=The Ontario Readers. =

THEHIGH SCHOOL READER. 

AUTHORIZED FOR USE IN THE PUBLIC AND HIGH SCHOOLSAND COLLEGIATE INSTITUTES OF ONTARIO BY THEDEPARTMENT OF EDUCATION. 

Toronto:ROSE PUBLISHING COMPANY. 1886. 

_Entered according to Act of Parliament of Canada, in the year onethousand eight hundred and eighty-six, by the_ MINISTER OF EDUCATION_for Ontario, in the Office of the Minister of Agriculture. _

PRINTED AND BOUND BYHUNTER, ROSE & CO. , TORONTO. 

PREFACE. 

The selections in the HIGH SCHOOL READER have been chosen with thebelief that to pupils of such advancement as is required for entranceinto High Schools and Collegiate Institutes, oral reading should betaught from the best literature, inasmuch as it not only affords a widerange of thought and sentiment, but it also demands for its appropriatevocal interpretation such powers of sympathy and appreciation as aredeveloped only by culture; and it is to impart culture that theseinstitutions of higher learning have been established. 

Experience has shown that it is from their ordinary reading books thatpupils obtain their chief practical acquaintance with literature, andthe selections here presented have been made with this in remembrance. They have been taken from the writings of authors of acknowledgedrepresentative character; and they have been arranged for the most partchronologically, so that pupils may unconsciously obtain some littleinsight into the history of the development of the literary art. Theyhave also been so chosen as to convey a somewhat fair idea of therelative value and productivity of authorship in the three greatEnglish-speaking communities of the world--the mother countries, ourneighbours' country, and our own. 

While a limited space, if nothing else, prevents the collection heremade from being a complete anthology, yet it does pretend to representthe authors selected in characteristic moods, and (in so far as ispossible in a school book, and a reading text-book) to present asomewhat fair perspective of the world of authorship. It may be saidthat, if this be so, some names are conspicuously absent: McGee, Canada's poet-orator; Parkman, who has given to our country a place inthe portraiture of nations; William Morris, the chief of the modernschool of romanticism; Tyndall, who of the literature of science hasmade an art; Lamb, daintiest of humorists; Collins, "whose range offlight, " as Swinburne says, "was the highest of his generation. " Eitherfrom lack of space, or from some inherent unsuitableness in suchselections as might otherwise have been made, it was found impossibleto represent these names worthily; but as they are all more or lessadequately represented in the _Fourth Reader_, the teacher who may wishto correct the perspective here presented may refer his pupils to thepieces from these authors there given. It may be added, too, thatthe body of recent literature is so enormous, that no adequaterepresentation of it (at any rate as regards quantity) is possiblewithin the limits of one book. 

The selections in poetry, with but three necessary exceptions, arecomplete wholes, and represent, as fairly as single pieces can, therespective merits and styles of their authors. The selections in prosecannot, of course, lay claim to this excellence; but they are allcomplete in themselves, or have been made so by short introductions; andit is hoped that they too are not unfairly representative of theirauthors. In many cases they are of somewhat unusual length; by this, however, they gain in interest and in representative character. 

In some of the prose selections, passages have occasionally beenomitted, either because they interfered with the main narrative, orbecause, as they added nothing to it, to omit them would be a gain ofspace. In most cases these omissions are indicated by small asterisks. 

All the selections, both in prose and in verse, have been made withconstant reference to their suitableness for the teaching of reading. They are fitted to exemplify every mode of expression, except, perhaps, that appropriate to a few of the stronger passions. It is not pretendedthat they are all simple and easy. Many of them will require muchstudy and preparation before they can be read with that precision ofexpression which is necessary to perfect intelligibility. Thechronological arrangement precludes grading; the teacher will decidein what order the selections are to be read. 

The introductory chapter is mainly intended to assist the teacher inimparting to his pupils a somewhat scientific knowledge of the art ofreading. Of course the teacher will choose for himself his mode ofdealing with the chapter, but it has been written with the thought thathe should use it as a convenient series of texts, which he might expandand illustrate in accordance with his opportunities and judgment. Examples for illustration are indispensable to the successful study ofthe principles described, and they should be sought for and obtained bythe teacher and pupils together (whenever possible they should be takenfrom the READER), and should be kept labeled for reference and practice. If the application of these principles be thus practically made by thepupils themselves, they will receive a much more lasting impression oftheir meaning and value than if the examples were given to them at nocost of thought or search on their part. 

To the teacher it is recommended that he should not be contented withthe short and necessarily imperfect exposition of the art of readingtherein given. The more familiar he is with the scientific principlesthe more successfully will he be able to direct the studies andpractices of his pupils. Works on elocution are numerous and accessible. Dr. Rush's _Philosophy of the Voice_ is perhaps the foundation of allsubsequent good work in the exposition of voice culture. ProfessorMurdoch's _Analytic Elocution_ is an exhaustive and scholarly treatisebased upon it, and to the plan of treatment therein fully developed thepractical part of the introductory chapter has largely conformed. 

The pleasing task remains of thanking those authors who have so kindlyresponded to requests for permission to use selections from their works:to President Wilson, for a sonnet from _Spring Wild Roses_, and for _OurIdeal_; to Mr. Charles Sangster, for two sonnets from _Hesperus_; to Mr. John Reade, for two poems from _The Prophecy of Merlin_; to Mr. CharlesMair, for the scenes from _Tecumseh_; and to Professor C. G. D. Roberts, for _To Winter_. 

To Miss A. T. Jones, thanks are due for permission to use _AbigailBecker_, recently published in the _Century Magazine_. The heroic actsdescribed in this poem seem so wonderful, so greatly superior to woman'sstrength, even to human strength and endurance, to accomplish, that wereit possible to doubt its truthfulness, doubt one certainly would. Nevertheless the poem is not only strictly in accordance with the facts, it is even within and below them. 

CONTENTS. 

_(The Titles of the Selections in Poetry are printed in Italics. )_

 NUMBER. TITLE. AUTHOR. PAGE. 

