Mayne Reid Part 16

"THE LAND OF INNISFAIL," BY MAYNE REID.

And I must leave thee, Erin! 'tis my fate-- And I must wander over many a land!

And other climes and other homes await The 'Scholar,' wasted--worn--but may this hand That writes thy praises now, cold on the sand Unburied lie for ever--may no hearth Shelter me, vagrant on a foreign strand The cursed and homeless outcast of the earth, When I forget thou art the country of my birth.

Erin, I love thee! though thy sunken cheek Is pale with weeping, and thy hollow eye, With many a stifled groan, and rending shriek, Reveals dark tales of bitter agony; That I have pitied thy sad misery I've proved through every change of land and sea; I've wafted o'er the ocean many a sigh, And many an earnest prayer that thou shouldst be, As are thy children's souls--unshackled, happy, free!

I love thee, though I could not live with thee!

The trampler of thy fields, red with thy gore, Had made my home a h.e.l.l--I would not be The fawning minion at a great man's door-- I would not beg upon thy wintry moor To starve neglected; and soon as I knew That there were other lands, the broad seas o'er, With hands to welcome, and with hearts as true-- I dropped one tear, and bid my native land adieu!

A SOUTHERN SUNSET, FROM "LA CUBANA," BY MAYNE REID.

How gorgeously the golden sun declining Gilds the soft sea whose tranquil waters span Fair Cuba's Isle, the broad blue billow lining With such bright tints as painter's pencil can Project upon the naked canvas never!

In mellower beam his parting glances quiver, Blending the hues of gold and red and azure, And pouring on the wave his richest treasure.

From terraced roof above the noisy town, The Spanish maiden watches him go down; And mischief glistens in her dark brown eye: For sunset brings the masking hour nigh.

Through loophole barred in yonder battlement, Where grimly frowns El Moros castled wall There's many an eye in weary watching bent, And many a sigh--alas! too idly spent-- By pinioned captive pining in his thrall.

The brilliant sheen upon the distant sea Perchance may to his memory recall Some happy thought of days when he was free; Draw from his haggard eye the scalding tear-- The first that he has shed for many a year; He breathes! he moves! alas, the clanking chain, Soon checks the thought--he's in his cell again!

The sentry pacing on the 'brazured wall, Lets to his feet the burnished carbine fall, And looking down upon the busy bay, Hums to himself some Andalusian lay; Or, gazing on the banner floating gay, Drawls out the loyal words, "_Viva el rey_!"

Along the sh.o.r.es that skirt this southern town, A thousand dark eyes beam from faces brown-- 'Tis they that joy to see the sun go down.

The muleteer, mounting, homeward turns his face, And goads his laden mule to quicker pace; The weary slave from out the field of cane, A moment glances at the far free main, And sighs as he bethinks him of his chain.

Short-lived and silent is his thought of pain, For, stopping in his task while it is on, He reads relief in yonder setting sun, For, 'tis the herald of his labour done!

The poor _Bozal_, who knows not yet to pray, Thinks of his wife and children far away, In some rude kraal by Biafra's bay.

But where are they, that mild and gentle race, Who worshipped him with prostrate form and face?

Where is the palm-screened hut of the cacique, That once rose over yon barranca's brow?

Where are they all? Son of the island, speak!

Where the _bohio_ stood, domes, turrets now Alone along the hill-sides proudly gleam!

Ha! thou art sad and silent on the theme; But in thy silence I can read their doom-- Name, nation, all, have pa.s.sed into the tomb.

The tomb? No--no; they have not even one To tell that they were once, and now are gone!

The fading light grows purple on the deep, In gorgeous robes the G.o.d hath sunk to sleep; So sets the sun o'er Cuba, with a smile-- The sweetest that he sheds upon this southern isle!

Mayne Reid did not admire a cla.s.sical education. He wrote the following in May, 1881, and intended to publish it:

"The old adage 'knowledge is power' is more trite than true. Like many other proverbs long unquestioned in these modern days it often meets contradiction--indeed oftener than otherwise--ignorant men in every walk of life wielding an influence denied to the most learned. Subst.i.tute the word 'wealth' for knowledge, or even craft of the lowest kind, and the proverb, alas! holds good.

"Nevertheless is there still some truth in it in its original form, dependent on the kind of knowledge, whether it be useful or merely ornamental. To the latter belong most of that taught at our universities and public schools--especially what are called the 'dead languages'--all but useless as regards the needs and realities of after life, and but of little value even for its adornments. Lore more valueless, and time worse spent than in acquiring it, are scarce possible to be conceived. It barely finds its parallel in the Chinese mnemonics. When one reflects on the hours spent on this study, days-- with nights as well--weeks, months, and years, and then in after life looks back how little good he has got from it--unless, indeed, he be himself a school teacher or college professor to perpetuate the folly-- his reflections cannot be of a satisfactory kind. What might he have done--what could he not have done--had he been instructed in science, instead of his mind made a storehouse of lumber, the cast-off clothing of nations who were never properly clad, with coffins containing their language dead as themselves?

"'But,' say the advocates of so-called cla.s.sical education, 'what better way is there of training the youthful mind--giving it shape, scope, and direction--what other?' It seems hardly worth while to answer such a question; the wonder is that any one should ask it. Training the mind by the declination of 'hic haec hoc,' or that most absurd of all absurd excessing, scansion, is the veriest mockery of mental discipline.

Science even in its humblest branches does infinitely better, and along with the lesson gives something as valuable as the training itself, or more so.

"'Ah! that may be true,' admit the admirers of defunct tongues, 'but then think of the soldiers, the statesmen, the poets, the heroes and notables of every speciality, who have lived, and whose deeds are alone recorded in the languages called dead. Think of their customs and ways of life, their virtues and their vices, their G.o.ds and their devils, and how are you to get knowledge of them without acquaintance with their language?' Possibly better if we had never got knowledge of them, since their ways of life were not always such as they ought to be, while their vices and devils had a far more powerful influence over them than their virtues and G.o.ds.

"But admitting the knowledge worth attaining, it is the sheerest nonsense to say that it is not attainable without the study of their languages. The best cla.s.sical scholar--and this in its truest sense-- the writer ever came in contact with was a man who knew not even the letters of either Latin or Greek alphabet. There are no arcana there.

Everything has been translated worth translating, and for the acquisition of cla.s.sical knowledge a year spent in reading these translations is worth ten in the slow uncertain process of extracting it from the originals. To say that in translations the literature of the ancients is not obtainable in its purity, is, like many other sayings, either a falsehood or misconception. And often more, since all the translations are an actual improvement on the original."

THE END.