No More Learning

Oh, for God's sake! O Jesus! Pan Michael is so honest, so
worthy! Oh, for God's sake! "
Pan Michael seized her hands and began kissing them from
gratitude. "God reward you! God reward you for your heart! "
said he. "Quiet; do not weep. "
But Basia sobbed the more, almost to choking. Every vein
in her was quivering from sorrow; she began to gulp for air
more and more quickly; at last, stamping from excitement, she
cried so loudly that it was heard through the whole corridor,
"Krysia is a fool! I would rather have one Pan Michael than
ten Ketlings! I love Pan Michael with all my strength — better
than auntie, better than uncle, better than Krysia! "
"For God's sake! Basia! " cried the knight. And wishing to
restrain her emotion, he seized her in his embrace, and she
nestled up to his breast with all her strength, so that he felt her
heart throbbing like a wearied bird; then he embraced her still
more firmly, and they remained so.
Silence followed.
"Basia, do you wish me? " asked the little knight.
"I do, I do, I do! " answered Basia.
At this answer transport seized him in turn; he pressed his
lips to her rosy lips, and again they remained so.
Meanwhile a carriage rattled up to the house; and Zagloba
rushed into the ante-room, then to the dining-room, in which


## p. 13430 (#244) ##########################################

13430
HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ
Pan Makovetski was sitting with his wife. "There is no sign of
Michael! " cried he, in one breath: "I looked everywhere. Pan
Krytski said that he saw him with Ketling. Surely they have
fought! "
"Michael is here," answered Pani Makovetski; "he brought
Ketling and gave him Krysia. "
The pillar of salt into which Lot's wife was turned had surely
a less astonished face than Zagloba at that moment. Silence
continued for a while; then the old noble rubbed his eyes and
asked, What? "
«<
"Krysia and Ketling are sitting in there together, and Michael
has gone to pray," said Makovetski.
Zagloba entered the next room without a moment's hesitation;
and though he knew of all, he was astonished a second time,
seeing Ketling and Krysia sitting forehead to forehead. They
sprang up, greatly confused, and had not a word to say, espe-
cially as the Makovetskis came in after Zagloba.
"A lifetime would not suffice to thank Michael," said Ketling
at last. "Our happiness is his work. "
"God give you happiness! " said Makovetski. "We will not
oppose Michael. "
Krysia dropped into the embraces of Pani Makovetski, and the
two began to cry. Zagloba was as if stunned. Ketling bowed
to Makovetski's knees as to those of a father; and either from
the onrush of thoughts, or from confusion, Makovetski said, "But
Pan Deyma killed Pan Ubysh. Thank Michael, not me! " After
a while he asked, "Wife, what was the name of that lady? ”
But she had no time for an answer, for at that moment Basia
rushed in, panting more than usual, more rosy than usual, with
her forelock falling down over her eyes more than usual; she
ran up to Ketling and Krysia, and thrusting her finger now into
the eye of one, and now into the eye of the other, said, "Oh,
sigh, love, marry! You think that Pan Michael will be alone
in the world? Not a bit of it: I shall be with him, for I love
him, and I have told him so. I was the first to tell him, and
he asked if I wanted him, and I told him that I would rather
have him than ten others; for I love him, and I'll be the best
wife, and I will never leave him! I'll go to the war with him!
I've loved him this long time, though I did not tell him; for he
is the best and the worthiest, the beloved- And now marry
――――


## p. 13431 (#245) ##########################################

HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ
13431
for yourselves, and I will take Pan Michael, to-morrow if need
be-for- »
Here breath failed Basia.
All looked at her, not understanding whether she had gone
mad or was telling the truth; then they looked at one another,
and with that Pan Michael appeared in the door behind Basia.
"Michael," asked Makovetski, when presence of mind had
restored his voice to him, "is what we hear true? "
"God has wrought a miracle," answered the little knight with
great seriousness, "and here is my comfort, my love, my great-
est treasure. "
After these words Basia sprang to him again like a deer.
Now the mask of astonishment fell from Zagloba's face, and
his white beard began to quiver; he opened his arms widely
and said, "God knows I shall sob! Haiduk and Michael, come
hither! "
BASIA AND MICHAEL PART
From Pan Michael. ' Copyright 1893, by Jeremiah Curtin. Reprinted by
permission of Little, Brown & Co. , publishers
[The siege of Kamenyets is in progress. The defenders have just repulsed
a fierce attack upon the castle, but they know their desperate plight, and fore-
see the tragic end. Basia is with the knights upon the ramparts. ]
"PRA
RAISE be to God," said the little knight, "there will be rest
till the morning kindya at least; and in justice it belongs
to us. "
But that was an apparent rest only; for when night was still
deeper, they heard in the silence the sound of hammers beating
the cliff.
"That is worse than artillery," said Ketling, listening.
"Now would be the time to make a sortie," said the little
knight; "but 'tis impossible, the men are too weary. They
have not slept; and they have not eaten, though they had food,
for there was no time to take it. Besides there are always some
thousands on guard with the miners, so that there may be no
opposition from our side. There is no help but to blow up the
new castle ourselves, and withdraw to the old one. "
-


