McGuffey's Fifth Eclectic Reader by William Holmes McGuffey

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3. And, let men thoroughly believe that they are the work and sport of
chance; that no superior intelligence concerns itself with human affairs;
that all their improvements perish forever at death; that the weak have no
guardian, and the injured no avenger; that there is no recompense for
sacrifices to uprightness and the public good; that an oath is unheard in
heaven; that secret crimes have no witness but the perpetrator; that human
existence has no purpose, and human virtue no unfailing friend; that this
brief life is everything to us, and death is total, everlasting
extinction; once let them thoroughly abandon religion, and who can
conceive or describe the extent of the desolation which would follow?

4. We hope, perhaps, that human laws and natural sympathy would hold
society together. As reasonably might we believe that were the sun
quenched in the heavens, our torches would illuminate, and our fires
quicken and fertilize the creation. What is there in human nature to
awaken respect and tenderness, if man is the unprotected insect of a day?
And what is he more, if atheism be true?

5. Erase all thought and fear of God from a community, and selfishness and
sensuality would absorb the whole man. Appetite, knowing no restraint, and
suffering, having no solace or hope, would trample in scorn on the
restraints of human laws. Virtue, duty, principle, would be mocked and
spurned as unmeaning sounds. A sordid self-interest would supplant every
feeling; and man would become, in fact, what the theory in atheism
declares him to be,--a companion for brutes.

DEFINITIONS.--1. Com-mu'ni-ty, society at large, the public. Dif-fu'sion,
extension, spread. En-light'ened, elevated by knowledge and religion. 2.
Fab'ric, any system composed of connected parts. Erased', blotted out. 3.
Per'pe-tra-tor, one who commits a crime. Ex-tinc'tion, a putting an end
to. 4. Fer'ti-lize, to make fruitful. A'the-ism, disbelief in God.
Sen-su-al'i-ty, indulgence in animal pleasure.

XCIV. ROCK ME TO SLEEP.

Elizabeth Akers Allen (b. 1832,--) was born at Strong, Maine, and passed
her childhood amidst the picturesque scenery of that neighborhood. She
lost her mother when very young, but inherited her grace and delicacy of
thought. Shortly after her mother's death, her father removed to
Farmington, Maine, a town noted for its literary people. Mrs. Allen's
early pieces appeared over the pseudonym of "Florence Percy." Her first
verses appeared when she was twelve years old; and her first volume,
entitled "Forest Buds from the Woods of Maine," was Published in 1856. For
some years she was assistant editor of the "Portland Transcript." The
following selection was claimed by five different persons, who attempted
to steal the honor of its composition.

1. Backward, turn backward, O Time, in your flight,
Make me a child again, just for to-night!
Mother, come back from the echoless shore,
Take me again to your heart as of yore;
Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care,
Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair;
Over my slumbers your loving watch keep;--
Rock me to sleep, mother,--rock me to sleep!

2. Backward, flow backward, O tide of the years!
I am so weary of toil and of tears;
Toil without recompense, tears all in vain;
Take them, and give me my childhood again!
I have grown weary of dust and decay,--
Weary of flinging my soul wealth away;
Weary of sowing for others to reap;--
Rock me to sleep, mother,--rock me to sleep!

3. Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue,
Mother, O mother, my heart calls for you!
Many a summer the grass has grown green,
Blossomed and faded, our faces between:
Yet with strong yearning and passionate pain,
Long I to-night for your presence again.
Come from the silence so long and so deep;--
Rock me to sleep, mother,--rock me to sleep!

4. Over my heart in the days that are flown,
No love like mother love ever has shone;
No other worship abides and endures,
Faithful, unselfish, and patient like yours:
None like a mother can charm away pain
From the sick soul, and the world-weary brain.
Slumber's soft calms o'er my heavy lids creep;--
Rock me to sleep, mother,--rock me to sleep!

5. Come, let your brown hair, just lighted with gold,
Fall on your shoulders again, as of old;
Let it drop over my forehead to-night,
Shading my faint eyes away from the light;
For with its sunny-edged shadows once more,
Haply will throng the sweet visions of yore;
Lovingly, softly, its bright billows sweep;--
Rock me to sleep, mother,--rock me to sleep!

6. Mother, dear mother, the years have been long
Since I last listened your lullaby song;
Sing, then, and unto my soul it shall seem
Womanhood's years have been only a dream!
Clasped to your heart in a loving embrace,
With your light lashes just sweeping my face,
Never hereafter to wake or to weep:--
Rock me to sleep, mother,--rock me to sleep!

