5

tion, arising from the simple consciousness of rectitude, which the truly honest man does not hesitate to purchase with the loss of all the advantages which the most successful policy could have secured.

But besides the immoral tendency of this economical view of virtue, it is not consistent with facts, with experience, that honesty is always the best, the most successful, policy. He is not always the most successful merchant who in no instance deviates from the strict principles of 10 honesty; but rather he whose general way of doing business is so fair and equitable, that he can, without much danger, avail himself of some favorable opportunity to make his fortune by a mode of proceeding which would have ruined his credit if he had been so impolitic as to 15 make this successful deviation from duty the general line of his conduct.

Again, he is not always the most prosperous lawyer who never undertakes the defence of a cause which his conscience condemns; but rather he who never undertakes a 20 cause so palpably unjust that it cannot be gained even by the most skilful and artful management; while the power of making a bad cause appear good, when discreetly em*ployed, is apt to enhance, rather than degrade, his professional character.

25

Again, he is not always the most influential politician who never deviates from the straight path of political justice; but rather he who goes upon the common principle that "all is fair in politics," provided he does not become guilty of any such dishonesty as will not be pardoned by 30 his own party.

In the same way, he is not apt to be the most popular divine, who, regardless both of the praise and of the censure of men, declares the whole counsel of God, as it stands revealed to his own mind;

but rather he who re

35 gards the signs of the times as much as the handwriting of God, modifying the plain honesty of apostolic preaching

T

with a politic regard to the likes and dislikes, the passions and prejudices, of men.

I believe, then, that experience does not verify the common saying, that honesty is the best—that is, the most 5 profitable policy. It is so in most cases, but not in all. Hence those who recommend honesty on the ground of its being the best policy, advise men to act from a motive which, in some, perhaps the most important cases, may lead them into dishonesty. Steal no more! Cease to do

10 evil! Learn to do well!

These are the simple precepts addressed to the consciences of men, without leaving it to their discretion to decide in what cases they may do evil, if in all others they do well.

If you compare this simple doctrine of Scripture and of 15 conscience, which enjoins honesty because of its intrinsic excellence, with the doctrine of worldly wisdom, which recommends honesty as the most profitable policy, and if you put both maxims to the test of experience, you will know by their fruits which is of God and which of man. 20 In those cases where honesty is in part the worst policy, the man who is virtuous for virtue's sake will choose to endure all the evils connected with the performance of duty, rather than the simple consciousness of guilt; while in all those cases in which honesty turns out to be the best 25 policy, the joy of acting right, without regard to the consequences, exceeds every other reward.

LX.- PAUL REVERE'S RIDE.

LONGFELLOW.

1 LISTEN, my children, and you shall hear
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,

On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-Five:
Hardly a man is now alive

Who remembers that famous day and year.

2

He said to his friend,

3

"If the British march
By land or sea from the town to-night,
Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry-arch
Of the North-Church tower, as a signal-light, -
One if by land, and two if by sea;
And I on the opposite shore will be,
Ready to ride and spread the alarm
Through every Middlesex village and farm,
For the country-folk to be up and to arm."

Then he said good-night, and with muffled oar
Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore,
Just as the moon rose over the bay,

Where swinging wide at her moorings lay
The Somerset, British man-of-war :

A phantom ship, with each mast and spar
Across the moon, like a prison-bar,

And a huge, black hulk, that was magnified
By its own reflection in the tide.

4 Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street
Wanders and watches with eager ears,
Till in the silence around him he hears
The muster of men at the barrack-door,
The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,
And the measured tread of the grenadiers
Marching down to their boats on the shore.

5

Then he climbed to the tower of the church,
Up the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,
To the belfry-chamber overhead,
And startled the pigeons from their perch
On the sombre rafters, that round him made
Masses and moving shapes of shade,
Up the light ladder, slender and tall,
To the highest window in the wall,

Where he paused to listen and look down
A moment on the roofs of the town,
And the moonlight flowing over all.

6 Beneath, in the church-yard, lay the dead
In their night-encampment on the hill,
Wrapped in silence so deep and still,
That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread,
The watchful night-wind, as it went
Creeping along from tent to tent,

And seeming to whisper, "All is well!"
A moment only he feels the spell

Of the place and the hour, the secret dread
Of the lonely belfry and the dead;
For suddenly all his thoughts are bent
On a shadowy something far away,
Where the river widens to meet the bay, -
A line of black, that bends and floats
On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats.

Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,
Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride,
On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.
Now he patted his horse's side,

Now gazed on the landscape far and near,
Then impetuous stamped the earth,
And turned and tightened his saddle-girth;
But mostly he watched with eager search
The belfry-tower of the old North Church,
As it rose above the graves on the hill,
Lonely, and spectral, and sombre, and still.

8 And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's height,
A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!
He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,
But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight
A second lamp in the belfry burns!

9 A hurry of hoofs in a village-street,

A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,
And beneath from the pebbles, in passing, a spark
Struck out by a steed that flies fearless and fleet:
That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,
The fate of a nation was riding that night;

And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,
Kindled the land into flame with its heat.

10 It was twelve by the village-clock,

11

When he crossed the bridge into Medford town
He heard the crowing of the cock,

And the barking of the farmer's dog,
And felt the damp of the river-fog,

That rises when the sun goes down.

It was one by the village-clock,
When he rode into Lexington.
He saw the gilded weathercock

Swim in the moonlight as he passed,

And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare,
Gaze at him with a spectral glare,

As if they already stood aghast

At the bloody work they would look upon.

12 It was two by the village-clock,

When he came to the bridge in Concord town.

He heard the bleating of the flock,

And the twitter of birds among the trees,
And felt the breath of the morning-breeze
Blowing over the meadows brown.

And one was safe and asleep in his bed
Who at the bridge would be first to fall,
Who that day would be lying dead,
Pierced by a British musket-ball.