## p. 13432 (#246) ##########################################

HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ
13432
"That is not for to-day," answered Ketling. "See, the men
have fallen like sheaves of grain, and are sleeping a stone sleep.
The dragoons have not even wiped their swords. "
"Basia, it is time to go home and sleep," said the little
knight.
"I will, Michael," answered Basia obediently; "I will go as
you command.
But the cloister is closed now: I should prefer to
remain, and watch over your sleep. "
"It is a wonder to me," said the little knight, "that after
such toil sleep has left me, and I have no wish whatever to rest
my head. "
"Because you have roused your blood among the janissaries,
said Zagloba. "It was always so with me: after a battle I could
never sleep in any way. But as to Basia, why should she drag
herself to a closed gate?
Let her remain here till morning. "
Basia pressed Zagloba with delight; and the little knight, see-
ing how much she wished to stay, said:
"Let us go to the chambers. "
They went in; but the place was full of lime dust, which the
cannon-balls had raised by shaking the walls. It was impossible
to stay there; so they went out again, and took their places in a
niche made when the old gate had been walled in. Pan Michael
sat there, leaning against the masonry. Basia nestled up to him,
like a child to its mother. The night was in August, warm and
fragrant. The moon illuminated the niche with a silver light;
the faces of the little knight and Basia were bathed in its rays.
Lower down, in the court of the castle, were groups of sleeping
soldiers and the bodies of those slain during the cannonade; for
there had been no time yet for their burial. The calm light of
the moon crept over those bodies, as if that hermit of the sky
wished to know who was sleeping from weariness merely, and
who had fallen into the eternal slumber. Farther on was out-
lined the wall of the main castle, from which fell a black shadow
on one half of the court-yard. Outside the walls, from between
the bulwarks, where the janissaries lay cut down with sabres,
came the voices of men. They were camp-followers and those
of the dragoons to whom booty was dearer than slumber; they
were stripping the bodies of the slain. Their lanterns were
gleaming on the place of combat like fireflies. Some of them
called to one another; and one was singing in an undertone a


## p. 13433 (#247) ##########################################

HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ
13433
sweet song not beseeming the work to which he was given at
the moment: -
――
"Nothing is silver, nothing is gold to me now,
Nothing is fortune.
Let me die at the fence, then, of hunger,
If only near thee. "
But after a certain time that movement began to decrease,
and at last stopped completely. A silence set in which was.
broken only by the distant sound of the hammers breaking the
cliffs, and the calls of the sentries on the walls. That silence,
the moonlight, and the night full of beauty, delighted Pan Michael
and Basia. A yearning came upon them, it is unknown why; and
a certain sadness, though pleasant. Basia raised her eyes to her
husband; and seeing that his eyes were open, she said: -
"Michael, you are not sleeping. "
"It is a wonder, but I cannot sleep. "
"It is pleasant for you here? "
"Pleasant. But for you? ”
-
Basia nodded her bright head. "O Michael, so pleasant! ai, ai!
Did you not hear what that man was singing? "
Here she repeated the last words of the little song,-
"Let me die at the fence, then, of hunger,
If only near thee. "
A moment of silence followed, which the little knight inter-
rupted:-
"But listen, Basia. "
"What, Michael? "
"To tell the truth, we are wonderfully happy with each other;
and I think if one of us were to fall, the other would grieve
beyond measure. "
Basia understood perfectly that when the little knight said
"if one of us were to fall," instead of die, he had himself only
in mind. It came to her head that maybe he did not expect to
come out of that siege alive,- that he wished to accustom her
to that termination; therefore a dreadful presentiment pressed
her heart, and clasping her hands, she said: -
(( Michael, have pity on yourself and on me! "
The voice of the little knight was moved somewhat, though
calm.


## p. 13434 (#248) ##########################################

HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ
13434
"But see, Basia, you are not right," said he; "for if you only
reason the matter out, what is this temporal existence? Why
break one's neck over it? Who would be satisfied with tasting
happiness and love here when all breaks like a dry twig,-
who? "
But Basia began to tremble from weeping, and to repeat :-
"I will not hear this! I will not! I will not! "
"As God is dear to me, you are not right," repeated the lit-
tle knight. "Look, think of it: there above, beyond that quiet
moon, is a country of bliss without end. Of such a one speak to
me. Whoever reaches that meadow will draw breath for the first
time, as if after a long journey, and will feed in peace. When
my time comes,—and that is a soldier's affair,-it is your sim-
ple duty to say to yourself, 'That is nothing! Michael is gone.
True, he is gone far, farther than from here to Lithuania; but
that is nothing, for I shall follow him. ' Basia, be quiet; do not
weep. The one who goes first will prepare quarters for the
other: that is the whole matter. "
Here there came on him, as it were, a vision of coming events;
for he raised his eyes to the moonlight, and continued:-
"What is this mortal life? Grant that I am there first, wait-
ing till some one knocks at the heavenly gate. Saint Peter opens
it. I look: who is that? My Basia! Save us! Oh, I shall
jump then! Oh, I shall cry then! Dear God, words fail me.
And there will be no tears, only endless rejoicing; and there will
be no pagans, nor cannon, nor mines under walls, only peace and
happiness. Ai, Basia, remember, this life is nothing! "
"Michael, Michael! " repeated Basia.
-
And again came silence, broken only by the distant, monoto-
nous sound of the hammers.
-:
"Basia, let us pray together," said Pan Michael at last.
And those two souls began to pray. As they prayed, peace
came on both; and then sleep overcame them, and they slum-
bered till the first dawn.
Pan Michael conducted Basia away before the morning kindya
to the bridge joining the old castle with the town. In parting,
he said:
"This life is nothing! remember that, Basia. "