XCV. MAN AND THE INFERIOR ANIMALS.

1. The chief difference between man and the other animals consists in
this, that the former has reason, whereas the latter have only instinct;
but, in order to understand what we mean by the terms reason and instinct,
it will be necessary to mention three things in which the difference very
distinctly appears.

2. Let us first, to bring the parties as nearly on a level as possible,
consider man in a savage state, wholly occupied, like the beasts of the
field, in providing for the wants of his animal nature; and here the first
distinction that appears between them is the use of implements. When the
savage provides himself with a hut or a wigwam for shelter, or that he may
store up his provisions, he does no more than is done by the rabbit, the
beaver, the bee, and birds of every species.

3. But the man can not make any progress in this work without tools; he
must provide himself with an ax even before he can cut down a tree for its
timber; whereas these animals form their burrows, their cells, or their
nests, with no other tools than those with which nature has provided them.
In cultivating the ground, also, man can do nothing without a spade or a
plow; nor can he reap what he has sown till he has shaped an implement
with which to cut clown his harvest. But the inferior animals provide for
themselves and their young without any of these things.

4. Now for the second distinction. Man, in all his operations, makes
mistakes; animals make none. Did you ever hear of such a thing as a bird
sitting on a twig lamenting over her half-finished nest and puzzling her
little head to know how to complete it? Or did you ever see the cells of a
beehive in clumsy, irregular shapes, or observe anything like a discussion
in the little community, as if there were a difference of opinion among
the architects?

5. The lower animals are even better physicians than we are; for when they
are ill, they will, many of them, seek out some particular herb, which
they do not, use as food, and which possesses a medicinal quality exactly
suited to the complaint; whereas, the whole college of physicians will
dispute for a century about the virtues of a single drug.

6. Man undertakes nothing in which he is not more or less puzzled; and
must try numberless experiments before he can bring his undertakings to
anything like perfection; even the simplest operations of domestic life
are not well performed without some experience; and the term of man's life
is half wasted before he has done with his mistakes and begins to profit
by his lessons.

7. The third distinction is that animals make no improvements; while the
knowledge, and skill, and the success of man are perpetually on the
increase. Animals, in all their operations, follow the first impulse of
nature or that instinct which God has implanted in them. In all they do
undertake, therefore, their works are more perfect and regular than those
of man.

8. But man, having been endowed with the faculty of thinking or reasoning
about what he does, is enabled by patience and industry to correct the
mistakes into which he at first falls, and to go on constantly improving.
A bird's nest is, indeed, a perfect structure; yet the nest of a swallow
of the nineteenth century is not at all more commodious or elegant than
those that were built amid the rafters of Noah's ark. But if we compare
the wigwam of the savage with the temples and palaces of ancient Greece
and Rome, we then shall see to what man's mistakes, rectified and improved
upon, conduct him.

9. "When the vast sun shall veil his golden light
Deep in the gloom of everlasting night;
When wild, destructive flames shall wrap the skies,
When ruin triumphs, and when nature dies;
Man shall alone the wreck of worlds survive;
'Mid falling spheres, immortal man shall live."
--Jane Taylor.

DEFINITIONS.--2. Dis-tinc'tion, a point of difference. Im'ple-ments,
utensils, tools. Wigwam, an Indian hut. 3. Bur'rows, holes in the earth
where animals lodge. 4. Dis-cus'sion, the act of arguing a point, debate.
5. Me-dic'i-nal, healing. 8. En-dowed', furnished with any gift, quality,
etc. Fac'ul-ty, ability to act or perform. Rec'ti-fied, corrected.

XCVI. THE BLIND MEN AND THE ELEPHANT.

John Godfrey Saxe (b. 1816, d.1887), an American humorist, lawyer, and
journalist, was born at Highgate, Vt. He graduated at Middlebury College
in 1839; was admitted to the bar in 1843; and practiced law until 1850,
when he became editor of the "Burlington Sentinel." In 1851, he was
elected State's attorney. "Progress, a Satire, and Other Poems," his first
volume, was published in 1849, and several other volumes of great merit
attest his originality. For genial humor and good-natured satire, Saxe's
writings rank among the best of their kind, and are very popular.

1. It was six men of Indostan,
To learning much inclined,
Who went to see the elephant,
(Though all of them were blind,)
That each by observation
Might satisfy his mind.

2. The first approached the elephant,
And, happening to fall
Against his broad and sturdy side,
At once began to bawl:
"God bless me! but the elephant
Is very like a wall!"

