Caxton's Book: A Collection of Essays, Poems, Tales, and Sketches Part 25

It is unnecessary to review in detail the old Revolution. Let us pa.s.s to the social position of the two Georges in after-life.

On the 2d August, 1786, as the King was alighting from his carriage at the gate of St. James, an attempt was made on his life by a woman named Margaret Nicholson, who, under pretense of presenting a pet.i.tion, endeavored to stab him with a knife which was concealed in the paper.

The weapon was an old one, and so rusty that, on striking the vest of the King, it bent double, and thus preserved his life. On the 29th October, 1795, whilst his majesty was proceeding to the House of Lords, a ball pa.s.sed through both windows of the carriage. On his return to St.

James the mob threw stones into the carriage, several of which struck the King, and one lodged in the cuff of his coat. The state carriage was completely demolished by the mob. But it was on the 15th May, 1800, that George the Third made his narrowest escapes. In the morning of that day, whilst attending the field exercise of a battalion of guards, one of the soldiers loaded his piece with a bullet and discharged it at the King. The ball fortunately missed its aim, and lodged in the thigh of a gentleman who was standing in the rear. In the evening of the same day a more alarming circ.u.mstance occurred at the Drury Lane Theatre. At the moment when the King entered the royal box, a man in the pit, on the right-hand side of the orchestra, suddenly stood up and discharged a large horse-pistol at him. The hand of the would-be a.s.sa.s.sin was thrown up by a bystander, and the ball entered the box just above the head of the King.

Such were the public manifestations of affection for this royal tyrant.

He was finally attacked by an enemy that could not be thwarted, and on the 20th December, 1810, he became a confirmed lunatic. In this dreadful condition he lingered until January, 1820, when he died, having been the most unpopular, unwise and obstinate sovereign that ever disgraced the English throne. He was forgotten as soon as life left his body, and was hurriedly buried with that empty pomp which but too often attends a despot to the grave.

His whole career is well summed up by Allan Cunningham, his biographer, in few words: "Throughout his life he manifested a strong disposition to be his own minister, and occasionally placed the kingly prerogatives in perilous opposition to the resolutions of the nation's representatives.

His interference with the deliberations of the upper house, as in the case of Fox's Indian bill, was equally ill-judged and dangerous. _The separation of America from the mother country, at the time it took place, was the result of the King's personal feelings and interference with the ministry._ The war with France was, in part at least, attributable to the views and wishes of the sovereign of England. His obstinate refusal to grant any concessions to his Catholic subjects, kept his cabinet perpetually hanging on the brink of dissolution, and threatened the dismemberment of the kingdom. He has been often praised for firmness, but it was in too many instances the firmness of obstinacy; a dogged adherence to an opinion once p.r.o.nounced, or a resolution once formed."

The mind, in pa.s.sing from the unhonored grave of the prince to the last resting-place of the peasant boy, leaps from a kingdom of darkness to one of light.

Let us now return to the career of Was.h.i.+ngton. Throughout the Revolutionary War he carried, like Atropos, in his hand the destinies of millions; he bore, like Atlas, on his shoulders the weight of a world.

It is unnecessary to follow him throughout his subsequent career.

Honored again and again by the people of the land he had redeemed from thraldom, he has taken his place in death by the side of the wisest and best of the world's benefactors. a.s.sa.s.sins did not unglory him in life, nor has oblivion drawn her mantle over him in death. The names of his great battle-fields have become nursery words, and his principles have imbedded themselves forever in the national character. Every pulsation of our hearts beats true to his memory. His mementoes are everywhere around and about us. Distant as we are from the green fields of his native Westmoreland, the circle of his renown has spread far beyond our borders. In climes where the torch of science was never kindled; on sh.o.r.es still buried in primeval bloom; amongst barbarians where the face of liberty was never seen, the Christian missionary of America, roused perhaps from his holy duties by the distant echo of the national salute, this day thundering amidst the billows of every sea, or dazzled by the gleam of his country's banner, this day floating in every wind of heaven, pauses over his task as a Christian, and whilst memory kindles in his bosom the fires of patriotism, p.r.o.nounced in the ear of the enslaved pagan the venerated name of WAs.h.i.+NGTON!

