-
post, everything to which a halter could be tied, was in use; and
when I reached the front gate there were groups of men SO
occupied here and there that no doubt could exist that this was
an auction sale. It was undoubtedly a funeral in one sense,-
not of any one dead, but of a home. It was the extinguishment
of a fire that had been burning on a hearth a great many years.
It took but a little while to learn from those who were grouped
near the gate the reasons for the auction. This group consisted
of men who had come only because it was an occasion for meet-
ing people; a chance for general talk and exchange of little
news, a break in the monotony of country life. Near the barn
was another group inspecting cows. They had no interest in the
sale of furniture in the house. On the front lawn was another
group. I fancied they were discussing the value of the farm,
whether it was worth the mortgage on it, whether any one was
likely to bid on it. As I walked in towards the door I saw that
there were people in all parts of the house, most of them in the
large kitchen, whence the voice of the auctioneer was audible.
As I entered he was selling cooking utensils, getting from a
## p. 11830 (#460) ##########################################
11830
WILLIAM COWPER PRIME
cent to six cents apiece, rarely as much as ten cents for any
article.
I confess that as I looked around this kitchen, on this scene,
I felt very much as if it were a funeral, and began to think that
I had an interest in, a personal acquaintance with, the departed.
It had been for a long lifetime the home of an honest, respected
farmer, who had recently died; an old man whose work was
ended. His children, all but one daughter, had gone to distant
parts of the country. His wife had died a year before. The
property must be sold to settle his small estate, pay his funeral
expenses and perhaps other claims. There was to be also an
attempt to find a purchaser for the farm, but it was thought the
holder of a mortgage on it would be the only possible bidder.
That life was to be closed out forever. Wherein much of
it had consisted was here visible. It was displayed for public
view, and any stranger was free to rove from room to room and
see the record; for nothing was reserved, -not even the clothing,
or the old man's silver watch, or his wife's work-basket with
knitting-needles and scissors, and a knife with a broken blade,
and a ball of blue yarn and a half-knit woolen stocking.
Here was a summing-up of the total reward in this world's
valuables which a long, laborious life had earned. I can never
cease to feel indignation at the preachers about labor and its
rewards, who imagine that workmen in the trades are the only
laborers to be considered; who are deceived by the idea that the
various societies of "working-men" represent one-tenth of the
hard-working men of our country; who imagine that the labor
question relates only to that small number of persons who work
for fixed pay, eight or ten hours a day.
The life of this man from his childhood had been one of
incessant labor, hard work; beginning daily long before daylight,
ending so wearily after dark that he welcomed sleep as the only
rest he knew. Your ten-hour city laborer does not know what
work means; and never will know till he acquires a farm, and
has to support life by digging for himself, paying himself for
his work, and finding that to the vast body of American farm-
ers, fourteen hours a day of labor earns bare subsistence.
The life labor in this house and on this farm showed in the
end, as the laborer's pay when all work was done, just nothing
beyond the bare support of the life. Less, indeed, than that; for
there was a mortgage on the farm, which represented a demand
## p. 11831 (#461) ##########################################
WILLIAM COWPER PRIME
11831
of some pressing need, or a steady, slow falling behind, from year
to year.
The home furniture was not luxurious; far otherwise. But it
was not altogether without interest. There was an old chest of
drawers in one room, which probably belonged to the mother;
possibly came from her mother when she was married.
It was
made of solid cherry-wood; and the old brass mountings were,
for a wonder, brilliant as if new. There was a small looking-
glass hanging on a wall, in a frame once of great beauty, the
relief ornaments on it being ears of golden grain. There were
some pictures in black-pine frames, without glass. None had
any money value, but each had higher than money value, because
they had been the delights of that family life.
Children had
grown up looking at them daily, their young imaginations wan-
dering far away under the guiding influence of art.
Mark you,
my friend, art brings its blessings not alone by the power of
renowned artists, by the works of great masters.