3. The second, feeling of the tusk,
Cried: "Ha! what have we here,
So very round, and smooth, and sharp?
To me 't is very clear,
This wonder of an elephant
Is very like a spear!"

4. The third approached the animal,
And, happening to take
The squirming trunk within his hands,
Thus boldly up he spake:
"I see," quoth he, "the elephant
Is very like a snake!"

5. The fourth reached out his eager hand,
And fell about the knee:
"What most this wondrous beast is like,
Is very plain," quoth he;
" 'T is clear enough the elephant
Is very like a tree!"

6. The fifth, who chanced to touch the ear,
Said: "E'en the blindest man
Can tell what this resembles most:
Deny the fact who can,
This marvel of an elephant
Is very like a fan!"

7. The sixth no sooner had begun
About the beast to grope,
Than, seizing on the swinging tail
That fell within his scope,
"I see," quoth he, "the elephant
Is very like a rope!"

8. And so these men of Indostan
Disputed loud and long,
Each in his own opinion
Exceeding stiff and strong,
Though each was partly in the right,
And all were in the wrong!

XCVII. A HOME SCENE.

Donald Grant Mitchell (b. 1822,--). This popular American writer was born
in Norwich, Conn. He graduated at Yale in 1841. In 1844 he went to
England, and, after traveling through that country on foot, spent some
time on the continent. His first volume, "Fresh Gleanings, or a New Sheaf
from the Old Fields of Continental Europe, by Ik Marvel," was published in
1847, soon after his return home. He revisited Europe in 1848. On his
return, he published "The Battle Summer." Mr. Mitchell has contributed to
the "Knickerbocker Magazine," the "Atlantic Monthly," and several
agricultural journals. His most popular works are "The Reveries of a
Bachelor," 1850, and "Dream Life," 1851. Besides these, he has written "My
Farm of Edgewood," "Wet Days at Edgewood," "Doctor Johns," a novel "Rural
Studies," and other works. He is a charming writer. In 1853 he was
appointed United States consul at Venice. In 1855 he settled on a farm
near New Haven, Conn., where he now resides. The following selection is
from "Dream Life."

1. Little does the boy know, as the tide of years drifts by, floating him
out insensibly from the harbor of his home, upon the great sea of
life,--what joys, what opportunities, what affections, are slipping from
him into the shades of that inexorable Past, where no man can go, save on
the wings of his dreams.

2. Little does he think, as he leans upon the lap of his mother, with his
eye turned to her, in some earnest pleading for a fancied pleasure of the
hour, or in some important story of his griefs, that such sharing of his
sorrows, and such sympathy with his wishes, he will find nowhere again.

3. Little does he imagine that the fond sister Nelly, ever thoughtful of
his pleasures, ever smiling away his griefs, will soon be beyond the reach
of either; and that the waves of the years which come rocking so gently
under him will soon toss her far away, upon the great swell of life.

4. But now, you are there. The fire light glimmers upon the walls of your
cherished home. The big chair of your father is drawn to its wonted corner
by the chimney side; his head, just touched with gray, lies back upon its
oaken top. Opposite sits your mother: her figure is thin, her look
cheerful, yet subdued;--her arm perhaps resting on your shoulder, as she
talks to you in tones of tender admonition, of the days that are to come.

5. The cat is purring on the hearth; the clock that ticked so plainly when
Charlie died is ticking on the mantel still. The great table in the middle
of the room, with its books and work, waits only for the lighting of the
evening lamp, to see a return to its stores of embroidery and of story.

6. Upon a little stand under the mirror, which catches now and then a
flicker of the fire light, and makes it play, as if in wanton, upon the
ceiling, lies that big book, reverenced of your New England parents--the
Family Bible. It is a ponderous, square volume, with heavy silver clasps,
that you have often pressed open for a look at its quaint, old pictures,
for a study of those prettily bordered pages, which lie between the
Testaments, and which hold the Family Record.

7. There are the Births;--your father's and your mother's; it seems as if
they were born a long time ago; and even your own date of birth appears an
almost incredible distance back. Then there are the Marriages;--only one
as yet; and your mother's name looks oddly to you: it is hard to think of
her as anyone else than your doting parent.

8. Last of all come the Deaths;--only one. Poor Charlie! How it looks!--"
Died, 12 September, 18--, Charles Henry, aged four years." You know just
how it looks. You have turned to it often; there you seem to be joined to
him, though only by the turning of a leaf.