Nor are the sons of the companions of Was.h.i.+ngton alone in doing justice to his memory. Our sisters, wives and mothers compete with us in discharging this debt of national grat.i.tude. With a delicacy that none but woman could exhibit, and with a devotion that none but a daughter could feel, they are now busy in executing the n.o.ble scheme of purchasing his tomb, in order for endless generations to stand sentinel over his remains. Take them! take them to your hearts, oh! ye daughters of America; enfold them closer to your bosom than your first-born offspring; build around them a mausoleum that neither time nor change can overthrow; for within them germinates the seeds of liberty for the benefit of millions yet unborn. Wherever tyranny shall lift its Medusan head, wherever treason shall plot its h.e.l.lish schemes, wherever disunion shall unfurl its tattered ensign, there, oh there, sow them in the hearts of patriots and republicans! For from these pale ashes there shall spring, as from the dragon's teeth sown by Cadmus of old on the plains of Heber, vast armies of invincible heroes, sworn upon the altar and tomb at Mount Vernon, to live as freemen, or as such to die!

[Decoration]

XXI.

_MASONRY._

Oh, sacred spirit of Masonic love, Offspring of Heaven, the angels' bond above, Guardian of peace and every social tie, How deep the sources of thy fountains lie!

How wide the realms that 'neath thy wings expand, Embracing every clime, encircling every land!

Beneath the aurora of the Polar skies, Where Greenland's everlasting glaciers rise, The Lodge mysterious lifts its snow-built dome, And points the brother to a sunnier home; Where Nilus slays the sacrificial kid, Beneath the shadow of her pyramid, Where magian suns unclasp the gaping ground, And far Australia's golden sands abound; Where breakers thunder on the coral strand, To guard the gates of Kamehameha's land; Wherever man, in lambskin garb arrayed, Strikes in defense of innocence betrayed; Lifts the broad s.h.i.+eld of charity to all, And bends in anguish o'er a brother's fall; Where the bright symbol of Masonic truth, Alike for high and low, for age or youth, Flames like yon sun at tropic midday's call, And opes the universal eye on all!

What though in secret all your alms be done, Your foes all vanquished and your trophies won?

What though a veil be o'er your Lodges thrown, And brother only be to brother known?

In secret, G.o.d built up the rolling world; In secret, morning's banners are unfurled; In secret, spreads the leaf, unfolds the flower, Revolve the spheres, and speeds the pa.s.sing hour.

The day is noise, confusion, strife, turmoil, Struggles for bread, and sweat beneath the toil.

The night is silence--progress without jars, The rest of mortals and the march of stars!

The day for work to toiling man was given; But night, to lead his erring steps to Heaven.

All hail! ye brethren of the mystic tie!

Who feed the hungry, heed the orphan's cry; Who clothe the naked, dry the widow's tear, Befriend the exile, bear the stranger's bier; Stand round the bedside when the fluttering soul Bursts her clay bonds and parteth for her goal; G.o.d speed you in the n.o.ble path you tread, Friends of the living, mourners o'er the dead.

May all your actions, measured on the square, Be just and righteous, merciful and fair; Your thoughts flow pure, in modesty of mind, Along the equal level of mankind; Your words be troweled to truth's perfect tone, Your fame be chiseled in unblemished stone, Your hearts be modeled on the plummet's line, Your faith be guided by the Book divine; And when at last the gavel's beat above Calls you from labor to the feast of love, May mighty Boaz, pillar'd at that gate Which seraphs tyle and where archangels wait, Unloose the bandage from your dazzled eyes, Spell out the _Pa.s.sword_ to Arch-Royal skies; Upon your bosom set the signet steel, Help's sign disclose, and Friends.h.i.+p's grip reveal; Place in your grasp the soul's unerring rod, And light you to the Temple of your G.o.d!

[Decoration]

XXII.

_POLLOCK'S EUTHANASIA._

He is gone! the young, and gifted!

By his own strong pinions lifted To the stars;

Where he strikes, with minstrels olden, Choral harps, whose strings are golden, Deathless bars.

There, with Homer's ghost all h.o.a.ry, Not with years, but fadeless glory, Lo! he stands;

And through that open portal, We behold the bards immortal Clasping hands!

Hark! how Rome's great epic master Sings, that death is no disaster To the wise;

Fame on earth is but a menial, But it reigns a king perennial In the skies!

Albion's blind old bard heroic, Statesman, sage, and Christian stoic, Greets his son;

Whilst in paeans wild and glorious, Like his "Paradise victorious,"

Sings, Well done!

Lo! a bard with forehead pendent, But with glory's beams resplendent As a star;

Slow descends from regions higher, With a crown and golden lyre In his car.

All around him, crowd as minions, Thrones and sceptres, and dominions, Kings and Queens;

Ages past and ages present, Lord and dame, and prince and peasant, His demesnes!

Approach! young bard hesperian, Welcome to the heights empyrean, Thou did'st sing,

Ere yet thy trembling fingers Struck where fame immortal lingers, In the string.

Kneel! I am the bard of Avon, And the Realm of song in Heaven Is my own;

Long thy verse shall live in story, And thy Lyre I crown with glory, And a throne!

[Decoration]

XXIII.