There are
very rude pictures, pictures which provoke the derision of ignor-
ant critics, pictures which have had mighty influence in swaying
human minds. There was a fifteenth-century artist in Cologne
whose Bible pictures, in rough, hard outlines, were the educators
of millions of people for a century and more after he was dead.
It is the thought written in the picture which is its power; not
the execution, which is of account to very few who see it. There
is no possible doubt that that old painted print of Ruth glean-
ing, and that other of the raising of the Widow's Son, of Nain,
had impressed lessons on young minds not to be effaced in this
world's experiences, perhaps not in any other world.
The old kitchen seemed to be the place wherein the life had
left its strongest marks. And yet they were not many. There
was a little printed calendar of a long year ago pasted on the
side of the chimney. There was a clock (not worth your pur-
chasing, my friend) standing high up on a wooden shelf. There
was a dresser whereon the family crockery was piled for sale.
Having in mind friends who want old crockery, I looked over
the pieces, one by one; but found nothing worth a stranger's
purchasing, except perhaps one English plate, with a blue print,
—the rich dark blue wherein the cheap Staffordshire wares sur-
passed all other, Oriental and Occidental, potteries or porcelains.
But the table was there,- a very old square table, made of
black ash, with four solid legs. It had no claim to notice for
## p. 11832 (#462) ##########################################
11832
WILLIAM COWPER PRIME
any beauty about it. But around it the family had been gath-
ered, morning, noon, and evening. First the young man and
his wife had sat there alone, happy, hopeful. Years had fulfilled
all they had hoped for, had brought little heads to the sides of
the table, and years had changed them into older and perhaps
wiser heads. All the troubles and all the happiness of every
one of them had been brought to the assemblies at that kitchen
table. Christmases, Thanksgiving days, wedding days of daugh-
ters, days when the minister was to make his annual visit,- all
the gala days of life had loaded the table with unusual feasts.
And always, with unfailing humility and gratitude, the voice of
the father had been heard at the head of the board, thanking
God as sincerely as if the farm had been a gold mine instead of
slow-yielding soil.
I was in the house but a few minutes. As I drove rapidly
down the road, I overtook a man going home from the sale. I
am not fond of "buying bargains" in such cases. If there had
been anything to tempt me, I could not comfortably own a pur-
chase out of that household at the poor prices things were bring-
ing. But this man was carrying home something. As I turned
out and drove by him he held it up for me to see. We went
along side by side.
"What have you got there? "
"I don't know. I think it's an old pitcher they used in a
church. "
"What did you buy it for? "
"I don't know. I s'pose I can sell it to some one. "
"How much do you want for it? "
"I don't know what it's worth. "
"Well, speak quick, if you want to sell," and my horses were
pulling ahead hard.
"I don't know as I care to sell it. "
"All right," and I went ahead rapidly.
"Will you give two dollars? " came in a shout after me.
"Will you take it? "
"Yes. "
It
He came up alongside of me, and I took my purchase.
was never church property; quite otherwise. It was a fine, tall
old two-quart pewter mug with cover. It had done duty in times
when men sat together while the pewter, filled with foaming
beer, went around from hand to hand and lip to lip. It was in
## p. 11833 (#463) ##########################################
WILLIAM COWPER PRIME
11833
perfect order, but there was nothing about it which seemed in
keeping with the old farm-house. When, four miles on, I stopped
to feed my horses, the landlord, looking in my carriage, ex-
claimed, "Hello, did you buy Jake's pewter pitcher? " and then
said Jake had bought it at another sale years ago, on specula-
tion, and had carried it afterwards to every "vandue," trying to
find a purchaser.
In the autumn of that year I drove again through the same
country, sometimes on the same, mostly on other roads. The
aspect of the hills and valleys was now very different. October
is a golden month for carriage travel; on some accounts more
pleasant than any other month in the year, both for horses and
travelers.
The road passed through a forest, unbroken for half a mile.
