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Nursery Rhymes . . . for children.

Once upon a time . . . . .  from our fabulous collection of Fairy Tales for children . . .  they lived happily ever after . . .

The Thorny Road Of Honor

AN old story yet lives of the 'Thorny Road of Honor,' of
a marksman, who indeed attained to rank and office, but only
after a lifelong and weary strife against difficulties. Who
has not, in reading this story, thought of his own strife, and
of his own numerous 'difficulties?' The story is very closely
akin to reality; but still it has its harmonious explanation
here on earth, while reality often points beyond the confines
of life to the regions of eternity. The history of the world
is like a magic lantern that displays to us, in light pictures
upon the dark ground of the present, how the benefactors of
mankind, the martyrs of genius, wandered along the thorny road
of honor.

From all periods, and from every country, these shining
pictures display themselves to us. Each only appears for a few
moments, but each represents a whole life, sometimes a whole
age, with its conflicts and victories. Let us contemplate here
and there one of the company of martyrs- the company which
will receive new members until the world itself shall pass

We look down upon a crowded amphitheatre. Out of the
'Clouds' of Aristophanes, satire and humor are pouring down in
streams upon the audience; on the stage Socrates, the most
remarkable man in Athens, he who had been the shield and
defence of the people against the thirty tyrants, is held up
mentally and bodily to ridicule- Socrates, who saved
Alcibiades and Xenophon in the turmoil of battle, and whose
genius soared far above the gods of the ancients. He himself
is present; he has risen from the spectator's bench, and has
stepped forward, that the laughing Athenians may well
appreciate the likeness between himself and the caricature on
the stage. There he stands before them, towering high above
them all.

Thou juicy, green, poisonous hemlock, throw thy shadow
over Athens- not thou, olive tree of fame!

Seven cities contended for the honor of giving birth to
Homer- that is to say, they contended after his death! Let us
look at him as he was in his lifetime. He wanders on foot
through the cities, and recites his verses for a livelihood;
the thought for the morrow turns his hair gray! He, the great
seer, is blind, and painfully pursues his way- the sharp thorn
tears the mantle of the king of poets. His song yet lives, and
through that alone live all the heroes and gods of antiquity.

One picture after another springs up from the east, from
the west, far removed from each other in time and place, and
yet each one forming a portion of the thorny road of honor, on
which the thistle indeed displays a flower, but only to adorn
the grave.

The camels pass along under the palm trees; they are
richly laden with indigo and other treasures of value, sent by
the ruler of the land to him whose songs are the delight of
the people, the fame of the country. He whom envy and
falsehood have driven into exile has been found, and the
caravan approaches the little town in which he has taken
refuge. A poor corpse is carried out of the town gate, and the
funeral procession causes the caravan to halt. The dead man is
he whom they have been sent to seek- Firdusi- who has wandered
the Thorny road of honor even to the end.

The African, with blunt features, thick lips, and woolly
hair, sits on the marble steps of the palace in the capital of
Portugal, and begs. He is the submissive slave of Camoens, and
but for him, and for the copper coins thrown to him by the
passers-by, his master, the poet of the 'Lusiad,' would die of
hunger. Now, a costly monument marks the grave of Camoens.

There is a new picture.

Behind the iron grating a man appears, pale as death, with
long unkempt beard.

'I have made a discovery,' he says, 'the greatest that has
been made for centuries; and they have kept me locked up here
for more than twenty years!'

Who is the man?

'A madman,' replies the keeper of the madhouse. 'What
whimsical ideas these lunatics have! He imagines that one can
propel things by means of steam.'

It is Solomon de Cares, the discoverer of the power of
steam, whose theory, expressed in dark words, is not
understood by Richelieu; and he dies in the madhouse.