 I. King Solomon's Prayer and Blessing at the Dedication of the Temple. HOLY BIBLE 33

 II. Invitation. HOLY BIBLE 39

 III. _The Trial Scene in the "Merchant of Venice. "_ SHAKESPEARE 40

 IV. Of Boldness. BACON 53

 V. _To Daffodils. _ HERRICK 55

 VI. Of Contentedness in all Estates and Accidents. TAYLOR 56

 VII. _To Lucasta, on Going to the Wars. _ LOVELACE 61

 VIII. Angling. WALTON 62

 IX. _On the Morning of Christ's Nativity. _ MILTON 67

 X. Character of Lord Falkland. CLARENDON 76

 XI. _Veni, Creator Spiritus. _ DRYDEN 81

 XII. _Lines printed under the Portrait of Milton. _ DRYDEN 82

 XIII. _Reason_ DRYDEN 83

 XIV. On the Love of Country as a Principle of Action. STEELE 83

 XV. The Golden Scales. ADDISON 88

 XVI. Misjudged Hospitality. SWIFT 93

 XVII. _From the "Essay on Man. "_ POPE 96

 XVIII. _Rule, Britannia. _ THOMSON 101

 XIX. The First Crusade. HUME 102

 XX. _The Bard. _ GRAY 111

 XXI. On an Address to the Throne concerning Affairs in America. CHATHAM 116

 XXII. From "The Vicar of Wakefield. " GOLDSMITH 127

 XXIII. Meeting of Johnson with Wilkes. BOSWELL 133

 XXIV. The Policy of the Empire in the First Century. GIBBON 142

 XXV. On the Attacks upon his Pension. BURKE 147

 XXVI. Two Eighteenth Century Scenes. COWPER 155

 XXVII. From "The School for Scandal. " SHERIDAN 159

 XXVIII. _The Cotter's Saturday Night. _ BURNS 171

 XXIX. _The Land o' the Leal. _ LADY NAIRN 177

 XXX. The Trial by Combat at the Diamond of the Desert. SCOTT 179

 XXXI. _To a Highland Girl. _ WORDSWORTH 202

 XXXII. _France: an Ode. _ COLERIDGE 205

 XXXIII. _Complaint and Reproof. _ COLERIDGE 208

 XXXIV. _The Well of St. Keyne. _ SOUTHEY 209

 XXXV. _The Isles of Greece. _ BYRON 211

 XXXVI. _Go where Glory Waits Thee. _ MOORE 214

 XXXVII. _Dear Harp of My Country. _ MOORE 215

 XXXVIII. _Come, ye Disconsolate. _ MOORE 216

 XXXIX. _On a Lock of Milton's Hair. _ HUNT 217

 XL. _The Glove and the Lions. _ HUNT 217

 XLI. _The Cloud. _ SHELLEY 219

 XLII. _On First Looking into Chapman's Homer. _ KEATS 222

 XLIII. _On the Grasshopper and the Cricket. _ KEATS 222

 XLIV. The Power and Danger of the Cæsars. DE QUINCEY 223

 XLV. Unthoughtfulness. DR. ARNOLD 227

 XLVI. _The Bridge of Sighs. _ HOOD 234

 XLVII. _A Parental Ode to my Son. _ HOOD 237

 XLVIII. Metaphysics. HALIBURTON 239

 XLIX. _Indian Summer. _ LOVER 246

 L. _To Helen. _ PRAED 246

 LI. _Horatius. _ MACAULAY 247

 LII. _The Raven. _ POE 258

 LIII. David Swan--A Fantasy. HAWTHORNE 262

 LIV. _My Kate. _ MRS. BROWNING 270

 LV. _A Dead Rose. _ MRS. BROWNING 271

 LVI. _To the Evening Wind. _ BRYANT 272

 LVII. Death of the Protector. CARLYLE 274

 LVIII. _Each and All. _ EMERSON 282

 LIX. Waterloo. LEVER 284

 LX. _The Diver. _ LYTTON 294

 LXI. The Plague of Locusts. NEWMAN 299

 LXII. _The Cane-bottom'd Chair. _ THACKERAY 306

 LXIII. The Reconciliation. THACKERAY 308

 LXIV. _The Island of the Scots. _ AYTOUN 315

 LXV. The Gambling Party. BEACONSFIELD 321

 LXVI. The Pickwickians Disport themselves on Ice. DICKENS 327

 LXVII. _The Hanging of the Crane. _ LONGFELLOW 336

 LXVIII. Earthworms. DARWIN 342

 LXIX. "_As Ships, Becalmed at Eve. _" CLOUGH 346

 LXX. _Duty. _ CLOUGH 347

 LXXI. _Sonnets. _ HEAVYSEGE 349

 LXXII. Dr. Arnold at Rugby. DEAN STANLEY 350

 LXXIII. _Ode to the North-east Wind. _ KINGSLEY 354

 LXXIV. From "The Mill on the Floss. " GEORGE ELIOT 356

 LXXV. _The Cloud Confines. _ ROSSETTI 359

 LXXVI. _Barbara Frietchie. _ WHITTIER 361

 LXXVII. _Contentment. _ HOLMES 364

 LXXVIII. The British Constitution. GLADSTONE 367

 LXXIX. _The Lord of Burleigh. _ TENNYSON 370

 LXXX. "_Break, Break, Break. _" TENNYSON 373

 LXXXI. _The "Revenge". _ TENNYSON 373

 LXXXII. _Hervé Riel. _ BROWNING 378

 LXXXIII. _Sonnet. _ DR. WILSON 383

 LXXXIV. _Our Ideal. _ DR. WILSON 383

 LXXXV. From the Apology of Socrates. JOWETT 384

 LXXXVI. The Empire of the Cæsars. FROUDE 389

 LXXXVII. Of the Mystery of Life. RUSKIN 390

LXXXVIII. The Robin. LOWELL 397

 LXXXIX. _The Old Cradle. _ LOCKER 400

 XC. _Rugby Chapel. _ MATT. ARNOLD 401

 XCI. _In the Orillia Woods. _ SANGSTER 408

 XCII. Morals and Character in the Eighteenth Century. GOLDWIN SMITH 409

 XCIII. A Liberal Education. HUXLEY 412

 XCIV. _Too Late. _ MRS. CRAIK 416

 XCV. _Amor Mundi. _ MISS ROSSETTI 417

 XCVI. _Toujours Amour. _ STEDMAN 418

 XCVII. _England. _ ALDRICH 419

 XCVIII. _Rococo. _ ALDRICH 420

 XCIX. _Kings of Men. _ JOHN READE 420

 C. _Thalatta! Thalatta!_ JOHN READE 421

 CI. _The Forsaken Garden. _ SWINBURNE 422

 CII. _A Ballad To Queen Elizabeth of the Spanish Armada. _ DOBSON 424

 CIII. _Circe. _ DOBSON 426

 CIV. _Scenes from "Tecumseh. "_ MAIR 426

 CV. _The Return of the Swallows. _ GOSSE 437

 CVI. _Dawn Angels. _ MISS ROBINSON 438

 CVII. _Le Roi Est Mort. _ MISS ROBINSON 439

 CVIII. _To Winter. _ ROBERTS 440

 CIX. _Abigail Becker. _ MISS JONES 442

SHORT EXTRACTS. 

 FIRST LINES. AUTHOR. PAGE. 

He that cannot see well BACON 54

_Stone walls do not a prison make_ LOVELACE 55

When the heart is right BERKELEY 87

_It must be so--Plato, thou reasonest well_ ADDISON 92

_England, with all thy faults, I love thee still_ COWPER 154

_Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast_ COWPER 158

_Oh, wad some power the giftie gie us_ BURNS 170

_Life! we've been long together_ MRS. BARBAULD 178

_Rough wind, that moanest loud_ SHELLEY 218

_There is a book, who runs may read_ KEBLE 233

_There is no great and no small_ EMERSON 245

_Wellington, Thy great work is but begun_ ROSSETTI 293

_Sacrifice and self-devotion_ LORD HOUGHTON 320

_Flower in the crannied wall_ TENNYSON 366

_It fortifies my soul to know_ CLOUGH 369

_And yet, dear heart! remembering thee_ WHITTIER 372

_There is no land like England_ TENNYSON 377

_The Summum Pulchrum rests in heaven above_ CLOUGH 382

Be of good cheer then, my dear Crito SOCRATES 388

_What know we greater than the soul_ TENNYSON 407

_That is best blood that hath most iron in't_ LOWELL 411

_Such kings of shreds have woo'd and won her_ ALDRICH 419

INDEX OF AUTHORS. 

 NAME. PAGE. 

ADDISON, JOSEPH 88, 92

ALDRICH, THOMAS BAILEY 419, 420

ARNOLD, MATTHEW 401

ARNOLD, THOMAS 227

AYTOUN, WM. EDMONDSTOUNE 315

BACON, LORD (FRANCIS) 53, 54

BARBAULD, ANNA LÆTITIA 178

BEACONSFIELD, LORD (BENJAMIN DISRAELI) 321

BERKELEY, BISHOP (GEORGE) 87

BIBLE, THE HOLY 33, 39

BOSWELL, JAMES 133

BROWNING, ELIZABETH BARRETT 270, 271

BROWNING, ROBERT 378

BRYANT, WILLIAM CULLEN 272

BURKE, EDMUND 147

BURNS, ROBERT 170, 171

BYRON, LORD (GEORGE GORDON NOEL) 211

CARLYLE, THOMAS 274

CHATHAM, LORD (WM. PITT) 116

CLARENDON, LORD 76

CLOUGH, ARTHUR HUGH 346, 347, 369, 382

COLERIDGE, SAMUEL TAYLOR 205, 208

COWPER, WILLIAM 154, 155, 158

CRAIK, DINAH MARIA MULOCK 416

DARWIN, CHARLES 342

DE QUINCEY, THOMAS 223

DICKENS, CHARLES 327

DOBSON, AUSTIN 424, 426

DRYDEN, JOHN 81, 82, 83

ELIOT, GEORGE (MARIAN EVANS CROSS) 356

EMERSON, RALPH WALDO 245, 282

FROUDE, JAMES ANTHONY 389

GIBBON, EDWARD 142

GLADSTONE, WILLIAM EWART 367

GOLDSMITH, OLIVER 127

GOSSE, EDMUND WILLIAM 437

GRAY, THOMAS 111

HALIBURTON, THOMAS CHANDLER 239

HAWTHORNE, NATHANIEL 262

HEAVYSEGE, CHARLES 349

HERRICK, ROBERT 55

HOLMES, OLIVER WENDELL 364

HOOD, THOMAS 234, 237

HOUGHTON, LORD (RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES) 320

HUME, DAVID 102

HUNT, LEIGH 217

HUXLEY, THOMAS HENRY 412

JONES, AMANDA T. 412

JOWETT, BENJAMIN 384

KEATS, JOHN 222

KEBLE, JOHN 233

KINGSLEY, CHARLES 354

LEVER, CHARLES JAMES 284

LOCKER, FREDERICK 400

LONGFELLOW, HENRY WADSWORTH 336

LOVELACE, RICHARD 55, 61

LOVER, SAMUEL 246

LOWELL, JAMES RUSSELL 397, 411

LYTTON, LORD (EDWARD BULWER) 294

MACAULAY, LORD (THOMAS BABINGTON) 247

MAIR, CHARLES 426

MILTON, JOHN 67

MOORE, THOMAS 214, 215, 216

NAIRN, BARONESS (CAROLINA OLIPHANT) 177

NEWMAN, CARDINAL (JOHN HENRY) 299

POE, EDGAR ALLAN 258

POPE, ALEXANDER 96

PRAED, WINTHROP MACKWORTH 246

READE, JOHN 420, 421

ROBERTS, CHARLES GEORGE DOUGLAS 440

ROBINSON, A. MARY F. 438, 439

ROSSETTI, CHRISTINA GEORGINA 417

ROSSETTI, DANTE GABRIEL 293, 359

RUSKIN, JOHN 390

SANGSTER, CHARLES 408

SCOTT, SIR WALTER 179

SHAKESPEARE, WILLIAM 40

SHELLEY, PERCY BYSSHE 218, 219

SHERIDAN, RICHARD BRINSLEY 159

SMITH, GOLDWIN 409

SOUTHEY, ROBERT 209

STANLEY, DEAN (ARTHUR PENRHYN) 350

STEDMAN, EDMUND CLARENCE 418

STEELE, SIR RICHARD 83

SWIFT, JONATHAN 93

SWINBURNE, ALGERNON CHARLES 422

TAYLOR, BISHOP (JEREMY) 56

TENNYSON, LORD (ALFRED) 366, 370, 373, 377, 407

THACKERAY, WILLIAM MAKEPEACE 306, 308

THOMSON, JAMES 101

WALTON, IZAAK 62

WHITTIER, JOHN GREENLEAF 361, 372

WILSON, PRESIDENT (DANIEL) 383

WORDSWORTH, WILLIAM 202

INTRODUCTORY. 

The ability to read well cannot be attained without much pains andstudy. For even a moderate proficiency in the art of reading tworequirements are essential: (1) A cultivated mind quick to perceive thesequence of thoughts which the words to be read logically express, andequally quick in its power sympathetically to appreciate the sentimentwith which the words are informed--the feeling, emotion, passion, whichpervades them--but which they suggest rather than actually portray; and(2) a voice so perfected that its utterances fall upon the ear of thelistener with pleasing effect, and so flexible that it can be managedskilfully to convey to him the full meaning and force of all the ideasand sentiments formally expressed by the words or latent in them. Ofthese two requirements the first is undeniably the more important; andthat training in the art of reading in which the close, persistent, andliberal study of literature for its own sake has not proceeded _paripassu_ with the requisite exercises for the development of the powers ofthe voice and with the study of the principles of vocal interpretation, has resulted in a meretricious accomplishment of very illusive value. 

Nor will the special study and accurate mastery of a number ofindividual selections give that readiness of mental apprehension whichis indispensable to a good reader. The ability quickly to recognizeword-forms and to utter them with ease, to catch the drift of ideas, andto feel ready sympathy with change and flow in sentiment, is not to behad without a long course of wide and varied reading. No one can becomea good reader by passing through, no matter how carefully, a set ofreading text-books merely. Pupils should be encouraged to read forthemselves. They should, of course, be guided in their selection ofreading matter, and they should be helped to acquire a taste for thatwhich is purest and most helpful in literature; but unless they form a_habit_ of reading, and of reading thoughtfully and with precision, theycan never become good readers. 

In oral reading, readiness and accuracy depend largely upon thealertness and flexibility of the vocal organs, and to secure ease andexcellence in the working of their delicate mechanism much practice isnecessary. The pupil should persistently read aloud. A practice of thissort, watchfully pursued, with a reasonable degree of self-discipline inthe correction or avoidance of errors, is helpful not alone in obtaininga mastery of the reading art, and in mental culture, --it is equallybeneficial as a physical exercise. It will, however, be much moreefficacious of good, both of mind and of body, if pursued in accordancewith those principles of voice culture and of vocal interpretation, which experience and special study have established. 

But only a small proportion of all the reading that is done, is oralreading. It is _silent_ reading that is universally employed as aninstrument of study, of business, of amusement. As a rule, however, verylittle provision is made for the acquirement of a facility in silentreading; this, it is thought, will result as a by-product of the regulartraining in oral reading. Almost the reverse of this is true. Ease andflexibility of articulation, quickness in catching the drift of ideas, and readiness in varying the tones of the voice in the utterance ofwords so as impressively to portray their latent sentiment, --all this ispossible with those alone to whom difficult word-forms, complexsentence-structures, and the infinite variety and play of thought andemotion, are more or less familiar through such a wide range of readingas only the silent prosecution of it makes possible. 

