see; to know something of the earth on which we move, the air which we breathe, and the elements whereof we are made; to comprehend the motions of the Moon and stars, and measure the distances between them, and compute times and seasons; to observe the laws which sustain the Universe by keeping all things in their courses; to search into the mysteries of Nature, and discover the hidden virtue of plants and stones, and read the signs and tokens which are shown us, and make out the meaning of hidden things, and apply all this to the benefit of our fellow-creatures. "Wisdom and knowledge, Daniel, make the difference between man and man; and that between man and beast is hardly greater. "These things do not always go together. There may be wisdom without knowledge, and there may be knowledge without wisdom. A man without knowledge, if he walk humbly with his God, and live in charity with his neighbours, may be wise unto salvation. A man without wisdom may not find his knowledge avail him quite so well. But it is he who possesses both that is the true philosopher. The more he knows, the more he is desirous of knowing; and yet, the further he advances in knowledge, the better he understands how little he can attain; and the more deeply he feels that God alone can satisfy the infinite desires of the immortal soul. To understand this is the height and perfection of philosophy." Then, opening the Bible which lay before him, he read these verses from the Proverbs : 'My son, if thou wilt receive my words, so that thou incline thine ear unto wisdom, and apply thine heart to understanding; yea, if thou criest after knowledge, and liftest up thy voice for understanding; if thou seekest after her as silver, and searchest for her as for hid treasures; then shalt thou understand the fear of the Lord, and find the knowledge of God. For the Lord giveth wisdom; out of His mouth cometh knowledge and understanding. He layeth up sound wisdom for the righteous; He is a buckler to them that walk uprightly. He keepeth the paths of judgment, and preserveth the way of His Saints. Then shalt thou understand righteousness and judgment and equity; yea, every good path. When wisdom entereth into thine heart, and knowledge is pleasant unto thy soul; discretion shall preserve thee, understanding shall keep thee, to deliver thee from the way of the evil.” "Daniel, my son," after a pause he pursued, "thou art a diligent RECOLLECTIONS OF CHILDHOOD. 21 good lad. God hath given thee a tender and a dutiful heart; keep it so, and it will be a wise one, for thou hast the beginning of wisdom. I wish thee to pursue knowledge, because in pursuing it happiness will be found by the way. If I have said any thing now which is above thy years, it will come to mind in after-time, when I am gone perhaps, but when thou mayst profit by it. God bless thee, my child!" He stretched out his right hand at these words, and laid it gently upon the boy's head. What he said was not forgotten; and throughout life the son never thought of that blessing without feeling that it had taken effect. ROBERT SOUTHEY: 1774-1843 RECOLLECTIONS OF CHILDHOOD. SINCE my father's death our family have resided in London. I am in practice as a surgeon there. My mother died two years after we left Widford. I set out one morning to walk; I reached Widford about eleven in the forenoon; after a slight breakfast at my inn, where I was mortified to perceive the old landlord did not know me again, I rambled over all my accustomed haunts. Our old house was vacant, and to be sold. I entered, unmolested, into the room that had been my bedchamber. I kneeled down on the spot where my little bed had stood; I felt like a child, I prayed like one; it seemed as though old times were to return again I looked round involuntarily, expecting to see some face I knew; but all was naked and mute. The bed was gone. My little pane of painted window, through which I loved to look at the Sun when I awoke in a fine Summer's morning, was taken out, and had been replaced by one of common glass. I visited, by turns, every chamber; they were all desolate and unfurnished, one excepted, in which the owner had left a harpsichord, probably to be sold: I touched the keys, I played some old Scottish tunes which had delighted me when a child. Past associations revived with the music, blended with a sense of unreality, which at last became too powerful: I rushed out of the room to give vent to my feelings. - it I wandered, scarce knowing where, into an old wood that stands at the back of the house; we called it the Wilderness. A wellknown form was missing, that used to meet me in this place; was thine, Ben Moxam, the kindest, gentlest, politest of human beings, yet was he nothing higher than a gardener in the family. Honest creature! thou didst never pass me in my childish rambles, without a soft speech and a smile. I remember thy good-natured face. But there is one thing for which I can never forgive thee, Ben Moxam, that thou didst join with an old maiden aunt of mine in a cruel plot to lop away the hanging branches of the old fir-trees: I remember them sweeping the ground. In this Wilderness I found myself, after a ten years' absence. Its stately fir-trees were yet standing, with all their luxuriant company of underwood: the squirrel was there, and the melancholy cooings of the wood-pigeon; all was as I had