## p. 13435 (#249) ##########################################

HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ
13435
THE FUNERAL OF PAN MICHAEL
From Pan Michael. ' Copyright 1893, by Jeremiah Curtin. Reprinted by
permission of Little, Brown & Co. , publishers
WHEN
[Kamenyets has been basely surrendered to the. Sultan. Pan Michael pre-
pares to send forth his troops, but between him and Ketling there is a secret
understanding: they have sworn to blow up the castle and meet death to-
gether, that the white flag may never be hoisted over the citadel of Kam-
enyets. ]
HEN Volodyovski had mustered the troops, he called Pan
Mushalski and said to him:-
-
―
"Old friend, do me one more service. Go this mo-
ment to my wife, and tell her from me Here the voice stuck
in the throat of the little knight for a while. "And say to her
from me" He halted again, and then added quickly, "This
life is nothing! "
The bowman departed. After him the troops went out grad-
ually. Pan Michael mounted his horse and watched over the
march. The castle was evacuated slowly, because of the rubbish
and fragments which blocked the way.
Ketling approached the little knight. "I will go down," said
he, fixing his teeth.
"Go! but delay till the troops have marched out.
Go! "
Here they seized each other in an embrace which lasted
some time. The eyes of both were gleaming with an uncommon
radiance. Ketling rushed away at last toward the vaults.
Pan Michael took the helmet from his head. He looked
awhile yet on the ruin, on that field of his glory, on the rubbish,
the corpses, the fragments of walls, on the breast work, on the
guns; then raising his eyes, he began to pray. His last words
were, "Grant her, O Lord, to endure this patiently; give her
peace! »
>>>>
Ah! Ketling hastened, not waiting even till the troops had
marched out: for at that moment the bastions quivered, an awful
roar rent the air; bastions, towers, walls, horses, guns, living
men, corpses, masses of earth, all torn upward with a flame, and
mixed,- pounded together, as it were, into one dreadful car-
tridge, flew toward the sky.
Thus died Volodyovski, the Hector of Kamenyets, the first
soldier of the Commonwealth.


## p. 13436 (#250) ##########################################

13436
HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ
In the monastery of St. Stanislav stood a lofty catafalque in
the centre of the church; it was surrounded with gleaming
tapers, and on it lay Pan Volodyovski in two coffins, one of lead
and one of wood. The lids had been fastened, and the funeral
service was just ending.
It was the heartfelt wish of the widow that the body should
rest in Hreptyoff: but since all Podolia was in the hands of the
enemy, it was decided to bury it temporarily in Stanislav; for
to that place the "exiles" of Kamenyets had been sent under a
Turkish convoy, and there delivered to the troops of the hetman.
All the bells in the monastery were ringing. The church was
filled with a throng of nobles and soldiers, who wished to look
for the last time at the coffin of the Hector of Kamenyets, and
the first cavalier of the Commonwealth. It was whispered that
the hetman himself was to come to the funeral; but as he had
not appeared so far, and as at any moment the Tartars might
come in a chambul, it was determined not to defer the ceremony.
Old soldiers, friends or subordinates of the deceased, stood in
a circle around the catafalque. Among others were present Pan
Mushalski, the bowman, Pan Motovidlo, Pan Snitko, Pan Hrom-
yka, Pan Nyenashinyets, Pan Novoveski, and many others, former
officers of the stanitsa. By a marvelous fortune, no man was
lacking of those who had sat on the evening benches around the
hearth at Hreptyoff; all had brought their heads safely out of
that war, except the man who was their leader and model. That
good and just knight, terrible to the enemy, loving to his own;
that swordsman above swordsmen, with the heart of a dove,-
lay there high among the tapers, in glory immeasurable, but in
the silence of death. Hearts hardened through war were crushed
with sorrow at that sight; yellow gleams from the tapers shone
on the stern, suffering faces of warriors, and were reflected in
glittering points in the tears dropping down from their eyelids.
Within the circle of soldiers lay Basia, in the form of a cross,
on the floor; and near her Zagloba, old, broken, decrepit, and
trembling. She had followed on foot from Kamenyets the
hearse bearing that most precious coffin, and now the moment
had come when it was necessary to give that coffin to the earth.
Walking the whole way, insensible, as if not belonging to this
world, and now at the catafalque, she repeated with unconscious
lips, "This life is nothing!
" She repeated it because that beloved
one had commanded her, for that was the last message which he