9. And over your thoughts, as you look at that page of the Record, there
sometimes wanders a vague, shadowy fear, which will come,--that your own
name may soon be there. You try to drop the notion, as if it were not
fairly your own; you affect to slight it, as you would slight a boy who
presumed on your acquaintance, but whom you have no desire to know.

10. Yet your mother--how strange it is!--has no fears of such dark
fancies. Even now, as you stand beside her, and as the twilight deepens in
the room, her low, silvery voice is stealing upon your ear, telling you
that she can not be long with you;--that the time is coming, when you must
be guided by your own judgment, and struggle with the world unaided by the
friends of your boyhood.

11. There is a little pride, and a great deal more of anxiety, in your
thoughts now, as you look steadfastly into the home blaze, while those
delicate fingers, so tender of your happiness, play with the locks upon
your brow. To struggle with the world,--that is a proud thing; to struggle
alone,--there lies the doubt! Then crowds in swift upon the calm of
boyhood the first anxious thought of youth.

12. The hands of the old clock upon the mantel that ticked off the hours
when Charlie sighed and when Charlie died, draw on toward midnight. The
shadows that the fireflame makes grow dimmer and dimmer. And thus it is,
that Home,--boy home, passes away forever,--like the swaying of a
pendulum,--like the fading of a shadow on the floor.

DEFINITIONS.--l. In-ex'or-a-ble, not to be changed. 4. Wont'ed,
accustomed. Ad-mo-ni'tion (pro. ad-mo'nish'un), counseling against fault
or error. 13. Pon'der-ous, very heavy. Quaint (pro. kwant), odd and
antique. 7. In-cred'i-ble, impossible to be believed. Dot'-ing, loving to
excess. 9. Vague (pro. vag), indefinite. Pre-sumed', pushed upon or
intruded in an impudent manner.

XCVIII. THE LIGHT OF OTHER DAYS.

Thomas Moore (b. 1779. d. 1852) was born in Dublin, Ireland, and he was
educated at Trinity College in that city. In 1799, he entered the Middle
Temple, London, as a student of law. Soon after the publication of his
first poetical productions, he was sent to Bermuda in an official
capacity. He subsequently visited the United States. Moore's most famous
works are: "Lalla Rookh," an Oriental romance, 1817; "The Loves of the
Angels," 1823; and "Irish Melodies," 1834; a "Life of Lord Byron," and
"The Epicurean, an Eastern Tale." "Moore's excellencies," says Dr. Angus,
"consist in the gracefulness of his thoughts, the wit and fancy of his
allusions and imagery, and the music and refinement of his versification."

1. Oft in the stilly night
Ere slumber's chain has bound me,
Fond memory brings the light
Of other days around me:
The smiles, the tears
Of boyhood's years,
The words of love then spoken;
The eyes that shone,
Now dimmed and gone,
The cheerful hearts now broken!
Thus in the stilly night
Ere slumber's chain has bound me,
Sad memory brings the light
Of other days around me.

2. When I remember all
The friends so linked together
I've seen around me fall
Like leaves in wintry weather,
I feel like one
Who treads alone
Some banquet hall deserted,
Whose lights are fled
Whose garlands dead,
And all but he departed.
Thus in the stilly night
Ere slumber's chain has bound me,
Sad memory brings the light
Of other days around me.

XCIX. A CHASE IN THE ENGLISH CHANNEL.

James Fenimore Cooper (b. 1789, d. 1851). This celebrated American
novelist was born in Burlington, N.J. His father removed to the state of
New York about 1790, and founded Cooperstown, on Otsego Lake. He studied
three years at Yale, and then entered the navy as a common sailor. He
became a midshipman in 1806, and was afterwards promoted to the rank of
lieutenant; but he left the service in 1811. His first novel,
"Precaution," was published in 1819; his best work, "The Spy," a tale of
the Revolutionary War, in 1821. The success of "The Spy" was almost
unprecedented, and its author at once took rank among the most popular
writers of the day. "The Pilot" and "The Red Rover" are considered his
best sea novels. "The Pioneers," "The Last of the Mohicans," "The
Prairie," "The Pathfinder," and "The Deerslayer" are among the best of his
tales of frontier life. The best of his novels have been translated into
nearly all of the European languages, and into some of those of Asia. "The
creations of his genius," says Bryant, "shall survive through centuries to
come, and only perish with our language." The following selection is from
"The Pilot."