The art of oral reading, however, though not so generally needful assilent reading, is still of great importance to everyone in respect ofits practical utility simply, --though few of those whose duty it is toread aloud in public, do so either with accuracy or grace; as anaccomplishment which may be used to give pleasure to others, it is, whenperfectly possessed, not excelled by any other; so that as anacquisition which puts one in a position of vantage either forbenefitting one's self or for bestowing delight or benefit upon others, it is worth every necessary struggle for its attainment. 

One of the most valuable results of oral reading when systematicallypursued as a school study, is the effect which it has in improving thetones of the voice for ordinary conversation and discourse, and insecuring some measure of orthoepy as a fixed habit of utterance. Conversational speech is notoriously slovenly. The sonority of ourvowels is lost, and their distinguishing qualities are obscured;and with unnoticed frequency our consonants are either dropped oramalgamated with one another. Yet, while amendment in these mattersis to be striven for, there is nothing that the teacher who wishesto establish habits of orthoepy has to be more watchful in guardingagainst, than bestowing upon his pupils an affected or mincingutterance, all the more ludicrous and objectionable, it may be, in that a certain set of words are pronounced with over-nicety, while almost all others are left in a state of neglected vulgarity. 

Too frequently the study of oral reading is pursued with referencesolely to the prospective public use of the art in the declamation ofprepared passages; and the elocution-master's science has been broughtinto some discredit by wide discrepancies between the performances ofhis pupils in their well-drilled and often hackneyed selections andtheir ability to read unfamiliar pieces at sight. It is quite true thatvoice culture is greatly aided by the close study and frequent renderingof selections suitably chosen for the elocutionary difficulties whichthey present; but it should never be forgotten that good reading, thesort of reading which the schoolmaster should above all else endeavor tomake his pupils proficient in, implies the ability so to read a plainaccount, a story, an oration, a play, or what not, _at sight_, withabsolute correctness as to pronunciation, with such clearness ofarticulation and appropriateness of sentence utterance as will make itperfectly audible and intelligible to one's auditors, and with suchsuitable and impressive intonations as will put them in full possessionof those emotions which may be said to be the essence or spirit of thepiece;--and, moreover, to do all this with pleasure to one's hearers andwith ease to one's self. Now as comparatively few readers are everrequired to read in public, and as in the home-circle everyone ought toread, it is plain that the first duty of the teacher of elocution is todevelop in his pupils a mastery of such a style of reading as isappropriate to small audiences; and, _then_, if he have time andopportunity, to extend and amplify the practice of his art so as to fitsuch as are capable of fuller mastery of it to appear before greateraudiences. For though all voices are capable of being much improvedthrough cultivation, few only can be adapted to the requirements ofa large auditorium; and the care and attention which should be devotedto the benefit of all should not be spent for the advantage merely ofthe few. 

And moreover, those practices and studies which voice culture and theattainment of a knowledge of the principles of vocal interpretationdemand, may be pursued by all in common. That alone which is necessaryfor the public reader or orator, is a more extended, and, perhaps, amore earnest and thoughtful practice. 

Although practices for the improvement of the voice cannot proceed farwithout attention to the principles of vocal interpretation, and thoughthe study of the latter necessarily includes the former, yet for thesake of clearness the elementary principles of voice culture may bediscussed separately from their application in the interpretation ofthought and sentiment. 

With respect both to articulation and expression _the generic propertiesof the voice are five_, namely: _Quality_, _Pitch_, _Force_, _Time_, _Abruptness_. Of these properties there are, of course, many modes ordegrees, but the voice must, in every tone that it utters, manifestitself in some mode or other of each; and it is the possibility ofinfinite choice in the ways of combining the modes that gives to vocalexpression its infinite possibility of variety. The principles of voiceculture will be best understood, however, if these properties beconsidered separately. 

=Quality= has reference to the _kind_ of the voice in respect of itssmoothness or roughness, sonority or thinness, musicalness or harshness;also in respect of the completeness of its vocality. 

=Pitch= has reference to the degree of elevation or depression in whatis called in music the _scale_. It may be used specifically, inreference to single tones or syllables (either as to their opening, oras to their whole utterance), or generally, as descriptive of theprevailing tone or note which the voice assumes in reading a sentence orpassage. 

=Force= has reference to the power or intensity with which the sounds ofthe voice are uttered. When force is used in the utterance of singlesyllables, in whole or in part, it is spoken of as =Stress=. 

=Time= is rate of utterance. It is used with reference both to singlesyllables, and to phrases, sentences, and passages. In regard to singlesyllables it is sometimes called =Quantity=. In the consideration oftime may be included that of _pauses_ and _rhythms_. 

=Abruptness= has reference to the relative suddenness with whichsyllables may be uttered. It may vary from the most delicate opening toa forcible explosion. 

Vocality depends upon respiration. All exercises, therefore, which areeffective in increasing the vigor, freedom, and elasticity of thebreathing apparatus, may be taken as initiatory steps in voice culture;and, in moderation, they should be practised continually. Full, slowinspirations followed by slow, and, as far as possible, completeexpirations; full, quick inspirations similarly followed; fullinspirations followed by sudden and forcible expirations; full, deepinspirations, followed by slow, slightly but distinctly audibleexpirations, as in deep sighing; these and similar practices may bepursued. What is to be aimed at is to secure complete control of thebreath, especially to the degree that, with perfect deliberateness, itcan be equably and smoothly effused. 

In all exercises where vocality is required it is best _first_ to usethe sound of _ä_, as in _far_, for in this sound the quality of thehuman voice is heard in most perfection, and in uttering it the vocalorgans are most flexible and most easily adapt themselves to change. Itmay be preceded by the aspirate _h_, or by some consonant, as may bethought necessary. 

In effective speaking or reading, _with respect to the abruptness andrapidity of expiration there are three modes of utterance_: the=effusive=, by which the voice is poured forth smoothly and equably, the=expulsive= and the =explosive=. Of these three modes the effusive is byfar the most important, but the others, and especially the expulsive, have their uses also. These modes will be illustrated in the followingexercise:

 EXERCISE. --1. After a full and deliberate inspiration let the expiration of the element _h_ be gently effected, until the lungs are exhausted--the aspiration coming from the very depths of the throat. Let this be repeated with the syllable _häh_, audibly whispered. This is _effusive_ utterance. 

 2. After a full and deliberate inspiration let the expiration of the element _h_ be suddenly effected, the expiration being continued until the whispering sound vanishes in the bottom of the throat. Let this be repeated with the syllable _häh_, audibly whispered. This is _expulsive_ utterance. 

 3. Let the exercise be the same as in (2) except that the expiration is to be much more forcibly effected, and completed almost instantaneously. This is _explosive_ utterance. 

In the cultivation of the voice either one of two ends is generally keptin view--its improvement for speaking or its improvement for singing;but progress may be made towards both ends by the same study, and thoseexercises which benefit the singing voice benefit the speaking voice, and _vice versa_. _The distinction between speaking tones and singingtones should be clearly understood. _ Musical tones are produced byisochronous (equal-timed) vibrations of the vocal organs continued forsome length of time. Hence, a musical tone is a _note_, which may beprolonged at will without varying in pitch, either up or down. Aspeaking tone, on the contrary, is produced by vibrations which are notisochronous; it is not a _note_, properly so called, and can not beprolonged, without varying in pitch. Musical tones are _discrete_, --thevoice passes from pitch to pitch through the intervals silently. Inspeaking, _every_ tone, however short the time taken in uttering it, passes from one pitch to some other through an interval _concretely_, that is, with continuous vocality; though, with respect to one another, speech syllables, like notes in music, are discrete. This may beexemplified by uttering the words, "_Where are you going?_" In singingthese words, they may be uttered on the same note, or on differentnotes, or, indeed, with different notes for the same word; but the voice_skips_ from note to note through the intervals. In speaking the words, each is uttered with an inflection or intonation in which the voicevaries in pitch, but passes through the interval concretely; theseparate words, however, and the separate syllables (if there were any)being uttered discretely. Musical utterance might be graphicallyillustrated by a series of horizontal lines of less or greater lengthsucceeding one another at different distances above or below a fixedhorizontal line. In a similar notation for speech utterance the lineswould all be curved, to represent the concrete passage through thevarious intervals. _It is the concrete intonation of every syllable andmonosyllabic word which gives to speech its distinctive character frommusic. _ Each syllable and monosyllabic word is called a =concrete=, and_it is with the concrete in all its various possibilities of utterancethat voice culture has mainly to do_. 

The intervals traversed by the voice in uttering the concrete are veryvariable. Using the musical scale for reference it may be said that inordinary speech they are generally of but one, or, at most, two notes. In animated discourse or passionate utterance the intervals may begreater. For illustration, let the pronoun "_I_" be uttered in a tone ofinterrogative surprise; a concrete with a rising interval will be theresult. The more the surprise is emphasized, especially if indignationbe conjoined with it, the greater will be the interval that the voicepasses through in uttering the concrete. If the word "_lie_" be givenimmediately after the pronoun with the same intensity of feeling, thevoice discretely descends from the high pitch heard at the end of theutterance of the pronoun, and in uttering the next concrete, againascends through an interval, of less or more extent according to theemphasis which is imparted to it. 

Again, in speech of sorrow, murmuring, piteous complaint, and the like, concrete intervals of less extent than those used in ordinary discourseare often heard. Thus, if the sentence "_Pity me, kind lady, I have nomother_, " be uttered with a plaintive expression, concretes with smallintervals will be distinctly noticeable; but it will be also noticedthat with respect to one another the syllables are discretely uttered, just as in the sentence where the concrete intervals were much greater. 

Without intending a scientifically accurate and rigid statement, it maybe said (again borrowing the terminology of music) that in ordinaryspeech the concretes are uttered with intervals of a _second_, or atmost a _third_; that in very expressive or impassioned utteranceintervals of a _fifth_ or an _octave_ are frequently used; and that themode of progression from syllable to syllable is _diatonic_, that is, not concretely, but discretely from tone to tone; and further, that inplaintive language, the syllables are uttered concretely with intervalsof a _semitone_ only, but that the mode of progression from syllable tosyllable is still discrete. 

Sometimes, but rarely, syllables are uttered _tremulously_, or with a_tremor_; that is, with constituent intervals of less than a semitone, uttered discretely in rapid succession, and passing, in the aggregate, through an interval of more or less width. An exaggerated form of thisutterance may be heard in the neighing of a horse. 

 EXERCISE. --1. Utter the syllable _pä_ as a concrete, with rising and falling intervals, severally, of a _second_, _third_, _fifth_, and an _octave_; also with intervals of a _semitone_; also with a _tremor_. Let the exercise be varied so as to include many degrees of initial pitch. Use a diagram of a musical staff for reference. 