## p. 13437 (#251) ##########################################

HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ
13437
had sent her; but in that repetition and in those expressions
were mere sounds, without substance, without truth, without mean-
ing and solace. No: "This life is nothing" meant merely regret,
darkness, despair, torpor, merely misfortune incurable, life beaten
and broken,—an erroneous announcement that there was noth-
ing above her, neither mercy nor hope; that there was merely
a desert, and it will be a desert which God alone can fill when
he sends death.
They rang the bells; at the great altar, Mass was at its end.
At last thundered the deep voice of the priest, as if calling from
the abyss: "Requiescat in pace! " A feverish quiver shook Basia,
and in her unconscious head rose one thought alone: "Now, now,
they will take him from me! " But that was not yet the end of
the ceremony. The knights had prepared many speeches to be
spoken at the lowering of the coffin; meanwhile Father Kamin-
ski ascended the pulpit,- the same who had been in Hreptyoff
frequently, and who in the time of Basia's illness had prepared
her for death.
People in the church began to spit and cough, as is usual
before preaching; then they were quiet, and all eyes were turned
to the pulpit. The rattling of a drum was heard on the pulpit.
The hearers were astonished. Father Kaminski beat the drum
as if for alarm; he stopped suddenly, and a death-like silence fol-
lowed. Then a drum was heard a second and a third time;
suddenly the priest threw the drumsticks to the floor of the
church, and called:-
-
"Pan Colonel Volodyovski! "
A spasmodic scream from Basia answered him. It became
simply terrible in the church. Pan Zagloba rose, and aided by
Mushalski bore out the fainting woman.
Meanwhile the priest continued: "In God's name, Pan Volo-
dyovski, they are beating the alarm! there is war, the enemy
is in the land! - and do you not spring up, seize your sabre,
mount your horse? Have you forgotten your former virtue ?
Do you leave us alone with sorrow, with alarm? "
The breasts of the knights rose; and a universal weeping
broke out in the church, and broke out several times again, when
the priest lauded the virtue, the love of country, and the bravery
of the dead man. His own words carried the preacher away.
His face became pale; his forehead was covered with sweat; his
voice trembled. Sorrow for the little knight carried him away,


## p. 13438 (#252) ##########################################

13438
HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ
sorrow for Kamenyets, sorrow for the Commonwealth, ruined by
the hands of the followers of the Crescent; and finally he
finished his eulogy with this prayer:-
"O Lord, they will turn churches into mosques, and chant
the Koran in places where till this time the Gospel has been
chanted. Thou hast cast us down, O Lord; thou hast turned
thy face from us, and given us into the power of the foul Turk.
Inscrutable are thy decrees; but who, O Lord, will resist the
Turk now? What armies will war with him on the bounda-
ries? Thou, from whom nothing in the world is concealed,—
thou knowest best that there is nothing superior to our cavalry!
What cavalry can move for thee, O Lord, as ours can? Wilt
thou set aside defenders behind whose shoulders all Christendom
might glorify thy name? O kind Father, do not desert us! show
us thy mercy! Send us a defender! Send a crusher of the foul
Mohammedan! Let him come hither; let him stand among us;
let him raise our fallen hearts! Send him, O Lord! "
At that moment the people gave way at the door; and into
the church walked the hetman, Pan Sobieski. The eyes of all
were turned to him; a quiver shook the people; and he went
with clatter of spurs to the catafalque, lordly, mighty, with the
face of a Cæsar. An escort of iron cavalry followed him.
"Salvator! " cried the priest, in prophetic ecstasy.
Sobieski knelt at the catafalque, and prayed for the soul of
Volodyovski.


## p. 13439 (#253) ##########################################

13439
EDWARD ROWLAND SILL
(1841-1887)
HE strain sounded by Edward Rowland Sill has a quality of
distinction, and a haunting loveliness of aspiration, such as
to endear him to those who rejoice in art which is but the
handmaiden to dignity of thought and quiet beauty of form. Life
and song with Sill-as with Sidney Lanier, between whom and the
New-Englander there is spiritual fellowship-were in harmony; and
man and writer equally call forth admiration. Sill's life was studious,
shy, withdrawn; his work too made no noisy demand on the public.
It was not startling in manner. Its appeal
was to the inner experience, to the still
small voice, which is the soul's monitor.
His art showed that unobtrusive obedience
to the fundamental technique, which, from
the Greek days to our own, has acted as a
preservative of the written word.