On the right a stream wandered over rocks, and under little
bluffs of moss, bright green miniature copies of mountain bluffs
along the courses of mighty rivers. Now and then, where the
stream fell into a pool, th lower end of the pool was dammed
with autumn leaves, yellow and red and brown, and in the whirl
of the pool you could see the same colored leaves going around
and around, and the water looked as if it were clearer and
colder for their presence. The road was covered over with
leaves, a yellow carpet, and every few minutes the light
breeze would freshen up a little and shake the higher branches
of the trees, and send down a shower of leaves, which flitted
and darted to and fro, flashing in the sunshine, and falling on
our laps and all around us.
-
At length the road, which going up a gentle ascent left the
brook away in the woods, emerged into open country, and we
found ourselves on the top of a hill. Before us spread one of
those beautiful landscapes in which New England is richer than
any other part of the world that I know of. The road descended
into an oval basin, some three miles long and a mile broad, the
bottom and sides of which were, or had been, cultivated farm
lands, except where a small lake slept motionless. It was sur-
rounded by low hills, up the sides of which the fields extended,
here and there one of them glowing with the buff and gold of
corn stubble and scattered pumpkins. Along the ridges, where
the fields did not go over them, were groves of maple and
birch whose autumn colors were intensely bright, while down
the slopes lay many abandoned fields gone to brush,-mauve,
## p. 11834 (#464) ##########################################
11834
WILLIAM COWPER PRIME
maroon, crimson, and purple-colored with their dense growth of
bushes, scarlet-lined along the fences by rows of sumac.
If you can show me anywhere in the world landscapes which
are as rich and varied in color as our northern landscapes in
America, or which are more beautiful in the form and contrast
of valley and hill, I will go far with you to see them. Autumnal
foliage with many is thought to be the changed color of the
forest leaves, and few have observed the wonderful painting of
landscapes in the autumnal colors of the low bushes. Many of
our New England rivers, in October, flow between banks and
around low gravel islands which are unbroken masses of crimson,
from a plant not a foot high, covering every inch for acres.
And the shades are even more beautiful than the intense colors,
-soft, rich, and delicate as old embroideries.
There was no village in the valley. As I drove along the
road which led nearly through the middle of it, I came, at a
cross-road, to a grave-yard of an old church. That it was once a
church, the remains of a tower or spire indicated, and its loca-
tion,— a hundred feet from both roads, in the grave-yard,— dem-
onstrated. There had never been any fence around the lot
except the rough-laid loose stone wall which serves for fence in
all parts of our country where stone is plenty. And no better
or more picturesque fencing can be, especially if people will
plant along such walls any of the many beautiful vines which
abound everywhere, and thrive luxuriantly in just such places.
But no vines had ever been planted here. Not a solitary bush
or tree grew in the grave-yard. Even grass seemed to have run
out from lonesomeness and neglect, so that the ground looked
like an old worn-out pasture lot; the only break in the desolate
aspect being a stunted sprig of golden-rod which gleamed in
front of the church door.
I passed it, careful not to tread on it, and tried the door,
found it open, and went in. The interior was a sad ruin,
through which the breeze was free to blow; for there was no
glass in any window, nor indeed now any need of glass, since
it was plain enough that there had not been for long time any
assembling of people here to worship. The pulpit, nearly
round and high up, backed by a large window, had once been
reached by a winding stairway, now broken down. The pews,
which were built of pine without paint, were in fair preservation.
The plaster on the walls and flat ceiling had mostly fallen off,
## p. 11835 (#465) ##########################################
WILLIAM COWPER PRIME
11835
I could see
and lay in the pews and on the floor of the aisles.
the blue sky through one great rift overhead, where the roof
timber had fallen in and crushed down the ceiling.
No places are filled with such profound interest to thoughtful
men as those spots in which their fellow-men of former gener-
ations were accustomed to assemble for the worship of God.