 2. Read with exaggerated impressiveness, "_Am_ =I= _to be your slave?_ =No!="

In the pronunciation of the letter [=a], as in _pate_, two sounds areheard: the first is that of the name of the letter, which is utteredwith some degree of fulness; the second is that of _[=e]_ in _mete_, but, as it were, tapering and vanishing;--in the meantime the voicetraverses a rising interval of one tone, that is, of a second. Theutterance of these two sounds, although the sounds themselves aredistinct, is completely continuous, from the full opening of the one tothe vanishing close of the other, and it is impossible to say where thefirst ends and where the last begins. It is essential, however, toconsider them separately. The first is called the =radical movement=, and the second the =vanishing movement=; and these together constitutethe entire concrete. 

All the vowels do not equally well exemplify in their utterance a_distinction of sound_ in their radical and vanishing movements, becausesome vowel sounds are less diphthongal than others, and some, again, arepure monophthongs; but _these two movements and the concrete variationof pitch, the result of one impulse of the voice, are the essentialstructure of every syllable_, and are characteristic of speech-notes ascontradistinguished from those of song. 

When the radical and vanishing movements are effected smoothly, distinctly, and without intensity or emotion, commencing fully and withsome abruptness, and terminating gently and almost inaudibly, the resultis the =equable concrete=. This of course may be produced withintervals, either upward or downward, of any degree--tone, semitone, third, fifth, or octave. It must be said, however, that some syllables, and even some vowels, lend themselves more easily than others to thatprolonged utterance which is essential to the production of wideintervals and the perfectness of the vanishing movement. 

The equable concrete is the natural, simple mode of utterance; but underthe influence of interest, excitement, passion, and so on, the utteranceof the concrete may be greatly varied from this by means of _stress_, orforce applied to some part or to all of its extent. The differentvariations may be described as follows:

(1) =Radical Stress=, where force is applied to the opening of theconcrete. (It should be said that a slight degree of radical stress isgiven even in the equable concrete, producing its full, clear opening. )

(2) =Loud Concrete=, where force is applied throughout the wholeconcrete, the proportion of the radical to the vanish remainingunaltered. 

(3) =Median Stress=, where force is applied to the middle of theconcrete, producing a swell, or impressive fulness. 

(4) =Compound Stress=, where force is applied in an unusual degreeto each extremity of the concrete. 

(5) =Final Stress=, where force is applied to the end of the concrete, the radical stress being somewhat diminished in fulness. 

(6) =Thorough Stress=, where force is so applied that the concrete hasthe same fulness throughout. 

 EXERCISE. --With the syllable _pä_ exemplify the _equable concrete_ and the several varieties of _stress_, using different degrees of initial or radical pitch, and the various intervals of the tone, semitone, third, fifth, and octave. The exercises for the radical stress should be first aspirated, then repeated with full vocality. 

Besides the forms of the simple rising and falling intervals in whichthe concrete is generally uttered, there is another form, called the=wave=, effected by a union of these modes. It is of two varieties: (1)where a rising movement is continued into a falling movement, called the=direct wave=; (2) where a falling movement is continued into a risingmovement, called the =inverted wave=. Waves may pass through allvarieties of intervals, and may be either (1) _equal_, where the voicein both members passes through the same interval; or (2) _unequal_, where in one flexion the interval traversed by the voice is greater thanin the other. 

 EXERCISE. --With the syllable _p[=a]_ exemplify the different kinds of _waves_, with the same variations of radical pitch, interval, and stress, as before. 

The elementary sounds of speech are of three natural divisions; the_tonics_, the _subtonics_, and the _atonics_. 

The =Tonics= are the simple vowels and diphthongs. They are of perfectvocality; they admit the concrete rise and fall through all theintervals of pitch; they may be uttered with more abruptness than theother elements; and being capable of indefinite prolongation they canreceive the most perfect exemplification of the vanishing movement. Theymay be said to be: _[a:]_, as in _all_; _ä_, as in _arm_; _[. A]_, as in_ask_; _[)a]_, as in _an_; _[=a]_, as in _ate_; _â_, as in _air_;_[=e]_, as in _eve_; _[)e]_, as in _end_; _ë_, as in _err_; _[=i]_, asin _ice_; _[)i]_, as in _inn_; _[=o]_, as in _old_; _ö_, as in _or_;_[)o]_, as in _odd_; _[=u]_, as in _use_; _[)u]_, as in _up_;_[=o][=o]_, as in _ooze_; _[)o][)o]_, as in _book_; _oi_, as in _oil_;_ou_, as in _out_. (There are various ways of arranging and classifyingthese. )

 EXERCISE. --Exemplify generally the equable concrete, loud concrete, radical stress, and median stress, with upward and downward intervals, with clear, sharp openings, and with gradually attenuated vanishes, upon each of the _tonic elements_. 

The =Subtonics= possess the properties of vocality and prolongation insome degree, but much less perfectly than the tonics, and their vocality(known as the _vocal murmur_) is the same for all. They are asfollows:--_b_, _d_, _g_, _v_, _z_, _y_, _w_ (as in _woe_), _th_ (as in_then_), _zh_ (as _z_ in _azure_), j (as in _judge_, by some considerednot elementary), _l_, _m_, _n_, _ng_ (as in _sing_), _r_ (as in _ran_), and _r_ (as in _far_). They can not, without great effort, be given anabrupt opening, and so are not capable of much radical fulness, but fromtheir property of vocality they can receive, to a considerable degree, an exemplification of the vanishing movement. 

 EXERCISE. --Utter the word _bud_ slowly, and detach from the rest of the word the obscure murmur heard in pronouncing the first letter: this is the _subtonic_ represented by _b_. Utter this sound with different degrees of initial pitch, and with different intervals, both downward and upward. Produce as full an opening of the radical movement as possible, but do not attempt to give it much stress. Obtain in every case a distinct vanish. Be careful not to convert the subtonic into a tonic. Proceed in a similar manner with the other subtonics. Then, distinctly obtaining the subtonics, unite them severally with the sound of _ä_, first forcibly, then more gently, producing such syllables as _bä_, _dä_, etc. , which may be rendered with upward and downward intervals, and with different degrees of initial pitch. Finally, with such syllables as _äb_, _äd_, _äg_, _äv_, etc. , exemplify all the varieties of stress. 

The =Atonics= correspond with the first eleven of the subtonics as givenabove, from which they differ almost alone in having _no_ vocality. Theyare _p_, _t_, _k_, _f_, _s_, _h_, _wh_ (as in _when_), _th_ (as in_thin_), _sh_, and _ch_ (as in _child_, by some considered notelementary). 

 EXERCISE. --1. Form a list of such words as _pipe_, _tote_, _kick_, _fife_, _siss_, etc. , and severally utter them slowly, holding the final element for a moment, and then letting the breath escape suddenly; then, holding the initial letter firmly for a moment let it come forcibly against the sound of the remainder of the word, producing an abrupt opening, and radical stress of the vowel concrete. 2. Aspirate strongly the atonics as given above. 

 EXERCISE RECAPITULATORY. --1. Produce the syllable _pä_ in an articulate whisper in all the different varieties of pitch, interval, and stress. 2. Repeat with such syllables as _paw_, _pooh_, _p[=o]h_, etc. 3. Utter these syllables (1) expulsively, (2) explosively, with varying intervals both upward and downward, and producing distinct and clearly attenuated vanishes. 4. Select some passage of poetry involving passionate thought, and read in articulated whispers, with appropriate intonations, somewhat exaggerated, it may be. Let the intervals and stresses be slowly and distinctly given. 5. Repeat the exercise in a half whisper. 6. Next read the passage over several times in pure vocality, without exaggeration, increasing the strength of the utterance until it is as full and ringing as possible. Care must be taken that the utterance is in reality full and ringing, not sharp and hard. Let the pitch chosen be not too high--as low as possible; and let the tones come mainly from the chest and lower part of the throat. 

NOTE. --In all the exercises care should be taken that they be performedeasily and naturally, with perfect deliberation and without undue force;else they will be harmful rather than useful. 

 EXERCISE IN CONCRETE INTERVALS CONTINUED. --1. Read with appropriate intonations: "_Did you say [a:], as in all?_"--"_No, I said ä, as in arm_, "--producing in the emphatic syllables suitable rising or falling intervals of _one tone_. Then repeat, but with greater emphasis, producing intervals of a third, a fifth, or an octave. Vary the sentences so as to include all the tonic elements. 2. With each tonic element, severally, produce first a rising and then a falling interval, each of a tone; then intervals of a third, a fifth, and an octave. 3. Extend the exercise so as to produce with each element, and with all the various intervals, a series or succession of rising and falling intervals, thus: _rising, falling, rising, falling_, etc. Use the blackboard and the musical scale for illustration and reference. 

Syllables vary greatly in their capacity for prolongation, and in thisrespect are classified into _immutable_, _mutable_, and _indefinite_. 

=Immutable Syllables= are almost incapable of prolongation; they arethose which end in one of the abrupt atonic elements, _p_, _t_, _k_; as_tip_, _hit_, _kick_; or in one of the abrupt subtonics, _b_, _d_, _g_;as _tub_, _thud_, _pug_. Some syllables that so end, by virtue of tonicor subtonic elements which they may contain, are capable of _some_prolongation; for example, _warp_, _dart_, _block_, _grab_, _dread_, _grog_. These are called =Mutable Syllables=. 

=Indefinite Syllables= are capable of almost indefinite prolongation;they are those which terminate in a tonic, or any subtonic except one ofthe three abrupt subtonics, _b_, _d_, _g_; for example, _awe_, _fudge_, _hail_, _arm_. 

NOTE. --It must be remembered that when for the sake of exercise oreffect syllables are extended in time, they must be so uttered thattheir identity is not impaired, --that is, their enunciation must befree from mouthing. 

As has been remarked before our pronunciation of vowels is notoriouslycareless; but by a little attention anyone can easily free himself fromthis reproach. Frequent practice in the accurate enunciation of thetonic elements as given above, and a habit of watchfulness establishedas to the orthoepy of those which are most easily obscured, in all wordsin which they occur, will soon secure, if not a resonant, sonorousutterance with respect to the tonic elements, at least a correctpronunciation. But the correct and distinct pronunciation of thesubtonic, and especially of the atonic, elements, when they occur, as is so frequent in English words, in combination, is not so easilyaccomplished; and orthoepy, in this respect, as a _habit_, cannot besecured without great care and incessant practice. For example, theword _months_ is habitually pronounced by almost everyone as if itwere spelled _munce_. The following list for practice will affordmaterial to begin with; other lists should be prepared by the teacher. 

_Plinth, blithe, sphere, shriek, quote, whether, tipt, depth, robed, hoofed, calved, width, hundredth, exhaust, whizzed, hushed, ached, wagged, etched, pledged, asked, dreamt, alms, adapts, depths, lefts, heav'ns, meddl'd, beasts, wasps, hosts, exhausts, gasped, desks, selects, facts, hints, healths, tenths, salts, builds, wilds, milked, mulcts, elms, prob'd'st, think'st, hold'st, attempt'st, want'st, heard'st, mask'st. _

 EXERCISE. --Utter the words in the above list in distinct articulate whispers; then with vocality, softly and gently. Avoid hissing and mouthing. 