Sill was born in Windsor, Connecticut,
on April 29th, 1841, and was graduated from
Yale College at the age of twenty. At first
he went to California with business plans
in mind; but came back to the East, intend-
ing to become a minister, and studied for a
short time at the Harvard Divinity School.
This idea was soon abandoned; and he
went to New York City and did editorial work on the New York
Evening Mail. Then he went to Ohio to do some teaching, and
thence was called to California again in 1871, as principal of the
High School at Oakland; and after three years' service there, went
to the University of California at Berkeley, to be the professor of
English literature,- a position he held until 1882, when he returned
to Ohio and devoted himself to literary work. He died at Cleveland,
in that State, February 27th, 1887.
EDWARD R. SILL
But it was the life internal, not that external, which was most
significant in the case of Sill. A scholar, an idealist, as a teacher
he was very unconventional but intensely inspiring. He fulfilled the
grand pedagogic conception that the most fruitful teaching means
not so much the imparting of knowledge as the stimulation of a
fine personality. In his latest years, when out of health and thrown


## p. 13440 (#254) ##########################################

13440
EDWARD ROWLAND SILL
much upon himself, his broodings were deep and wise, and his choicest
lyrics are the precious register of them; another such registration
being the remarkable letters he wrote to a few privileged friends.
He lived aside from the feverish centres of activity, but kept in the
stream of the nobler activities of the human mind and soul. As he
wrote in one of the finest of his poems, 'Field-Notes: —
"Life is a game the soul can play
With fewer pieces than men say. "
Again in Solitude' he expresses his feeling:
"All alone, alone,
Calm as on a kingly throne,
Take thy place in the crowded land
Self-centred in free self-command.
Far from the chattering tongues of men,
Sitting above their call or ken,
Free from links of manner and form,
Thou shalt learn of the wingèd storm,-
God shall speak to thee out of the sky. "
All that one knows of Sill's personal side is in consonance with the
aspiring note and the intellectual questing that mark his poetry.
Dying comparatively young, at forty-five, there is a sense of in-
completion about his literary output. He did not write facilely nor
polish much. A book of verse in young manhood, The Hermitage
and Other Poems' (1867); a mid-manhood volume privately printed,
The Venus of Milo and Other Poems' (1883); and a well-chosen
posthumous selection, Poems (1888), embracing the bulk of his
worthiest work,-make up the scant list. He produced slowly, and
was chary about collecting the pieces which appeared in the Atlantic
Monthly and elsewhere; only doing so, indeed, on the urgence of his
publishers. But it is quality, not quantity, which defines a writer's
place; and the charm, suggestion, and strength of Sill's verse cannot
be gainsaid. The dominant trait in him is spirituality, coming out
whether he is describing nature - few American poets have been
more happy in this- or dealing with the deep heart of man. It is
the soul's problem in relation to existence which awakens his warm
interest and solicitude. The jocund mood, the touch of humor, were
rare with him as a writer, but not entirely wanting, as the very
strong satiric piece of verse Five Lives' is enough to prove. The
playful side of his nature, too, is glimpsed in many of his private
letters. Intellectually, and in the matter of diction to a degree, there
is an Emersonian flavor to Sill. A lyric like 'Service,' for example,
certainly would not have shamed the Concord Sage. Sill's spiritual
faith had the same robust optimism as Emerson's, though there was


## p. 13441 (#255) ##########################################

EDWARD ROWLAND SILL
13441
more sensitiveness to the minor chords of life. This strong, affirming
belief in the triumph of spirit over flesh makes Sill's verse an ethical
tonic, as well as an æsthetic delight. 'Field-Notes' is his noblest
statement of this helpful philosophy, which however crops out con-
tinually in his work. This mood and attitude of mind, expressed with
sincerity and tenderness, with music and imagination, denote Sill as
one whose accomplishment, if slight in extent and unambitious in
aim, is of a very high order, and such as could emanate only from
a poet truly called to song.
[The following poems were copyrighted by Houghton, Mifflin & Co. in
1887, and are reprinted with their permission. ]
OPPORTUNITY
TH
HIS I beheld, or dreamed it in a dream:-
There spread a cloud of dust along a plain;
And underneath the cloud, or in it, raged
A furious battle, and men yelled, and swords
Shocked upon swords and shields. A prince's banner
Wavered, then staggered backward, hemmed by foes.
A craven hung along the battle's edge,
And thought, "Had I a sword of keener steel-
That blue blade that the King's son bears - but this
Blunt thing! " he snapt and flung it from his hand,
And lowering crept away and left the field.
Then came the King's son, wounded, sore bestead,
And weaponless, and saw the broken sword,
Hilt-buried in the dry and trodden sand,
And ran and snatched it; and with battle-shout
Lifted afresh he hewed his enemy down,
And saved a great cause that heroic day.
TH
HOME
HERE lies a little city in the hills;
White are its roofs, dim is each dwelling's door,
And peace with perfect rest its bosom fills.
There the pure mist, the pity of the sea,
Comes as a white, soft hand, and reaches o'er
And touches its still face most tenderly.
XXIII-841