And places of Christian worship are more deeply interesting,
because of the characteristics of that worship which distinguish
it from all others. In no other have men approached Deity with
the sense of personal unworthiness which only their God can
remove, and with faith in his fatherhood and brotherhood, his
personal presence among them, and his love for them. From
the early ages of the Christian Church this immediate and close
relationship between God and man has been a distinguishing
characteristic of old Christian art; whose earliest representations
of his personality are as the Good Shepherd, carrying home a
lost and found lamb of his flock. If that faith which directs
their prayers be indeed the substance of the things hoped for,
then the place where men meet their God is so truly the house
of God that one is at a loss to understand those who deny any
special sanctity in it. But however irreverent be their regard for
the church which they themselves frequent, I think there are very
few who can without some serious emotion enter an old church,
in which generations of men and women and children have wor-
shiped, who are now lying in silent graves around it.
I don't think you, my friend, whatever your creed or your
sympathies, could have sat with me in one of those plain pine
pews, seeing the sunshine of that autumn falling through the
shattered building on the ruined interior, and have failed to ap-
preciate something of the sanctity of the old place of prayer.
It was early noon. Through the broken roof one broad stream
of golden light fell on the open place between the front pew
and the pulpit. There the table used to stand which they called
their Lord's Table, and from which they received, as their cate-
chism expressed it, "by faith, "—that is, by the highest assurance
men can have,-unhesitating belief, the body and blood of Him
they worshiped. There one by one, when the work and worry,
the sorrow and sin, of this life were ended, they were laid with
closed eyes and calm faces, and thence carried out to the
gathering-place of the dead. Where are they now, strong men
and matrons, young men and maidens, little children and patri-
archs? As I asked myself the question, I walked across the floor
## p. 11836 (#466) ##########################################
11836
WILLIAM COWPER PRIME
to a window and looked out. Yes, they were all lying there, as
so many millions of the Christian dead all over the world lie, in
circles that sweep over the surface of the globe, ever-widening
circles as their faith has extended among men, all with their
faces heavenward and their feet towards Jerusalem.
We spent more than a half-hour in the old church. I climbed
by the wrecked stairway into the pulpit. Its interior casing
was falling to pieces, and in a recess within were some scraps
of paper, which had slipped between the boards from the shelf
under the desk. On one was a memorandum of the minister for
notices to be given of the weekly prayer-meeting at Mr. 's
house, and a Thursday night lecture at the school-house on the
mountain. On another was a funeral notice. There was noth-
ing else legible, except a torn scrap, the lower part of a leaf of
a hymn-book, and on this was a stanza not unfitting the asso-
ciations of the place. So, for the moment, I assumed the posi-
tion of the erstwhile minister, and said from the pulpit, "Let us
sing: -
«Oh, what amazing joys they feel,
While to their golden harps they sing,
And sit on every heavenly hill
And spread the triumphs of their King! >»
There were only three of us, but one was leader of a choir
in an up-country church; and we sang a good old tune, which
perhaps they who were now silent around the church used to sing
to the same words—and perhaps will some day sing again.
And while we were singing I saw a vision; not supernatural,
but as lovely for the moment as any imagination.
In the open
doorway, at the other end of the church, was standing a little
child, a girl of five years old, dressed in white, with masses of
red-gold hair, which the wind, coming in from behind her, was
waving and shaking. Her great blue eyes were looking with
wonderment while she listened. As the sound ceased she van-
ished. We might have thought it an apparition, but that, going
to the door, we saw her running down the road as fast as her
little feet would carry her, towards a large farm-house nearly
a half-mile off. Her story told at the house might have been
the foundation of a midday ghost story for the neighborhood,-
the coming back of old-time people to sing an old hymn in the
ruined church. But they could hardly suppose that ghosts would
come in a traveling carriage drawn by a very solid pair of gray
horses.