While, in reading, distinct enunciation is an excellence to be aimed at, yet the words of a sentence should not be uttered as if completelysevered from one another. Every sentence falls naturally into _groups_, the several groups being composed of words related in sense; and forimpressive reading the words of each group should be _implicated_, ortied together. For example, in the line, _Once upon a midnight dreary, while I ponder'd, weak and weary_, there are naturally three groups; inthe line, _The quality of mercy is not strain'd_, there is but one. Inthese groups the terminal sound of each word is implicated with theinitial sound of the succeeding word. If the terminal sound is a tonic, or a flowing subtonic, the implication consists of a gentle murmuringprolongation of the terminal element coalescing with the initial elementof the next word; if the terminal element is a flowing atonic theprolongation will not be accompanied by a murmur; but in either case thevocal organs, while prolonging the sound of one word, prepare, as itwere, to begin the next. If the terminal element be one of the abruptsubtonics the vocal murmur is difficult to produce, and in this case, and also when the terminal element is an abrupt atonic, there is asuspension of the voice for a time equal to that occupied by themurmuring prolongation in the other cases; but the organs keep theposition which they have in finishing the one word until they relax totake position for the utterance, with renewed exertion, of the openingsound of the next. 

It must be added that this implication is not confined to the componentwords of a group; for the sake of impressiveness the groups themselvesare often implicated, --but by suspension of the voice and a maintenanceof the vocal organs in their previous position, before they suddenlyrelax to form the opening sound of the first word in their next group, rather than by the murmuring prolongation above described. 

 EXERCISE. --Read with suitable implication: (1) _O Tiber! father Tiber! to whom the Romans pray, a Roman's life, a Roman's arms, take thou in charge this day!_ (2) _But still the patriot, and the patriot-bard, in bright succession raise, her ornament and guard. _

The nicety with which implication should be effected depends, likeexactness of articulation, upon the gravity, complexity, fervor, grace, beauty, or other distinguishing and elevated quality of the thoughts andsentiments contained in the words to be read. Common-place ideas arecouched, as a rule, in common-place language, and require no nicediscrimination of sounds, or other refinement of utterance, for theirfull rendering; but in true poetry and impassioned prose implication isno mean instrument of effectual interpretation. 

The speaking voice, like the singing voice, is capable of utterancethrough a considerable range of pitch--in highly cultivated voices, ofthree octaves; in less highly cultivated voices, of one octave; but forall voices, not perverted by bad habit, there are three or four notes, of moderate height, upon which utterance is most easy and natural, andmost capable of great and sustained effort. These notes should beselected as the =normal pitch= of discourse. 

In speaking or reading, except in certain infrequent cases, the _whole_of the breath expired from the lungs should be utilized in producing=pure vocality=. Should any breath be spent in aspiration, or inhissing, or in guttural enunciation, the vocality is said to be=impure=. Impure vocality, it is true, has its own appropriate use, inthe representation of certain emotional states of the mind. Purevocality is heard naturally in the tones of children at play; but inadults, through carelessness or injudicious education, it is oftenwanting. 

The mechanism of the voice is very complicated and not thoroughlyunderstood. It is a matter of common experience, however, that in theutterance of tones of low pitch, whether speech tones or musical, thevoice seems to come from the chest rather than from the head; and, inthe utterance of tones of high pitch, on the other hand, it seems tocome from the head rather than from the chest; so that all tones aresaid to belong either to the _lower_ or _chest register_, or to the_higher_ or _head register_. As both chest tones and head tones may beobscured by impurities, and their resonance diminished or destroyed bydefective enunciation, the pure, clear, ringing utterance of tones ofboth registers should be constantly striven for. The normal pitch ofutterance, referred to above, should always be such that the tonescomprised in it can be produced either from the head or from the chest, at will; but for sustained efforts, for the best effects both of readingand of oratory, the chest tones are much to be preferred, since, ascompared with head tones, they are capable of being produced withgreater resonance and penetrating power, and, for any considerablelength of time, with greater ease to the speaker. 

All tones of the human voice, whether speaking or musical, whether ofthe head or of the chest, are spoken of as having =quality=, or=timbre=, and the term is also used more generally in reference to thewhole compass of utterance. The quality of the voice is its mostdistinguishing characteristic, and it is upon its cultivation andimprovement that the greatest efforts of the student should be spent. Pure voice is usually spoken of as being manifested in two qualities, the _natural_ and the _orotund_. 

=Natural Quality= may be described as a head tone to which some degreeof resonance is given by the chest; but the brilliancy of its resonanceis produced by its reverberation against the bony arch of the mouth. Itmay, of course, vary in pitch, but tones of low pitch that are intendedto be impressive are most suitably rendered in orotund quality. In itsperfect manifestations, the natural quality should be clear, ringing, light, and sparkling, --if it be possible to describe its characteristicsby such metaphorical words. 

=Orotund Quality= is the result only of cultivation, but no speaker orreader can produce those finer effects which are the appropriate symbolsof strong and deep emotion, whose voice cannot assume this mode at will. It differs from the natural mode in obtaining from the chest a greatersupply of air, and a deeper and fuller resonance, and the reverberationsseem to be against the walls of the pharynx, or posterior regions of themouth, rather than against the palate, or upper part of the mouth. Infulness, strength, and ringing quality, it is superior to the naturalmode, but not distinct from it; in clearness and smoothness it should beequal to it. As it befits a chest tone rather than a head tone, it isnatural to utterances in medium and low pitch; but it must not beconfounded with low pitch simply, nor must its characteristic fulness betaken for loudness simply. With the orotund, as well as with the naturalquality, all the voice modes previously described may be conjoined. 

 EXERCISE. --1. With the syllable _häh_, make an expiration in the voice of whisper, forcing slowly all air out from the chest. Then give to this expiration vocality, producing the reverberation far back in the mouth: the resulting utterance is a _hoarse exemplification of the orotund_. With the mouth in the position of a yawn, making the cavity of reverberation as large as possible, repeat the exercise until the utterance can be produced smoothly and without hoarseness. 2. Form similar syllables containing other tonic elements, and make similar exercises, taking care to produce a smooth, effusive utterance. 3. Select a sentence such as "_Roll on thou deep and dark blue ocean, roll_, " abounding in long open vowels and indefinite syllables, and using suitable intonations read it in low pitch, with full, resonant chest tones. Then gradually raise the pitch, still obtaining the tones from the chest and uttering them with full resonance. 4. With such syllables as _häh_, _you_, _now_, _man_, _war_, _hail_, _fool_, practise in orotund voice the various exercises for pitch, concrete intervals, waves, stress, etc. , previously suggested. 5. Read with feeling and appropriate intonations selected sentences from compositions of elevated or impassioned diction, as "Solomons's Prayer" (p. 35), "The Hymn" (p. 68), "France" (p. 205). 

Of the various qualities (as they are called) of impure voice, the=Aspirate=, the =Sibilant=, and the =Guttural= are defined withsufficient clearness, by their names. Though these modes can beappropriately used only occasionally, nevertheless they are of greatvalue to the reader, and the voice should be trained to assume themwhenever necessary. Great care must be exercised, however, thatimpurities shall never be present as characteristics of _normal_utterance; this, whether from the head or chest, should be distinct, sonorous, and smooth, and should exhaust every particle of air expired. 

Another impure quality is the =Pectoral=, which is an aspirationproduced, as it were, from the lowest cavities of the chest; and stillanother is the =Falsetto=, an unnatural voice, that seems to be producedentirely in the upper cavities of the head. The employment of theFalsetto at any time, either in speaking or reading, is of doubtfultaste. 

 EXERCISE. --1. With the syllable _häh_ exemplify severally the aspirate, guttural, and pectoral qualities, first with insufficient vocality, then with sufficient. Exemplify the sibilant impurity with such syllables as _pish_, _false_, _traitress_, _miscreant_. In those exercises employ intervals of varying lengths, different degrees of initial pitch, and the several varieties of stress; and let the utterances be made effusively, expulsively, and explosively. 2. Select appropriate passages in "The Raven" (p. 258) for exercise in natural, orotund, aspirate, guttural, and pectoral qualities. Read the passages severally with appropriate intonations, --it may be somewhat exaggeratingly. Then read the whole poem feelingly, with appropriate, but not exaggerated intonations. 

So far, what has been said has had reference mainly to the cultivationand improvement of the voice, by the analogies and description of thevarious effective modes in which it can be manifested, and by thesuggestion of suitable exercises for increasing its endurance, strength, flexibility, and resonance. It remains now to discuss shortly some ofthe principles of _vocal interpretation_, --that is, to discuss whatmodes of voice-action are appropriate to the representation of thevarious emotions which the wide range of literature presents to thereader. 

It must be said in respect of principles that only broad and easilyverifiable ones are of use, and even these may be abused by a toorigorous adherence to them. The best rule that can be given, as indeedit is founded on a principle of widest application, is that laid down inthe _Fourth Reader_:--_To give a faithful sympathetic attention to thefull meaning and sentiment of what is read, and to manage the voice soas effectively to express this meaning and sentiment;_ since this willalways ensure a certain measure of appropriateness, if not the fullperfection of it. And it cannot be too much emphasized that even thefullest knowledge and most patient study can establish for the readingof any selection, or passage, or sentence, _none but generaldirections_, since the same words may very frequently be rendered inseveral ways, with differences of pitch, time, stress, quality, implication, and so on, but with equal effectiveness and equalappropriateness. And, on the other hand, any whole selection, even thesimplest, is far too complex in its thought and sentiment to be disposedof in one general analysis, which shall predetermine the pitch, tone, and stress, and the prevailing width of the intervals, and the directionof the inflections; all these will vary from paragraph to paragraph, andfrom sentence to sentence, even from word to word. To sum up, it may besaid that good reading demands as indispensable, quick-wittedintelligence, ready sympathy, and a voice so trained as to be flexibleand resonant; if the reader have this much endowment his reading willalways be effective, and, moreover, appropriate and impressive. 

_All diction may be roughly described as exhibiting one of three statesof feeling:_ (1) that in which feeling, as it is generally understood, is almost wanting; (2) that in which it is present in some considerabledegree; (3) that in which the feeling is present in an extreme degree, dominating the ideas which the several sentences logically express. Tothe first division, which may be called the =diction of discourse=, belongs all language indicative of a quiet state of mind--formalstatement, narrative, description, simple argument or reasoning: it isthe language of all ordinary writing. To the second division, which maybe called the =diction of sentiment or feeling=, belongs all languagewhich indicates that the mind of the speaker, real or supposed, is in astate of moderate excitement; that he is interested in the relation ofhimself to others, and, consequently, in the effect of his utterancesupon them; or that, subjectively, he is interested in himself: it is thelanguage of admiration, reverence, awe, sincerity, dignity, of pathos, supplication, penitence. To the third division, which may be called the=diction of passion=, belongs all language expressive of deeperexcitement and more vehement interest than that described as animatingthe diction of feeling: it is the language of earnest or anxiousinterrogation, of passionate ejaculation, of powerful appeal, strongaccusation, and fierce denunciation; also, of contempt, derision, scorn, loathing, anger, hate, and so on. 