## p. 13442 (#256) ##########################################

13442
EDWARD ROWLAND SILL
Unstirred and calm, amid our shifting years,
Lo! where it lies, far from the clash and roar,
With quiet distance blurred, as if through tears.
O heart, that prayest so for God to send
Some loving messenger to go before
And lead the way to where thy longings end,
Be sure, be very sure, that soon will come
His kindest angel, and through that still door
Into the Infinite love will lead thee home.
THE
THE FOOL'S PRAYER
HE royal feast was done; the King
Sought out some new sport to banish care,
And to his jester cried: "Sir Fool,
Kneel now, and make for us a prayer! "
The jester doffed his cap and bells,
And stood the mocking court before;
They could not see the bitter smile
Behind the painted grin he wore.
He bowed his head, and bent his knee
Upon the monarch's silken stool;
His pleading voice arose:- "O Lord,
Be merciful to me, a fool!
"No pity, Lord, could change the heart
From red with wrong to white as wool:
The rod must heal the sin: but Lord,
Be merciful to me, a fool!
'Tis not by guilt the onward sweep
Of truth and right, O Lord, we stay;
'Tis by our follies that so long
We hold the earth from heaven away.
"These clumsy feet, still in the mire,
Go crushing blossoms without end;
These hard, well-meaning hands we thrust
Among the heart-strings of a friend.


## p. 13443 (#257) ##########################################

EDWARD ROWLAND SILL
13443
"The ill-timed truth we might have kept,-
Who knows how sharp it pierced and stung?
The word we had not sense to say,-
Who knows how grandly it had rung?
"Our faults no tenderness should ask,—
The chastening stripes must cleanse them all;
But for our blunders,— oh, in shame
Before the eyes of heaven we fall.
-
"Earth bears no balsam for mistakes;
Men crown the knave, and scourge the tool
That did his will: but Thou, O Lord,
Be merciful to me, a fool! »
The room was hushed: in silence rose
The King, and sought his gardens cool;
And walked apart, and murmured low,
"Be merciful to me, a fool! "
WHAT
A MORNING THOUGHT
HAT if some morning, when the stars were paling,
And the dawn whitened, and the east was clear,
Strange peace and rest fell on me from the presence
Of a benignant spirit standing near:
And I should tell him, as he stood beside me:
"This is our earth-most friendly earth, and fair;
Daily its sea and shore through sun and shadow
Faithful it turns, robed in its azure air;
"There is blest living here, loving and serving,
And quest of truth, and serene friendships dear:
But stay not, Spirit! Earth has one destroyer —
His name is Death: flee, lest he find thee here! "
And what if then, while the still morning brightened,
And freshened in the elm the summer's breath,
Should gravely smile on me the gentle angel,
And take my hand and say, "My name is Death"?


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13444
EDWARD ROWLAND SILL
H
STRANGE
E DIED at night.
Next day they came
To weep and praise him; sudden fame
These suddenly warm comrades gave.
They called him pure, they called him brave;
One praised his heart, and one his brain;
All said, "You'd seek his like in vain,—
Gentle, and strong, and good:" none saw
In all his character a flaw.
At noon he wakened from his trance,
Mended, was well! They looked askance;
Took his hand coldly; loved him not,
Though they had wept him; quite forgot
His virtues; lent an easy ear
To slanderous tongues; professed a fear
He was not what he seemed to be;
Thanked God they were not such as he;
Gave to his hunger stones for bread:
And made him, living, wish him dead.
LIFE
F
ORENOON, and afternoon, and night,- Forenoon,
And afternoon, and night,- Forenoon, and - what!
The empty song repeats itself. No more?
Yea, that is Life: make this forenoon sublime,
This afternoon a psalm, this night a prayer,
And Time is conquered, and thy crown is won.


## p. 13445 (#259) ##########################################

13445
WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS
(1806-1870)
NE of the stalwart pioneers of American literature was the
South-Carolinian, William G. Simms. He cultivated letters
under comparatively adverse conditions. He produced, under
the whip of necessity and by force of a vigorous gift for literary com-
position, a remarkable number of books, many of them below his nor-
mal power.
Yet some of his Revolutionary and Colonial romances
have a merit likely to give them a lasting audience. Boys, who are
keen on the scent of a stirring plot and a well-told story, still read
Simms with gusto. Moreover, in making lit-
erary use of the early doings of his native
State and of other Southern and border
States, he did a real service in drawing at-
tention to and awakening interest in local
United States history. Simms had the wis-
dom, in a day when it was rarer than it is
now, to draw upon this rich native material
lying as virgin ore for the novelist. No
other man of his time made more success-
ful use of it.