Here stands Columbus, whom the street boys used once to
follow and jeer, because he wanted to discover a new world;
and he has discovered it. Shouts of joy greet him from the
breasts of all, and the clash of bells sounds to celebrate his
triumphant return; but the clash of the bells of envy soon
drowns the others. The discoverer of a world- he who lifted
the American gold land from the sea, and gave it to his king-
he is rewarded with iron chains. He wishes that these chains
may be placed in his coffin, for they witness to the world of
the way in which a man's contemporaries reward good service.

One picture after another comes crowding on; the thorny
path of honor and of fame is over-filled.

Here in dark night sits the man who measured the mountains
in the moon; he who forced his way out into the endless space,
among stars and planets; he, the mighty man who understood the
spirit of nature, and felt the earth moving beneath his feet-
Galileo. Blind and deaf he sits- an old man thrust through
with the spear of suffering, and amid the torments of neglect,
scarcely able to lift his foot- that foot with which, in the
anguish of his soul, when men denied the truth, he stamped
upon the ground, with the exclamation, 'Yet it moves!'

Here stands a woman of childlike mind, yet full of faith
and inspiration. She carries the banner in front of the
combating army, and brings victory and salvation to her
fatherland. The sound of shouting arises, and the pile flames
up. They are burning the witch, Joan of Arc. Yes, and a future
century jeers at the White Lily. Voltaire, the satyr of human
intellect, writes 'La Pucelle.'

At the Thing or Assembly at Viborg, the Danish nobles burn
the laws of the king. They flame up high, illuminating the
period and the lawgiver, and throw a glory into the dark
prison tower, where an old man is growing gray and bent. With
his finger he marks out a groove in the stone table. It is the
popular king who sits there, once the ruler of three kingdoms,
the friend of the citizen and the peasant. It is Christian the
Second. Enemies wrote his history. Let us remember his
improvements of seven and twenty years, if we cannot forget
his crime.

A ship sails away, quitting the Danish shores. A man leans
against the mast, casting a last glance towards the Island
Hueen. It is Tycho Brahe. He raised the name of Denmark to the
stars, and was rewarded with injury, loss and sorrow. He is
going to a strange country.

'The vault of heaven is above me everywhere,' he says,
'and what do I want more?'

And away sails the famous Dane, the astronomer, to live
honored and free in a strange land.

'Ay, free, if only from the unbearable sufferings of the
body!' comes in a sigh through time, and strikes upon our ear.
What a picture! Griffenfeldt, a Danish Prometheus, bound to
the rocky island of Munkholm.

We are in America, on the margin of one of the largest
rivers; an innumerable crowd has gathered, for it is said that
a ship is to sail against the wind and weather, bidding
defiance to the elements. The man who thinks he can solve the
problem is named Robert Fulton. The ship begins its passage,
but suddenly it stops. The crowd begins to laugh and whistle
and hiss- the very father of the man whistles with the rest.

'Conceit! Foolery!' is the cry. 'It has happened just as
he deserved. Put the crack-brain under lock and key!'

Then suddenly a little nail breaks, which had stopped the
machine for a few moments; and now the wheels turn again, the
floats break the force of the waters, and the ship continues
its course; and the beam of the steam engine shortens the
distance between far lands from hours into minutes.

O human race, canst thou grasp the happiness of such a
minute of consciousness, this penetration of the soul by its
mission, the moment in which all dejection, and every wound-
even those caused by one's own fault- is changed into health
and strength and clearness- when discord is converted to
harmony- the minute in which men seem to recognize the
manifestation of the heavenly grace in one man, and feel how
this one imparts it to all?

Thus the thorny path of honor shows itself as a glory,
surrounding the earth with its beams. Thrice happy he who is
chosen to be a wanderer there, and, without merit of his own,
to be placed between the builder of the bridge and the earth-
between Providence and the human race.

On mighty wings the spirit of history floats through the
ages, and shows- giving courage and comfort, and awakening
gentle thoughts- on the dark nightly background, but in
gleaming pictures, the thorny path of honor, which does not,
like a fairy tale, end in brilliancy and joy here on earth,
but stretches out beyond all time, even into eternity!

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