Voice, as we have seen, possesses five generic properties, pitch, force, quality, time, and abruptness; and, in every spoken word, it must assumesome mode of _each_ of these properties, manifesting them inco-existence. This conjoint mode, or _vocal sign_, as it is called, should be the appropriate expression of the thought and feeling of whichthe word, in its place in the sentence, is the _graphical sign_. Hence, as each word in a sentence may be said to have its appropriate vocalsign, so each variety of diction may be said to have its appropriatevocal expression, --a latitude of choice in the constituent modes, and aconsequent indeterminateness in the resulting expression, being, ofcourse, always conceded. 

The appropriate vocal expression for the diction of discourse may besaid to consist of the following modes:--normal pitch, simpleintonations, and waves of a second, moderate force, the equableconcrete varied by slight radical stress, in quality the natural mode, in abruptness sufficient sharpness of opening to effect cleararticulation, and in time a moderate rate with effusive utterance. 

As the diction rises above this plain unimpassioned character, andbecomes more and more informed with feeling and sentiment, theconstituent vocal signs, and hence the whole vocal expression, becomemore and more expressive. In pitch there is frequent variation: inexpressions of joy, astonishment, or for command, the voice assumesnaturally a somewhat higher elevation; and with equal naturalness itdescends below its normal level to utter the language of grave, solemn, and reverential feeling. Again, inasmuch as the interval of the secondis the plainest and simplest within the command of the voice, in suchdiction as we are now considering, intervals of a third, a fifth, oreven an octave, may be heard, both in simple intonations and in waves. Force, too, will not be unvaryingly applied, but will be greater or lessaccording as energy or passion may demand. In stress the equableconcrete will give place to the radical or to the final, to expressenergetic resolve; or, in the language of pathos, exaltation, reverence, supplication, and so on, to the median--the most effective of all modesfor the expression of such deep feeling as is compatible with slowutterance. In time the rate of utterance will vary with the syllabicquantities, these being short and crisp in the language of vivaciousconversation, but extended, and with distinct, attenuated vanishes, ingrave and important monologue. In quality, whenever the diction, departing from its simple character, becomes pervaded by some deepemotion, the natural mode will give place to the orotund. And whileeffusive utterance is always the prevalent mode, it will give place tothe expulsive mode or to the explosive, when energy of thought or forceof passion requires it so. 

Thus, _as the diction rises_ from plain discourse to the language offeeling, _the appropriate vocal expression gathers intensity and becomesmore varied_, assumes, as may be said, brighter colors and displaysgreater contrasts; and so, in the third class of diction, the diction ofpassion, it displays its intensest and most vivid modes--its brightestcolors, its deepest contrasts. 

As it is in a general sense only, that diction can be understood to bereferrible to three classes, so also, in a general sense only, can it beunderstood that any particular sentence or passage has its appropriatevocal expression. All that is intended is simply this: an analysis ofthe sentence, or passage, or selection, gives to the careful student acertain conception of the quality and intensity of the feeling orpassion that pervades it; this is to be interpreted, as well as may be, by the most appropriate vocal signs possible--the whole constituting thevocal expression suitable to the piece. In respect to its pervadingemotion, the selection will have what is called a =drift=, or generaltendency, towards one of those states described as characteristic of thediction of discourse, the diction of feeling, and the diction ofpassion, respectively; and it is the business of the reader to watch forthis drift, which of course may vary from passage to passage, fromsentence to sentence, and sometimes from word to word, and to interpretit as best he may. 

To indicate what modes of voice utterance are naturally most appropriateto the expression of these various emotional states and drifts, it willbe best to take up, one by one, the different properties of the voice, and the several modes in which they are manifested, and to statebriefly, and in general terms, the emotional state or drift of which itis an appropriate expression. (With respect to quality and abruptnessthis will be sufficiently done indirectly. ) The student then must forhimself, if he wishes to apply these results to the reading of anyselected passage, first by analysis ascertain what are the emotionalstates which it involves, what are its prevailing drifts, then inrespect to each property of the voice choose the suitable mode for theinterpretation of these several states or drifts, conjoin the selectedmodes into appropriate vocal signs, and with these form the vocalexpression that suitably interprets the whole passage. _The teacher, orthe teacher and student together, should select from the_ READER, _orelsewhere, sentences or passages that fitly exemplify the differentmodes; these should be written upon a black-board, or in some other waypreserved, and be referred to frequently for practice both in voiceculture and in vocal interpretation. _

I. PITCH. Pitch must be considered under three heads: first, asreferring to the prevailing elevation of tone assumed by the voice inthe reading of a whole sentence, passage, or selection, called _general_or _sentential pitch_; second, as referring to the degree of elevationassumed by the voice in the utterance of the opening, or radical, of anysyllable, called _initial_ or _radical pitch_; third, as referring tothe tone-width of the intervals in the utterance of the syllableconcrete. 

=Sentential Pitch= in its various modes is descriptive of the generalposition in the scale taken by the tones of the voice in uttering asentence or passage. It may be spoken of as _medium_, _high_, and _low_. =Medium Pitch= should correspond with the _normal pitch of discourse_previously described. It is natural to the expression of allunimpassioned thought, and also of all emotions, except the livelier, and the deeper and more intense. =High Pitch= and =Low Pitch= are onlyrelative terms. They do not represent fixed and definite modes ofutterance; and all that can be said is, that for the interpretation ofwhat may be called the lighter feelings and emotions, such ascheerfulness, joy, exultation, interest, and so on, also for theexpression of raillery, facetiousness, humorous conversation, laughter, and the like, sentential pitch of a degree somewhat higher than normalpitch is appropriate; and, on the other hand, for the interpretation ofwhat may be called the graver and deeper feelings, such as awe, reverence, humility, grief, and melancholy, and the more impassionedemotions, as disgust, loathing, horror, rage, despair, as well as forthe expression of all very serious and impressive thought, sententialpitch of a degree somewhat lower than normal pitch is appropriate. Thedegree of elevation and depression must be determined by the judgmentand good taste of the reader; but it must be borne in mind that thisdegree may vary from passage to passage, and from sentence to sentence, and even from phrase to phrase. 

In every style of diction, no matter how unimpassioned it may be, therewill be frequent changes in the train of thought, and frequent changesin the intensity of feeling; to represent these changes there should becorresponding variations, or =transitions in sentential pitch=. Thesetransitions also serve another purpose, namely, to indicate aninterpolated or parenthetical idea. In making transitions the voicefollows the general law of all vocal interpretation; strong contrasts inthought and feeling are marked by transitions of wide intervals, andlesser contrasts by lesser intervals. 

_Transitions in pitch are naturally accompanied by corresponding changesin force, rate of utterance, and phrasing_; and, like all other modes ofexpression, these receive their color from the intensity of thought andfeeling of which they are the symbols. For example, in the rendering ofa parenthetical clause (since, as a rule, the thought expressed in theparenthesis is of less gravity than the thought in the main sentence), the voice will manifest itself in lighter force and generally in quickermovement, that is, in lighter, less contrasting colors; but whether thepitch be raised or lowered depends upon the sentential pitch appropriateto the main sentence, --it should be in contrast with that. And it may beremarked in passing, that the reading of the parenthesis should end witha phrase melody similar to that appropriate to the words immediatelybefore the parenthesis, so that the ear may naturally be carried back tothe proper place in the main clause for the continuation of theexpression of the principal thought. 

=Radical Pitch=, that is the pitch with which the opening of a syllableis uttered, is, in respect of appropriate employment, the most importantelement of reading or speaking; but all that can be done here, is tocall attention to this, and leave the student to exercise his taste andjudgment in regard to its use. The importance of appropriately varyingradical pitch so as to impart melody to continued utterance will be seenat once if a simple sentence (for example, "_Tom and Jim sat on a log_")be read, first in that monotonous voice (that is, with unvarying radicalpitch) so often heard in the labored reading of improperly taught youngchildren, and then with those appropriate intonations heard in animatedcolloquy. When properly rendered, even if read with but littleanimation, each syllable, or concrete, passes through an interval of asecond, and the several syllables are discretely uttered; but the_radical pitch varies from syllable to syllable_, forming a diatonicmelody. _For the rendering of any given sentence in appropriate diatonicmelody, positive direction as to the order of succession in respect ofradical pitch cannot be given_; the same words may be uttered with equalappropriateness in many varieties of melody. The ignoring of this facthas led to the most absurd pretensions. 

A group of two or three syllabic concretes is called a =phrase ofmelody=; and as phrases vary with respect to pitch, in the order ofsuccession of the radicals of their constituent syllables, they receivedifferent names: such as the _monotone_, in which the radicals are allon the same pitch; and the _ditone_ and the _tritone_, groups of twotones and three tones respectively, with radicals of different pitch;and, again, the concretes in these phrases may have upward or downwardintonations: but fixed rules cannot be laid down for their use. Thereader must bear in mind, however, that it is upon the tasteful use ofphrases and cadences, that is, upon the tasteful employment ofvariation in radical pitch, that the melody of uttered language depends;and that if it be devoid of this melody, it is both wearisome andunimpressive to the hearer. 

The intonations of the voice must necessarily be through either risingintervals or falling intervals, and there is a generic difference in themeaning of these. =The rising interval= is heard naturally at the end ofa direct question; that is, one to which "_yes_" or "_no_" is anexpected answer, as "_Are you going home?_" The suspensive tone whichthe voice assumes at the end of the interrogation is indicative ofincompleteness of thought; and _indication of incompleteness is thecharacteristic function of all rising intervals_. 

=The falling interval= is heard naturally at the close of a completestatement, as "_I am here_"; and hence, _words indicating completeness, positiveness, resolution, are appropriately uttered with downwardintervals_. In effecting a downward intonation the voice operates in oneof two ways: either the _weaker mode_, in which it descends from aradical pitch at or near the current tone to a lower pitch; or the_stronger mode_, in which it assumes discretely a radical pitch as much_above_ the current tone as the emphasis requires, and descendsconcretely either to the current tone or below it. 

As every sentence is more or less incomplete until the end is reached, _rising intervals are the rule in intonation, and falling intervals theexception_, and it is this infrequency of use which gives to the fallingmovement its value as a mode of emphasis. But where the emphasis is thatof doubt, uncertainty, surprise, or interrogation, the suspensiveness ofthese emotional states is appropriately expressed by rising intonations;and hence, too, in all sentences in which the interrogative element isstrongly present, the rising interval should characterize every syllablein it, and the sentences be uttered with interrogative intonationsthroughout. If in any such sentence, a particular word is to beespecially emphasized, this is effected by giving to the word a lowradical pitch and retaining the rising interval indicative ofinterrogation. 