1. The ship which the American frigate had now to oppose, was a vessel of
near her own size and equipage; and when Griffith looked at her again, he
perceived that she had made her preparations to assert her equality in
manful fight.

2. Her sails had been gradually reduced to the usual quantity, and, by
certain movements on her decks, the lieutenant and his constant attendant,
the Pilot, well understood that she only wanted to lessen the distance a
few hundred yards to begin the action.

"Now spread everything," whispered the stranger.

3. Griffith applied the trumpet to his mouth, and shouted, in a voice that
was carried even to his enemy, "Let fall--out with your booms--sheet
home--hoist away of everything!"

4. The inspiring cry was answered by a universal bustle. Fifty men flew
out on the dizzy heights of the different spars, while broad sheets of
canvas rose as suddenly along the masts, as if some mighty bird were
spreading its wings. The Englishman instantly perceived his mistake, and
he answered the artifice by a roar of artillery. Griffith watched the
effects of the broadside with an absorbing interest as the shot whistled
above his head; but when he perceived his masts untouched, and the few
unimportant ropes, only, that were cut, he replied to the uproar with a
burst of pleasure.

5. A few men were, however, seen clinging with wild frenzy to the cordage,
dropping from rope to rope, like wounded birds fluttering through a tree,
until they fell heavily into the ocean, the sullen ship sweeping by them
in a cold indifference. At the next instant, the spars and masts of their
enemy exhibited a display of men similar to their own, when Griffith again
placed the trumpet to his mouth, and shouted aloud, "Give it to them;
drive them from their yards, boys; scatter them with your grape; unreeve
their rigging!"

6. The crew of the American wanted but little encouragement to enter on
this experiment with hearty good will, and the close of his cheering words
was uttered amid the deafening roar of his own cannon. The Pilot had,
however, mistaken the skill and readiness of their foe; for,
notwithstanding the disadvantageous circumstances under which the
Englishman increased his sail, the duty was steadily and dexterously
performed.

7. The two ships were now running rapidly on parallel lines, hurling at
each other their instruments of destruction with furious industry, and
with severe and certain loss to both, though with no manifest advantage in
favor of either. Both Griffith and the Pilot witnessed, with deep concern,
this unexpected defeat of their hopes; for they could not conceal from
themselves that each moment lessened their velocity through the water, as
the shot of the enemy stripped the canvas from the yards, or dashed aside
the lighter spars in their terrible progress.

8. "We find our equal here," said Griffith to the stranger. "The ninety is
heaving up again like a mountain; and if we continue to shorten sail at
this rate, she will soon be down upon us!"

"You say true, sir," returned the Pilot, musing, "the man shows judgment
as well as spirit; but--"

9. He was interrupted by Merry, who rushed from the forward part of the
vessel, his whole face betokening the eagerness of his spirit and the
importance of his intelligence.--

"The breakers!" he cried, when nigh enough to be heard amid the din; "we
are running dead on a ripple, and the sea is white not two hundred yards
ahead."

10. The Pilot jumped on a gun, and, bending to catch a glimpse through the
smoke, he shouted, in those clear, piercing tones, that could be even
heard among the roaring of the cannon,--

"Port, port your helm! we are on the Devil's Grip! Pass up the trumpet,
sir; port your helm, fellow; give it to them, boys--give it to the proud
English dogs!"

11. Griffith unhesitatingly relinquished the symbol of his rank, fastening
his own firm look on the calm but quick eye of the Pilot, and gathering
assurance from the high confidence he read in the countenance of the
stranger. The seamen were too busy with their cannon and the rigging to
regard the new danger; and the frigate entered one of the dangerous passes
of the shoals, in the heat of a severely contested battle.

12. The wondering looks of a few of the older sailors glanced at the
sheets of foam that flew by them, in doubt whether the wild gambols of the
waves were occasioned by the shot of the enemy, when suddenly the noise of
cannon was succeeded by the sullen wash of the disturbed element, and
presently the vessel glided out of her smoky shroud, and was boldly
steering in the center of the narrow passages.

13. For ten breathless minutes longer the Pilot continued to hold an
uninterrupted sway, during which the vessel ran swiftly by ripples and
breakers, by streaks of foam and darker passages of deep water, when he
threw down his trumpet and exclaimed--

"What threatened to be our destruction has proved our salvation.--Keep
yonder hill crowned with wood one point open from the church tower at its
base, and steer east and by north; you will run through these shoals on
that course in an hour, and by so doing you will gain five leagues of your
enemy, who will have to double their trail."

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