McGuffey's Sixth Eclectic Reader Part 55

He became at length so confident of his force, so collected in his might, that he made no secret whatsoever of his dreadful resolution. Having terminated his disputes with every enemy and every rival, who buried their mutual animosities in their common detestation against the creditors of the Nabob of Arcot, he drew from every quarter whatever a savage ferocity could add to his new rudiments in the arts of destruction; and compounding all the materials of fury, havoc, and desolation into one black cloud, he hung for a while on the declivities of the mountains.

Whilst the authors of all these evils were idly and stupidly gazing on this menacing meteor which blackened all their horizon, it suddenly burst, and poured down the whole of its contents upon the plains of the Carnatic.

Then ensued a scene of woe, the like of which no eye had seen, no heart conceived, and which no tongue can adequately tell. All the horrors of war before known or heard of, were mercy to that new havoc. A storm of universal fire blasted every field, consumed every house, destroyed every temple. The miserable inhabitants, flying from their flaming villages, in part were slaughtered; others, without regard to s.e.x, to age, to the respect of rank, or sacredness of function,--fathers torn from children, husbands from wives, enveloped in a whirlwind of cavalry, and, amidst the goading spears of drivers, and the trampling of pursuing horses,--were swept into captivity, in an unknown and hostile land.

Those who were able to evade this tempest, fled to the walled cities; but escaping from fire, sword, and exile, they fell into the jaws of famine.

The alms of the settlement of Madras, in this dreadful exigency, were certainly liberal, and all was done by charity that private charity could do; but it was a people in beggary; it was a nation which stretched out its hands for food.

For months together these creatures of sufferance, whose very excess and luxury in their most plenteous days had fallen short of the allowance of our austerest fasts, silent, patient, resigned, without sedition or disturbance, almost without complaint, perished by a hundred a day in the streets of Madras; every day seventy at least laid their bodies in the streets, or on the glacis of Tanjore, and expired of famine in the granary of India.

I was going to wake your justice toward this unhappy part of our fellow-citizens, by bringing before you some of the circ.u.mstances of this plague of hunger. Of all the calamities which beset and waylay the life of man, this comes the nearest to our heart, and is that wherein the proudest of us all feels himself to be nothing more than he is.

But I find myself unable to manage it with decorum. These details are of a species of horror so nauseous and disgusting; they are so degrading to the sufferers and to the hearers; they are so humiliating to human nature itself, that, on better thoughts, I find it more advisable to throw a pall over this hideous object, and to leave it to your general conceptions.

For eighteen months, without intermission, this destruction raged from the gates of Madras to the gates of Tanjore; and so completely did these masters in their art, Hyder Ali, and his more ferocious son, absolve themselves of their impious vow, that when the British armies traversed, as they did, the Carnatic, for hundreds of miles in all directions, through the whole line of their march they did not see one man--not one woman--not one child--not one four-footed beast of any description whatever! One dead, uniform silence reigned over the whole region.

With the inconsiderable exceptions of the narrow vicinage of some few forts, I wish to be understood as speaking literally;--I mean to produce to you more than three witnesses, who will support this a.s.sertion in its full extent. That hurricane of war pa.s.sed through every part of the central provinces of the Carnatic. Six or seven districts to the north and to the south (and these not wholly untouched) escaped the general ravage.

NOTES.--This selection is an extract from Burke's celebrated speech in Parliament, in 1785, on the Nabob of Arcot's debts; it bore upon the maladministration of Hastings.

Arcot, a district in India, had been ceded to the British on condition that they should pay the former ruler's debts. These were found to be enormous, and the creditors proved to be individuals in the East India Company's employ. The creditors, for their private gain, induced the Nabob to attempt the subjugation of other native princes, among whom was Hyder Ali. The latter at first made successful resistance, and compelled the Nabob and his allies to sign a treaty. The treaty was not kept, and the destruction above recounted took place.

The Carnatic is a province in British India, on the eastern side of the peninsula; it contains about 50,000 square miles. Madras is a city, and Tanjore a town, in this province.

CIX. THE RAVEN.

Edgar Allan Poe, 1809-1849, was born in Boston, and died in Baltimore. He was left a dest.i.tute orphan at an early age, and was adopted by Mr. John Allan, a wealthy citizen of Richmond. He entered the University of Virginia, at Charlottesville, where he excelled in his studies, and was always at the head of his cla.s.s; but he was compelled to leave on account of irregularities. He was afterwards appointed a cadet at West Point, but failed to graduate there for the same reason. Poe now quarreled with his benefactor and left his house never to return. During the rest of his melancholy career, he obtained a precarious livelihood by different literary enterprises. His ability as a writer gained him positions with various periodicals in Richmond, New York, and Philadelphia, and during this time he wrote some of his finest prose. The appearance of "The Raven"

in 1845, however, at once made Poe a literary lion. He was quite successful for a time, but then fell back into his dissipated habits which finally caused his death. In his personal appearance, Poe was neat and gentlemanly; his face was expressive of intellect and sensibility; and his mental powers in some directions were of a high order. His writings show care, and a great degree of skill in their construction; but their effect is generally morbid.

Once upon a midnight dreary, While I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious Volume of forgotten lore-- While I nodded, nearly napping, Suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, Rapping at my chamber door.