=The width of the interval= depends, as is natural, upon the intensityof the thought or emotion of which the concrete is intended to be anexpression. For example, suppose the statement, "=You= _are theculprit_, " be answered by the surprised and indignant interrogation, "=I?=" The emphatic words here used may be appropriately uttered withintervals of a tone, a third, a fifth, or an octave, according to theemphasis supposed necessary. 

=The Semitone=, as has been said before, is an interval sometimes heardin language of distress, complaint, grief, sorrow, tenderness, compassion, pity. Occasionally it is introduced in diatonic melody as anappropriate emphatic mode of uttering a single word; as, for example, "_Other friends have flown before; on the morrow_ HE _will leave me_. "At times diction may assume what may be called a _pathetic drift_, andfor the suitable interpretation of this drift semitonic intervals may beused, and the mode of progression cease for a space to be diatonic andbecome semitonic, or _chromatic_, as it is called. 

=The Wave= is one of the most impressive of the elements of expression;but its proper use demands great flexibility in the vocal organs and ahigh degree of taste in the reader. Like all other unusual modes, itsemployment lends color and contrast to utterance; that is, it makes itmore effective for the purposes of emphasis or distinction. The wave, ashas been described, is a concrete with an upward and a downward movementunited; but its last constituent is that which most affects the ear andleaves upon it the stronger impression, and hence, especially if it begiven with a wide interval, _its dominant characteristic will be that ofthe second movement_; for example, if the second movement be upward, thewave may express interrogation mingled with surprise or scorn; if thesecond movement be downward, the wave may express astonishment mingledwith indignation. The intervals which are given to the wave depend uponthe diction to which it is applied. To express great surprise orvehement indignation it may sweep through a fifth or a whole octave. Inthese extreme modes _the wave frequently is given a wider interval inthe second movement than in the first_, and its effect intensified bythe appropriate use of stress, and (for the expression of such emotionsas scorn, contempt, irony, ridicule, and so on) of the impure qualitiesof voice. When used with intervals of the second, the characteristics ofdirect and inverted forms lose some of their distinctness; but in thisdegree the wave is effectively used to put into relief occasional words, or, with median stress and long quantities, to give to the otherwiseshort and tripping character of the second a dignified and impressiveeffect suited to the rendering of all serious and important diction thatis not impassioned. 

=The Wave of the Semitone= is generally employed when time, or syllabicquantity, is needed as an element in the expression of the language ofcomplaint or pathos. The effect is much the same whether it be direct orindirect. 

=The Tremor= may be used to express grief, supplication, tenderness, inwhich the interval through which it ranges may be wide, or, for a moreplaintive effect, be limited to the semitone. With constituent intervalsother than the semitone (that is, of a tone or otherwise), and rangingthrough an aggregate interval of less or greater width, it may be usedto express laughter; as, for example, in the utterance of the syllables"_ha_, _ha_, _ha_, _ha_, _ha_, " which, when rapidly effected, resemblesone syllable uttered with discrete intervals. Combined with stress, aspiration, and guttural vibration, in suitable modifications, thislaughing tone may be made to express scorn, derision, exultation, triumph, and so on. 

II. FORCE. Force must be considered under two aspects: first, as to the_degree of its intensity_ in the utterance of syllables, words, phrases, and sentences; and second, as to the _form of its application in theutterance of the concrete_. When the term is used without qualification, the first of these considerations is intended; when the second isintended, force is generally spoken of as =stress=. 

_Force must be contradistinguished from loudness. _ In mere loudness thevocal organs are comparatively relaxed--the intensity of sound beingproduced by the violent discharge of a great volume of air from thelungs. In forceful utterance the vocal organs are compressed and tense, and though the volume of air effused be small, the resultingsound-vibrations are strong, and distinct, and of penetrating power. 

In respect of intensity, force may be manifested in infinite variation, but the degrees usually spoken of are _very light_, _light_, _moderate_, _strong_, and _very strong_. As with all other modes, thesedegrees will vary from word to word, and from sentence to sentence; andgreat judgment and taste must be exercised in employing them, so thatthey appropriately represent the intensity of the thought and feeling ofwhich they are to be the expression. 

=Moderate Force= is the natural expression of tranquillity, and, therefore, of all unimpassioned diction. As the diction becomes pervadedby the more positive emotions, the tones of the voice naturally becomestronger. Certainty requires strong force with pure quality. So all thepassions, the lighter as well as the more vehement, require the degreeof force to be heightened: cheerfulness, joy, ecstacy, requiring forcemoderately strong; and anger, hate, terror, revenge, being suitablyrendered by very strong force. Again, doubt, uncertainty, secrecy, aswell as the gentler and more plaintive emotions, are most suitablyrepresented by the lighter shades of force. 

As the voice assumes the intenser modes of force, the vocal organsbecome more and more compressed, and utterance is more and more labored;the breath forced out cannot all be vocalized; the voice becomes lessand less pure, and manifests itself in the aspirate and gutturalqualities. _Hence, strongly suppressed utterance in impure vocality, rather than mere loudness in pure vocality, is the appropriateexpression for all the intenser passions. _

III. STRESS. Stress is force considered with respect of the form of itsapplication to the concrete. Since the equable concrete is the naturalcolorless expression of unimpassioned thought, force applied to any partof it changes its character, and gives it a more or less significantemphasis. The three most usual forms of stress are the _radical_, the_median_, and the _final_; these may be effected in any of the degreesof force. _Compound stress_ and _thorough stress_ admit of but littlevariation. 

=Radical Stress=, to some extent an essential, but not an expressiveelement in the equable concrete, is, in a somewhat stronger form, anelement in all utterance that is intended to be vivid and energetic, emphasizing these characteristics by its own incisive clearness. Themore animated and energetic the diction the clearer and more determinedshould be the opening of the concrete, that is, the more distinct andforcible should be its radical stress; while in graver language theradical stress is less pronounced. In its emphatic degree it ought at notime to be allowed to become a current mode, imparting its peculiarincisive character to every syllable; though, for especial emphasis, itmay be appropriately used in this way in the utterance of the severalwords of a phrase. 

=Final Stress= differs from radical stress principally in this, thatwhile it equally indicates energy and positiveness, it does so as inaccordance with predetermination and reflection. _Radical stressdenotes, as it were, an involuntary state of energy; final stress, theenergy or fixedness of resolve. _ Hence, final stress is appropriate tothe expression of resolution, of obstinacy, of earnest conviction, ofpassionate resolve. It emphasizes the characteristics of wide intervals, giving to rising intonations a more decidedly interrogatory character, and making falling intonations more vehemently and passionatelypositive. 

=Median Stress=, as it can be effectively applied to none but indefiniteor mutable syllables, is compatible only with such a rate of utteranceas will permit of these receiving long quantities. It may receive anydegree of force, from that gentle swell which indicates a tranquil flowof emotion, to that firm and swelling energy which is the appropriateexpression of the language of elevated feeling. With the wider intervalsit should be used only for occasional emphasis; but in its lighter formsit may prevail as a drift of dignified expression. Median stress, beingalways necessarily associated with long quantity in syllables, is not anappropriate mode in the language of colloquy, or in vivacious discourseof any kind. It is, however, the fit interpreter of that fervid andlofty imagination which clothes itself in forms of grace and grandeur;and hence, with intonations and waves of the lesser intervals, withmedium or low sentential pitch, a moderate degree of force, and the pureor orotund quality, it is the appropriate expression of all exaltedprose and poetry, not strongly dramatic. 

=Thorough Stress= is effected by continuing the force and fulness of theradical stress throughout the whole concrete. Used as a current mode, which should be but rarely, it is expressive of bluntness, arrogance, bravado; and, with short quantities, of ignorant coarseness. Occasionally it may be used instead of final stress to give emphasis toa syllable whose vanishing movement is but little capable of receivingan increase of force. 

=Compound Stress= combines the qualities of both radical and finalstress; it is therefore of extreme character, and can be onlyoccasionally used. With wide intervals, in its stronger modes, it isexpressive of the utmost intensity of feeling; in its lighter modes itis the natural expression of strong surprise. 

=The Loud Concrete= is simply the equable concrete uttered with greaterfulness of breath and loudness of tone. It is used to break a current oflight force for the sake of emphasizing some word or phrase; and, inimpassioned discourse, it may be used as a current mode, individualwords or phrases being then put in relief by receiving the forcibleradical, or thorough, or compound stress. 

In reference to stress it must be remembered that, as with all othervarieties of emphatic utterance, no one form should prevail as anexclusive mode. Even a prevalent drift of thought or feeling will bemost effectively rendered by vocal signs which change in color andintensity from word to word. It must also be borne in mind in referenceboth to force and stress, and to pitch and time as well, that the modeswhich are employed must sustain a suitable relation to the situation andsurroundings of the speaker. Where considerable space has to be filledand distance overcome, the energy of utterance should be correspondinglyintense; but for great distances, what is called =level speaking= is theonly effectual mode, --that is, speaking exclusively in those tones ofnormal pitch in which the voice has most penetrating power, with forceof almost constant intensity, and in a somewhat slow movement with longsyllabic quantities, but of course with as much needful variation ofexpression as is possible within these limits. 

IV. TIME. Time is rate of utterance. It comprehends _quantity_, or rateconsidered in reference to the duration of individual syllables; and_movement_, or rate considered in reference to the utterance ofsyllables and words in succession. With it may be considered _pauses_, or cessations of the voice, helpful in the expression of thought andfeeling, and necessary to the working of the vocal mechanism. 

=Quantity=, as defined above, is an arbitrary thing, dependent almostentirely upon the will of the speaker. But many words and syllables aremore expressive of their meaning when, in uttering them, the voice issomewhat prolonged, --hence _quantity is an element of expression_. Again, many words and syllables can receive this prolongation ofutterance more readily than others, --hence _quantity is a naturalelement of spoken language_. As indefinite syllables are much morecapable of prolongation than mutable or immutable syllables, they aresaid to possess long quantity, or, more shortly, "to possess quantity";mutable syllables possess quantity in a less degree, and immutablesyllables are naturally deficient in quantity. 

As an element of expression, quantity (that is, long quantity) lendsdignity and grace to the movement of the voice, and affords ground forthe display of those expressive modes of vocal action which areincompatible with the rapid or ejaculatory utterance of the concrete;and hence, with median stress, the wave, moderate intervals, medium orlow sentential pitch, it is used as naturally interpretative ofsolemnity, reverence, awe, deep pathos, ardent admiration, and allelevated emotion. Colloquial tones, excited argument, wit, raillery, andall the lighter emotions, require for their expression, brilliancyrather than grace, and so are more fittingly interpreted by shortquantities and radical stress. 