## p. 11837 (#467) ##########################################
11837
MATTHEW PRIOR
(1664-1721)
ONE is better qualified to speak of Matthew Prior than the
accomplished writer of vers de société (and work of a higher
order), Austin Dobson, who brought out in 1889 an edition
of 'Prior's Selected Poems,' with an introduction containing several
corrections of generally accepted data. He concludes his introduc-
tory essay with the words: "Prior has left behind him not a few
pieces which have never yet been equaled for grace, ease, good-
humor, and spontaneity; and which are certain of immortality so long
as there is any saving virtue in 'fame's
great antiseptic-Style. ""
There is doubt regarding the place of
Prior's birth, on July 21st, 1664; but the evi-
dence points to Wimborne Minster in East
Dorset, England. His father is thought to
have been a joiner, who removed to Lon-
don, and sent his son to Westminster. After
his parents' early death, young Matt was
adopted by his uncle, a vintner, who lived
in Channel (now Cannon) Row; and it was
here behind the bar that he attracted the
attention of the Earl of Dorset, who found
him reading Horace and Ovid. Aided by
this rich patron, he returned to Westminster
school, forming a friendship with Charles and James Montagu (the
former afterwards founder of the Bank of England, and Earl of Hali-
fax,- dubitably Pope's "Bufo" in the Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot'),
and going with them to Cambridge, where he took his bachelor's
degree in 1686. His first piece of clever writing, a parody of Dryden's
poem The Hind and the Panther,' was executed at this period in
collaboration with Charles Montagu, who, like Prior, was freshly wear-
ing his college honors. The greater part was Prior's, and the jeu
d'esprit was published as 'The Hind and the Panther Transvers'd to
the Story of the Country Mouse and the City Mouse' (London, 1687),
and bore such mottoes as "Much Malice mingled with a little Wit. "
It has no great merit aside from boyish animal spirits, but may be
accepted as a prophecy of better work now that we know the better
MATTHEW PRIOR
## p. 11838 (#468) ##########################################
11838
MATTHEW PRIOR
work to have been accomplished. Some idea of the style of its
humor-exceedingly like that of the stock newspaper humorist in
the American press of to-day-may be appreciated by comparing
Dryden's lines,-
"A milk-white Hind, immortal and unchanged,
Fed on the lawns, and o'er the forest ranged;
Without unspotted, innocent within,
She feared no danger, for she knew no sin,"
-
with Prior's corresponding ones, ridiculing the idea of a quadruped
guiltless of sin:-
"A milk-white mouse, immortal and unchanged,
Fed on soft cheese, and o'er the dairy ranged;
Without unspotted, innocent within,
She feared no danger, for she knew no gin. »
In 1688 Prior obtained a fellowship, and was also made tutor to
Lord Exeter's sons; and having won distinguished patronage, was
appointed secretary to the ambassador to Holland. After spending
three years at The Hague, he was sent to France in the same ca-
pacity. Returning to England in 1701, he entered Parliament, became
a Tory, and in 1711 was sent on a secret mission to Paris, where he
attracted the favor of Louis XIV. A letter from le Grand Monarque
to Queen Anne said at its close: "I expect with impatience the
return of Mr. Prior, whose conduct is very agreeable to me;" and
the English Queen replied: "I send back Mr. Prior to Versailles,
who, in continuing to conduct himself in the manner that shall be
entirely agreeable to you, does no more than execute, to a tittle, the
orders which I have given him. " Bolingbroke and Swift greatly ad-
mired his diplomatic qualities (although Pope sneered at them), and
archives exist in Paris that attest his faithful service. One of Prior's
favorite sayings was, "I had rather be thought a good Englishman
than be the best poet or greatest scholar that ever wrote. » When
the Whigs came into power, Prior returned to England in 1715 to
suffer imprisonment; and when discharged he settled at Down-Hall,
Essex, on an estate that he had purchased. He died at Lord Har-
ley's country-seat of Wimpole, Cambridge, September 18th, 1721, and
was buried in Westminster Abbey.