left it. My heart softened at the sight; it seemed as though my character had been suffering a change since I forsook these shades. My parents were both dead; I had no counsellor left, no experience of age to direct me, no sweet voice of reproof. The Lord had taken away my friends, and I knew not where He had laid them. I paced round the Wilderness, seeking a comforter. I prayed that I might be restored to that state of innocence in which I had wandered in those shades. Methought my request was heard, for it seemed as though the stains of manhood were passing from me, and I were relapsing into the purity and simplicity of childhood. I was content to have been moulded into a perfect child. I stood still, as in a trance. I dreamed that I was enjoying a personal intercourse with my heavenly Father, and, extravagantly, put off the shoes from my feet, for the place where I stood, I thought, was holy ground. This state of mind could not last long, and I returned with languid feelings to my inn. I ordered my dinner, green peas and a sweetbread it had been a favourite dish with me in my childhood; I was allowed to have it on my birthdays. I was impatient to see it come upon the table; but, when it came, I could scarce eat a mouthful, my tears choked me. I called for wine, I drank a pint and a half of red wine; and not till then had I dared to visit the churchyard where my parents were interred. I had been present at my father's burial, and knew the spot RECOLLECTIONS OF CHILDHOOD. 23 again; my mother's funeral I was prevented by illness from attending a plain stone was placed over the grave, with their initials carved upon it; for they both occupied one grave. I prostrated myself before the spot; I kissed the earth that covered them; I contemplated with gloomy delight the time when I should mingle my dust with theirs; and kneeled, with my arms incumbent on the grave-stone, in a kind of mental prayer, for I could not speak. Having performed these duties, I arose with quieter feelings, and felt leisure to attend to indifferent objects. Still I continued in the churchyard, reading the various inscriptions, and moralizing on them with that kind of levity which will not unfrequently spring up in the mind, in the midst of deep melancholy. I read of nothing but careful parents, loving husbands, and dutiful children. I said jestingly, where be all the bad people buried? Bad parents, bad husbands, bad children, what cemeteries are appointed for these? do they not sleep in consecrated ground? or is it but a pious fiction, a generous oversight, in the survivors, which thus tricks out men's epitaphs when dead, who, in their lifetime, discharged the offices of life, perhaps, but lamely? Their failings, with their reproaches, now sleep with them in the grave. Man wars not with the dead. It is a trait of human nature, for which I love it. I had not observed, till now, a little group assembled at the other end of the churchyard: it was a company of children, who were gathered round a young man, dressed in black, sitting on a grave-stone. He seemed to be asking them questions, probably about their learning; and one little dirty ragged-headed fellow was clambering up his knees to kiss him. As I drew near them, I thought I discerned in the stranger a mild benignity of countenance which I had somewhere seen before: I gazed at him more attentively. It was Allan Clare! sitting on the grave of his sister. I threw my arms about his neck. I exclaimed, "Allan!" He turned his eyes upon me; he knew me: we both wept aloud. It seemed as though the interval since we parted had been as nothing; I cried out, "Come, and tell me all about these things." I drew him away from his little friends, took him to my inn, secured a room where we might be private, ordered some fresh wine; scarce knowing what I did, I danced for joy. Allan was quite overcome, and, taking me by the hand, he said, "This repays me for all." It was a proud day for me: I had found the friend I thought dead: Earth seemed to me no longer valuable than as it contained him; and existence a blessing no longer than while I should live to be his comforter. I began, at leisure, to survey him with more attention. Time and grief had left few traces of that fine enthusiasm which once burned in his countenance: his eyes had lost their original fire; but they retained an uncommon sweetness, and, whenever they were turned upon me, their smile pierced to my heart. "Allan, I fear you have been a sufferer?" He replied pot, and I could not press him further. I could not call the dead to life again. So we drank, and told old stories, and repeated old poetry, and sang old songs, as if nothing had happened. We sat till very late. I forgot that I had purposed returning to town that evening: to Allan all places were alike: I grew noisy, he grew cheerful: Allan's old manners, old enthusiasm, were returning upon him: we laughed, we wept, we mingled our tears, and talked extravagantly. Allan was my chamber-fellow that night; and we lay awake planning schemes of living together under the same roof, entering upon similar pursuits; and praising GOD that we had met. CHARLES LAMB: 1775-1834 THE POET AND HIS BOAT. 1 THERE's something in a flying horse, For shape just like the crescent Moon. 2 And now I have a little Boat, Fast through the clouds my boat can sail; Look up, and you shall see me soon! |