William Gilmore Simms was born at
Charleston, South Carolina, April 17th, 1806.
His father was a self-made man of decided
force, though lacking education. William
had only a common-school training; and before studying law, was a
clerk in a chemical house. He was admitted to the bar when twenty-
one years of age; but cared little for the profession, indicating his
preference the same year by publishing two volumes of poems.
Throughout his career Simms courted the Muse; but his verse never
became an important part of his achievement. In 1828 he became
editor and part owner of the Charleston City Gazette, which took
the Union side during the Nullification excitement. He held the posi-
tion for four years, when the newspaper was discontinued because of
political dissensions, leaving the editor in financial straits. After a
year's residence in Hingham, Massachusetts, where his first novel,
'Martin Faber, the Story of a Criminal,' was written, -he returned to
South Carolina; settling finally on his plantation Woodlands, near Med-
way, in that State, where he lived for many years the life of a genial
W. G. SIMMS


## p. 13446 (#260) ##########################################

13446
WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS
country gentleman, a large slave-owner, his mansion the centre of an
open-handed hospitality. Simms was in these years the representa-
tive Southern author, visited as a matter of course by travelers from
the North. This life was varied also by political office: he was for
many years a member of the South Carolina Legislature, and was
once an unsuccessful candidate for lieutenant-governor.
Personally Simms was an impulsive, choleric, generous-hearted
man, full of pluck and energy, widely interested in the affairs of his
land, doing steadily what he conceived to be right. During his
meridian of strength he prospered, though driven to work hard to
keep up his style of living. But when the war came he suffered the
common lot of well-conditioned Southerners, and was almost ruined.
Thereafter, until his death, it was an up-hill struggle. Simms was
frankly, warmly sectional in his feelings, stoutly maintaining the
right of the South to secede. A sympathetic picture of the days of
his activity, in both sunshine and storm, is given in Professor Will-
iam P. Trent's biography of him prepared for the 'American Men of
Letters' series. Simms published more than thirty volumes of novels
and shorter tales: his verse alone counts up to nearly twenty books,
and in addition he wrote histories,-including several books of South
Carolina biographies,-edited various standard authors, and contrib-
uted almost countless articles to periodicals. The voluminous nature
of his writings explains the ephemerality of much of his work, and
suggests his faults,-carelessness of style and looseness of construc-
tion, and an inclination to the sensational. Simms's bloody scenes are
generally in full view of the audience: he did not see the value of
reserve. But his good qualities are positive: he has lively charac-
terization, brisk movement, a sense of the picturesque, and great
fertility of invention.
It is unnecessary, in the case of a writer so fecund, to catalogue
his works: the most powerful and artistic are those dealing with his
native State; and the chapter quoted from The Yemassee,' the most
popular and perhaps the best of all his fiction, a story describing
the uprising of the Indian tribe of that name, and the bravery of the
early Carolinians in repulsing them,- gives an admirable idea of his
gift for the graphic presentation of a dramatic scene. 'Guy Rivers,'
in 1834, was Simms's first decided success in native romance; and
crude as it is, has plenty of bustling action to hold the attention.
The Revolutionary quadrilogy beginning with The Partisan' (1835).
and ending with Katharine Walton' (1851), including also 'Melli-
champe' and 'The Kinsman,'—all tales of Marion and his troopers
and the British campaign in the Carolinas; the group of short stories
known as Wigwam and Cabin' (1845), dealing with frontier and
Indian life; and the much later The Cassique of Kiawah' (1860),


## p. 13447 (#261) ##########################################

WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS
13447
which depicts colonial days in Charleston,- are superior examples of
his scope and style. Both the American and English public of that
day took to his work: ten of his novels received German translation.
Simms was conscientious and indefatigable in getting the material
for his tales: reading the authorities in print and manuscript, travel-
ing in order to study the physical aspects of the country and gather
oral legends and scraps of local history. Thus he came to know
well, and to be able to reproduce with truth and spirit, the Indians
and white men who filled his mind's eye. The reader of to-day
is more likely to underestimate than to overestimate Simms in this
regard. He was a writer with a very conspicuous talent for char-
acter limning and narrative, which was aided by years of ceaseless
pen-work. Under less practical pressure, and with a keener sense
of the obligation of the artist to his art, he might have ranked with
Cooper. As it is, with all allowance for shortcomings, he is an agree-
able figure whether he be considered as author or man.
-
THE DOOM OF OCCONESTOGA
From The Yemassee'
IT
WAS a gloomy amphitheatre in the deep forests to which the
assembled multitude bore the unfortunate Occonestoga. The
whole scene was unique in that solemn grandeur, that sombre
hue, that deep spiritual repose, in which the human imagination
delights to invest the region which has been rendered remarkable
for the deed of punishment or crime. A small swamp or morass
hung upon one side of the wood; from the rank bosom of which,
in numberless millions, the flickering firefly perpetually darted
upwards, giving a brilliance and animation to the spot, which at
that moment no assemblage of light or life could possibly en-
liven. The ancient oak, a bearded Druid, was there to contribute
to the due solemnity of all associations; the green but gloomy
cedar, the ghostly cypress, and here and there the overgrown
pine, all rose up in their primitive strength, and with an under-
growth around them of shrub and flower that scarcely at any
time, in that sheltered and congenial habitation, had found it
necessary to shrink from winter. In the centre of the area thus
invested rose a high and venerable mound, the tumulus of many
preceding ages, from the washed sides of which might now and
then be seen protruding the bleached bones of some ancient war-
rior or sage.
A circle of trees at a little distance hedged it in,