"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "Tapping at my chamber door Only this, and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember, It was in the bleak December, And each separate dying ember Wrought its ghost upon the floor.

Eagerly I wished the morrow; Vainly I had sought to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow Sorrow for the lost Lenore-- For the rare and radiant maiden Whom the angels name Lenore-- Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken, sad, uncertain Rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me,--filled me with fantastic Terrors, never felt before; So that now, to still the beating Of my heart, I stood repeating, " 'Tis some visitor entreating Entrance at my chamber door Some late visitor entreating Entrance at my chamber door; This it is, and nothing more."

Presently my soul grew stronger; Hesitating then no longer, "Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly Your forgiveness I implore; But the fact is I was napping, And so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, Tapping at my chamber door, That I scarce was sure I heard you."-- Here I opened wide the door; Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, Long I stood there, wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals Ever dared to dream before; But the silence was unbroken, And the stillness gave no token, And the only word there spoken Was the whispered word, "Lenore!"

This I whispered, and an echo Murmured back the word, "Lenore!"

Merely this, and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, All my soul within me burning, Soon again I heard a tapping, Something louder than before.

"Surely," said I, "surely, that is Something at my window lattice; Let me see then, what thereat is, And this mystery explore-- Let my heart be still a moment, And this mystery explore;-- 'Tis the wind, and nothing more."

Open here I flung the shutter.

When, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a stately Raven Of the saintly days of yore; Not the least obeisance made he; Not a minute stopped or stayed he, But, with mien of lord or lady, Perched above my chamber door-- Perched upon a bust of Pallas Just above my chamber door-- Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling My sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum Of the countenance it wore, "Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, Thou," I said, "art sure no craven, Ghastly, grim, and ancient Raven, Wandering from the nightly sh.o.r.e, Tell me what thy lordly name is On the night's Plutonian sh.o.r.e!"

Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

Much I marveled this ungainly Fowl to hear discourse so plainly, Though its answer little meaning-- Little relevancy bore; For we can not help agreeing That no living human being Ever yet was blest with seeing Bird above his chamber door-- Bird or beast upon the sculptured Bust above his chamber door, With such name as "Nevermore."

But the Raven, sitting lonely On that placid bust, spoke only That one word, as if his soul in That one word he did outpour.

Nothing farther then he uttered, Not a feather then he fluttered, Till I scarcely more than muttered, "Other friends have flown before-- On the morrow he will leave me, As my Hopes have flown before."

Then the bird said, "Nevermore."

Startled at the stillness broken By reply so aptly spoken, "Doubtless," said I, "what it utters Is its only stock and store, Caught from some unhappy master Whom unmerciful Disaster Followed fast and followed faster Till his songs one burden bore-- Till the dirges of his Hope that Melancholy burden bore Of 'Never--nevermore.' "

But the Raven still beguiling All my sad soul into smiling, Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in Front of bird, and bust, and door; Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking Fancy unto fancy, thinking What this ominous bird of yore-- What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, Gaunt, and ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking "Nevermore."

This I sat engaged in guessing, But no syllable expressing To the fowl whose fiery eyes now Burned into my bosom's core; This and more I sat divining, With my head at ease reclining On the cushion's velvet lining That the lamplight gloated o'er, But whose velvet violet lining, With the lamplight gloating o'er She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, Perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by Seraphim, whose footfalls Tinkled on the tufted floor.

"Wretch," I cried, "thy G.o.d hath lent thee-- By these angels he hath sent thee Respite--respite and nepenthe [1]

From thy memories of Lenore!

Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, And forget this lost Lenore!"

Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

[Transcriber's Note 1: nepenthe--A drug to relieve grief, by blocking memory of sorrow or pain.]

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!-- Prophet still, if bird or devil!-- Whether Tempter sent, or whether Tempest tossed thee here ash.o.r.e, Desolate, yet all undaunted, On this desert land enchanted-- On this home by Horror haunted-- Tell me truly, I implore-- Is there--is there balm in Gilead?

Tell me--tell me, I implore!"

Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil,-- Prophet still, if bird or devil!-- By that heaven that bends above us, By that G.o.d we both adore, Tell this soul with sorrow laden, If, within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden Whom the angels name Lenore-- Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, Whom the angels name Lenore."

Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Be that word our sign of parting, Bird or fiend," I shrieked, upstarting; "Get thee back into the tempest And the night's Plutonian sh.o.r.e!

Leave no black plume as a token Of that lie thy soul hath spoken!

Leave my loneliness unbroken!-- Quit the bust above my door!

Take thy beak from out my heart, and Take thy form from off my door!"

Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

And the Raven, never flitting, Still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas Just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming Of a demon's that is dreaming, And the lamplight o'er him streaming Throws his shadow on the floor; And my soul from out that shadow, That lies floating on the floor, Shall be lifted--nevermore!

NOTES.--Pallas, or Minerva, in ancient mythology, was the G.o.ddess of wisdom.

Plutonian, see note on Pluto, page 242.

Gilead is the name of a mountain group of Palestine, celebrated for its balsam or balm made from herbs. It is here used figuratively.

Aidenn is an Anglicized and disguised spelling of the Arabic form of the word Eden: it is here used as a synonym for heaven.