Prior considered a long poem, Solomon, or the Vanity of the
World,' his most important work. It was greatly admired by Cow-
per, but is seldom read to-day. 'Alma, or the Progress of the Mind,' is
also long, but contains many witty Hudibrastic passages. The 'Tales'
are rather coarse for modern taste, and Prior's fame rests upon his
## p. 11839 (#469) ##########################################
MATTHEW PRIOR
11839
lyrics, epigrams, and playful poems. In 'An English Padlock' occur
the often quoted lines as advice to a husband:-
"Be to her virtues very kind;
Be to her faults a little blind;
Let all her ways be unconfined,
And clap your Padlock-on her mind. "
Prior has always been a favorite with men of letters.
Gay said
that he was beloved by every Muse"; Allan Ramsay wrote a pastoral
on his death, beginning "Dear, sweet-tongued Matt! thousands shall
greet for thee;" Swift was extremely fond of him, and took great
trouble to find subscribers for his poems; and Thackeray in his 'Eng-
lish Humorists' calls him "a world-philosopher of no small genius,
good-nature, and acumen," and considers his "among the easiest, the
richest, the most charmingly humorous of English lyrical poems.
Horace is always in his mind," he continues; "and his song, and his
philosophy, his good sense, his happy, easy turns and melody, his
loves, and his epicureanism bear a great resemblance to that most
delightful and accomplished master. " His poem 'To a Child of Qual-
ity Swinburne calls "the most adorable of nursery idyls that ever
was or will be in our language. " His own estimation of himself may
be learned by the following verses from his poem entitled 'For my
Own Monument':-
"Yet counting as far as to fifty his years,
His virtue and vice were as other men's are;
High hopes he conceived, and he smothered great fears,
In a life particolored, half pleasure, half care.
"Not to business a drudge, not to faction a slave,
He strove to make int'rest and freedom agree;
In public employments industrious and grave,
And alone with his friends, Lord! how merry was he!
"Now in equipage stately, now humbly on foot,
Both fortunes he tried, but to neither would trust;
And whirled in the round, as the wheel turned about,
He found riches had wings, and knew man was but dust. "
TO A CHILD OF QUALITY
ORDS, knights, and squires, the numerous band
L That wear the fair Miss Mary's fetters,
Were summoned by her high command
To show their passions by their letters.
## p. 11840 (#470) ##########################################
11840
MATTHEW PRIOR
My pen amo
mong the rest I took,
Lest those bright eyes that cannot read
Should dart their kindling fires, and look
The power they have to be obeyed.
Nor quality nor reputation
Forbid me yet my flame to tell;
Dear five-year-old befriends my passion,
And I may write till she can spell.
For while she makes her silkworms beds
With all the tender things I swear,
Whilst all the house my passion reads
In papers round her baby's hair,
She may receive and own my flame;
For though the strictest prudes should know it,
She'll pass for a most virtuous dame,
And I for an unhappy poet.
Then, too, alas! when she shall tear
The lines some younger rival sends,
She'll give me leave to write, I fear,
And we shall still continue friends.
For as our different ages move,
'Tis so ordained, (would Fate but mend it! )
That I shall be past making love
When she begins to comprehend it.
SONG
N VAIN you tell your parting lover,
You wish fair winds may waft him over; —
Alas! what winds can happy prove,
That bear me far from what I love?
Alas! what dangers on the main
Can equal those that I sustain
From slighted vows and cold disdain?
Be gentle, and in pity choose
To wish the wildest tempests loose;
That thrown again upon the coast,
Where first my shipwrecked heart was lost,
I may once more repeat my pain;
Once more in dying notes complain
Of slighted vows and cold disdain.
## p. 11841 (#471) ##########################################
MATTHEW PRIOR
11841
XX-741
TO A LADY
SHE REFUSING TO CONTINUE A DISPUTE WITH ME, AND LEAVING ME IN
THE ARGUMENT
SPAR
PARE, generous Victor, spare the slave,
Who did unequal war pursue;
That more than triumph he might have,
In being overcome by you.