## p. 13448 (#262) ##########################################

13448
WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS
made secure and sacred by the performance there of many of
their religious rites and offices,-themselves, as they bore the
broad arrow of the Yemassee, being free from all danger of over-
throw or desecration by Indian hands.
Amid the confused cries of the multitude, they bore the capt-
ive to the foot of the tumulus, and bound him backward, half
reclining upon a tree. A hundred warriors stood around, armed
according to the manner of the nation,- each with a tomahawk
and knife and bow. They stood up as for battle, but spectators
simply; and took no part in a proceeding which belonged en-
tirely to the priesthood. In a wider and denser circle gathered
hundreds more: not the warriors, but the people,- the old, the
young, the women and the children, all fiercely excited, and anx-
ious to see a ceremony so awfully exciting to an Indian imagina-
tion; involving as it did not only the perpetual loss of human
caste and national consideration, but the eternal doom, the degra-
dation, the denial of and the exile from their simple forest heaven.
Interspersed with this latter crowd, seemingly at regular intervals,
and with an allotted labor assigned them, came a number of old
women: not unmeet representatives, individually, for either of the
weird sisters of the Scottish thane,
"So withered and so wild in their attire;"
*
and regarding their cries and actions, of whom we may safely
affirm that they looked like anything but inhabitants of earth!
In their hands they bore, each of them, a flaming torch of the
rich and gummy pine; and these they waved over the heads of
the multitude in a thousand various evolutions, accompanying
each movement with a fearful cry, which at regular periods was
chorused by the assembled mass. A bugle-a native instrument
of sound, five feet or more in length; hollowed out from the
commonest timber, the cracks and breaks of which were care-
fully sealed up with the resinous gum oozing from their burning
torches; and which to this day, borrowed from the natives, our
negroes employ on the Southern waters with a peculiar compass
and variety of note- was carried by one of the party; and gave
forth at intervals, timed with much regularity, a long, protracted,
single blast, adding greatly to the wild and picturesque character
of the spectacle. At the articulation of these sounds, the circles
continue to contract, though slowly; until at length but a brief
――――


## p. 13449 (#263) ##########################################

WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS
13449
space lay between the armed warriors, the crowd, and the un-
happy victim.
The night grew dark of a sudden; and the sky was obscured
by one of the brief tempests that usually usher in the summer,
and mark the transition, in the South, of one season to another.
A wild gust rushed along the wood. The leaves were whirled
over the heads of the assemblage, and the trees bent downwards
until they cracked and groaned again beneath the wind. A feel-
ing of natural superstition crossed the minds of the multitude,
as the hurricane, though common enough in that region, passed
hurriedly along; and a spontaneous and universal voice of chanted
prayer rose from the multitude, in their own wild and emphatic
language, to the evil deity whose presence they beheld in its
progress:
―――――――――
"Thy wing, Opitchi-Manneyto,
It o'erthrows the tall trees-
Thy breath, Opitchi-Manneyto,
Makes the waters tremble-
Thou art in the hurricane,
When the wigwam tumbles -
Thou art in the arrow fire,
When the pine is shivered —
But upon the Yemassee
Be thy coming gentle-
Are they not thy well-beloved?
Bring they not a slave to thee?
Look! the slave is bound for thee,
'Tis the Yemassee that brings him.
Pass, Opitchi-Manneyto-
Pass, black spirit, pass from us—
Be thy passage gentle. "
And as the uncouth strain rose at the conclusion into a diapason
of unanimous and contending voices, of old and young, male and
female, the brief summer tempest had gone by. A shout of self-
gratulation, joined with warm acknowledgments, testified the popu-
lar sense and confidence in that especial Providence, which even
the most barbarous nations claim as forever working in their
behalf.
-
-
At this moment, surrounded by the chiefs, and preceded by
the great prophet or high-priest, Enorce-Mattee, came Sanutee,
the well-beloved of the Yemassee, to preside over the destinies of


## p. 13450 (#264) ##########################################

WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS
13450
his son.
There was a due and becoming solemnity, but nothing
of the peculiar feelings of the father, visible in his countenance.
Blocks of wood were placed around as seats for the chiefs; but
Sanutee and the prophet threw themselves, with more of impos-
ing veneration in the proceeding, upon the edge of the tumulus,
just where an overcharged spot, bulging out with the crowding
bones of its inmates, had formed an elevation answering the
purpose of couch or seat. They sat directly looking upon the
prisoner; who reclined, bound securely upon his back to a decapi-
tated tree, at a little distance before them. A signal having been
given, the women ceased their clamors; and approaching him,
they waved their torches so closely above his head as to make all
his features distinctly visible to the now watchful and silent mul-
titude. He bore the examination with stern, unmoved features,
which the sculptor in brass or marble might have been glad to
transfer to his statue in the block. While the torches waved,
one of the women now cried aloud, in a barbarous chant, above
him:
――
"Is not this a Yemassee?