In the dispute whate'er I said,
My heart was by my tongue belied;
And in my looks you might have read
How much I argued on your side.
You, far from danger as from fear,
Might have sustained an open fight:
For seldom your opinions err;
Your eyes are always in the right.
Why, fair one, would you not rely
On Reason's force with Beauty's joined?
Could I their prevalence deny,
I must at once be deaf and blind.
Alas! not hoping to subdue,
I only to the fight aspired;
To keep the beauteous foe in view
Was all the glory I desired.
But she, howe'er of victory sure,
Contemns the wreath too long delayed;
And armed with more immediate power,
Calls cruel silence to her aid.
Deeper to wound, she shuns the fight;
She drops her arms, to gain the field;
Secures her conquest by her flight,
And triumphs when she seems to yield.
So when the Parthian turned his steed,
And from the hostile camp withdrew,
With cruel skill the backward reed
He sent; and as he fled he slew.
## p. 11842 (#472) ##########################################
11842
MATTHEW PRIOR
AN ODE
THE
HE merchant, to secure his treasure,
Conveys it in a borrowed name:
Euphelia serves to grace my measure,
But Chloe is my real flame.
My softest verse, my darling lyre,
Upon Euphelia's toilet lay:
When Chloe noted her desire
That I should sing, that I should play,
My lyre I tune, my voice I raise;
But with my numbers mix my sighs:
And whilst I sing Euphelia's praise,
I fix my soul on Chloe's eyes.
Fair Chloe blushed; Euphelia frowned;
I sung and gazed; I played and trembled:
And Venus to the Loves around
Remarked, how ill we all dissembled.
CUPID MISTAKEN
S AFTER noon, one summer's day,
A Venus stood bathing in a river,
Cupid a-shooting went that way,
New strung his bow, new filled his quiver.
With skill he chose his sharpest dart,
With all his might his bow he drew;
Swift to his beauteous parent's heart
The too well guided arrow flew.
I faint! I die! the goddess cried;
O cruel, couldst thou find none other
To wreck thy spleen on? Parricide!
Like Nero, thou hast slain thy mother.
Poor Cupid, sobbing, scarce could speak:
Indeed, mamma, I did not know ye;
Alas! how easy my mistake,—
I took you for your likeness Chloe.
## p. 11843 (#473) ##########################################
MATTHEW PRIOR
11843
A BETTER ANSWER
D
EAR Chloe, how blubbered is that pretty face;
Thy cheek all on fire, and thy hair all uncurled:
Pr'ythee quit this caprice; and (as old Falstaff says)
Let us e'en talk a little like folks of this world.
How canst thou presume thou hast leave to destroy
The beauties which Venus but lent to thy keeping?
Those looks were designed to inspire love and joy:
More ord'nary eyes may serve people for weeping.
To be vexed at a trifle or two that I writ:
Your judgment at once, and my passion you wrong;
You take that for fact, which will scarce be found wit:
'Ods life! must one swear to the truth of a song?
What I speak, my fair Chloe, and what I write, shows
The difference there is betwixt nature and art:
I court others in verse, but I love thee in prose;
And they have my whimsies, but thou hast my heart.
The god of us verse-men,- you know, child, the sun,
How after his journeys he sets up his rest;
If at morning o'er earth 'tis his fancy to run,
At night he declines on his Thetis's breast.
So when I am wearied with wandering all day,
To thee, my delight, in the evening I come;
No matter what beauties I saw in my way,
They were but my visits, but thou art my home.
Then finish, dear Chloe, this pastoral war;
And let us, like Horace and Lydia, agree:
For thou art a girl as much brighter than her,
As he was a poet sublimer than me.
D
A SIMILE
EAR Thomas, didst thou never pop
Thy head into a tinman's shop?