The discerning reader, in his work of vocal interpretation, will notfail to take advantage of the inherent character of syllables withrespect to quantity. Our language abounds in indefinite syllables towhich he may impart whatever quantity he may desire. On the other hand, immutable syllables, while not admitting the wave and the median stress, are eminently fitted to receive the more forcible forms of radicalstress; and mutable syllables, with their abrupt closes, permit ofperfect exemplifications of thorough and final stress. 

=Movement=, though it depends for its slower and more expressive formsupon the capacities of syllables for the reception of long quantities, is, in its more rapid forms, quite independent of syllabic structure, and dependent only on the will of the speaker; hence it may be spoken ofas being altogether under his control. A medium rate of utterance is, with respect to time, the natural expression of an equable flow ofthought. The livelier emotions should be indicated by quicker rates, andhence, cheerfulness, joy, vivacious dialogue, animated narration, naturally find their expression in movements more or less brisk, withshort quantities, varied intonations, and pitch higher than the normal;the more vehement emotions, eagerness, anger, excited anxiety, demandsimply heightened forms of these modes. Contrariwise, thought of graveand meditative character, admiration, reverence, and all the deeper andcalmer feelings, require a deliberative, slow-timed utterance, with longquantities for accented syllables, and extended time for even unaccentedsyllables. As these serious emotions become stronger and deeper, thesyllabic quantities become proportionately longer, and with impressivemedian swells, orotund quality, low pitch, waves and simple intonationsof the second, frequent phrases in monotone, and an occasional tremor, constitute the most impressive utterance of adoration. 

_Occasionally an abrupt change in quantity, or movement, may be employedas a mode of emphasis_, either positive or negative; for example, in acurrent of rapid movement, a word may be put into strong relief by beinguttered with quantity much extended; contrariwise, a parenthetical orexplanatory phrase is usually touched upon lightly and with a more rapidmovement than that of the current in which it is found. 

=Pause= _may be used as an element in the expression of thought simply, that is, as a help to the interpretation of the mere sense of the wordsread_; or, _more emphatically, as an element in the expression offeeling and emotion_. As interpretative of thought, pauses shouldcorrespond mainly with the graphical marks of punctuation. Two things, however, must be borne in mind: _first_, the use of punctuation marks inwriting and in printing is always more or less an arbitrary matter, scarcely any two authors agreeing in their employment of them; andtherefore the reader's own good sense must be to him his principalauthority as to the closeness with which he follows them: and _second_, pauses are to an auditor what punctuation marks are intended to be to areader; but, whereas the eye may constantly keep within its vision therelation of each word uttered, both to those which preceded it and tothose which are to follow, the ear hears the words that are read only_ictus_ by _ictus_, stroke by stroke, and therefore can not aid the mindto grasp this relation--the memory alone helping to do that; and hence, in reading, pauses should be more frequent, and perhaps more prolonged, than the punctuation marks might seem to necessitate. The reader shouldalso bear in mind that even the plainest and simplest diction, or thatrequiring the most rapid utterance, may be so marked by appropriatepauses that those stoppages of the voice necessarily required forinspiration, shall never occur except when they assist to interpret thesense, --they must not interrupt it. 

As interpretative of emotion pauses do not necessarily correspond togrammatical structure; but, as with all the modes of expressionpreviously considered, their frequency and length--their onlymodifications--must harmonize with the feeling which they are to assistin interpreting. In length, for example, they should correspond with themovement of which they may be said to form a part; when the movement isslow, as in the expression of awe, reverence, and the like, they arenaturally long; in the brisk movement required to interpret the livelieremotions, they should be short. As a mode of emphasis pause serves tofix the attention of the hearer, --either _backward_ upon a word orphrase, that the mind may dwell upon it, or _forward_ to awakencuriosity and expectation: it is evident then that a frequent use of itfor this purpose would destroy its value. 

_Pauses may be used in reading to simulate an appropriate labor ofutterance_, as when the mind is supposed to be overcome by sorrow, ordisturbed by anger. At such times also, they serve as fit rests for thevoice in its efforts to express the disturbed condition of the mind, andas appropriate avenues for the escape of emotion otherwise than byvocality, as by sibling. _Pauses should be used also to indicate suddentransitions from one state of caution to another. _

_THE HIGH SCHOOL READER_. 

 * * * * *

I. KING SOLOMON'S PRAYER AND BLESSING AT THE DEDICATION OF THE TEMPLE. 

_From_ THE FIRST BOOK OF KINGS. 

_Translated 1611--Revised 1885. _

Then Solomon assembled the elders of Israel, and all the heads of thetribes, the princes of the fathers' houses of the children of Israel, unto king Solomon in Jerusalem, to bring up the ark of the covenant ofthe LORD out of the city of David, which is Zion. And all the men ofIsrael assembled themselves unto king Solomon at the feast, in the monthEthanim, which is the seventh month. And all the elders of Israel came, and the priests took up the ark. And they brought up the ark of theLORD, and the tent of meeting, and all the holy vessels that were in theTent; even these did the priests and the Levites bring up. And kingSolomon and all the congregation of Israel, that were assembled untohim, were with him before the ark, sacrificing sheep and oxen, thatcould not be told nor numbered for multitude. And the priests brought inthe ark of the covenant of the LORD unto its place, into the oracle ofthe house, to the most holy place, even under the wings of the cherubim. For the cherubim spread forth their wings over the place of the ark, andthe cherubim covered the ark and the staves thereof above. There wasnothing in the ark save the two tables of stone which Moses put there atHoreb, when the LORD made a covenant with the children of Israel, whenthey came out of the land of Egypt. And it came to pass, when thepriests were come out of the holy place, that the cloud filled the houseof the LORD, so that the priests could not stand to minister by reasonof the cloud: for the glory of the LORD filled the house of the LORD. 

Then spake Solomon, The LORD hath said that he would dwell in the thickdarkness. I have surely built thee an house of habitation, a place forthee to dwell in for ever. And the king turned his face about, andblessed all the congregation of Israel: and all the congregation ofIsrael stood. And he said, Blessed be the LORD, the God of Israel, whichspake with his mouth unto David my father, and hath with his handfulfilled it, saying, Since the day that I brought forth my peopleIsrael out of Egypt, I chose no city out of all the tribes of Israel tobuild an house, that my name might be there; but I chose David to beover my people Israel. Now it was in the heart of David my father tobuild an house for the name of the LORD, the God of Israel. But the LORDsaid unto David my father, Whereas it was in thine heart to build anhouse for my name, thou didst well that it was in thine heart:nevertheless thou shalt not build the house; but thy son that shall comeforth out of thy loins, he shall build the house for my name. And theLORD hath established his word that he spake; for I am risen up in theroom of David my father, and sit on the throne of Israel, as the LORDpromised, and have built the house for the name of the LORD, the God ofIsrael. And there have I set a place for the ark, wherein is thecovenant of the LORD, which he made with our fathers, when he broughtthem out of the land of Egypt. 

And Solomon stood before the altar of the LORD in the presence of allthe congregation of Israel, and spread forth his hands toward heaven:and he said, O LORD, the God of Israel, there is no God like thee, inheaven above, or on earth beneath; who keepest covenant and mercy withthy servants, that walk before thee with all their heart: who hast keptwith thy servant David my father that which thou didst promise him: yea, thou spakest with thy mouth, and hast fulfilled it with thine hand, asit is this day. Now therefore, O LORD, the God of Israel, keep with thyservant David my father that which thou hast promised him, saying, Thereshall not fail thee a man in my sight to sit on the throne of Israel; ifonly thy children take heed to their way, to walk before me as thou hastwalked before me. Now therefore, O God of Israel, let thy word, I praythee, be verified, which thou spakest unto thy servant David my father. But will God in very deed dwell on the earth? behold, heaven and theheaven of heavens cannot contain thee; how much less this house that Ihave builded! Yet have thou respect unto the prayer of thy servant, andto his supplication, O LORD my God, to hearken unto the cry and to theprayer which thy servant prayeth before thee this day: that thine eyesmay be open toward this house night and day, even toward the placewhereof thou hast said, My name shall be there: to hearken unto theprayer which thy servant shall pray toward this place. And hearken thouto the supplication of thy servant, and of thy people Israel, when theyshall pray toward this place: yea, hear thou in heaven thy dwellingplace: and when thou hearest, forgive. If a man sin against hisneighbour, and an oath be laid upon him to cause him to swear, and hecome and swear before thine altar in this house: then hear thou inheaven, and do, and judge thy servants, condemning the wicked, to bringhis way upon his own head; and justifying the righteous, to give himaccording to his righteousness. When thy people Israel be smitten downbefore the enemy, because they have sinned against thee; if they turnagain to thee, and confess thy name, and pray and make supplication untothee in this house: then hear thou in heaven, and forgive the sin of thypeople Israel, and bring them again unto the land which thou gavest untotheir fathers. When heaven is shut up, and there is no rain, becausethey have sinned against thee; if they pray toward this place, andconfess thy name, and turn from their sin, when thou dost afflict them:then hear thou in heaven, and forgive the sin of thy servants, and ofthy people Israel, when thou teachest them the good way wherein theyshould walk; and send rain upon thy land, which thou hast given to thypeople for an inheritance. If there be in the land famine, if there bepestilence, if there be blasting or mildew, locust or caterpiller; iftheir enemy besiege them in the land of their cities; whatsoever plague, whatsoever sickness there be; what prayer and supplication soever bemade by any man, or by all thy people Israel, which shall know every manthe plague of his own heart, and spread forth his hands toward thishouse: then hear thou in heaven thy dwelling place, and forgive, and do, and render unto every man according to all his ways, whose heart thouknowest; (for thou, even thou only, knowest the hearts of all thechildren of men;) that they may fear thee all the days that they livein the land which thou gavest unto our fathers. Moreover concerning thestranger, that is not of thy people Israel, when he shall come out of afar country for thy name's sake; (for they shall hear of thy great name, and of thy mighty hand, and of thy stretched out arm:) when he shallcome and pray toward this house; hear thou in heaven thy dwelling place, and do according to all that the stranger calleth to thee for; that allthe peoples of the earth may know thy name, to fear thee, as doth thypeople Israel, and that they may know that this house which I have builtis called by thy name. If thy people go out to battle against theirenemy, by whatsoever way thou shalt send them, and they pray unto theLORD toward the city which thou hast chosen, and toward the house whichI have built for thy name: then hear thou in heaven their prayer andtheir supplication, and maintain their cause. If they sin against thee, (for there is no man that sinneth not, ) and thou be angry with them, anddeliver them to the enemy, so that they carry them away captive unto theland of the enemy, far off or near; yet if they shall bethink themselvesin the land whither they are carried captive, and turn again, and makesupplication unto thee in the land of them that carried them captive, saying, We have sinned, and have done perversely, we have dealtwickedly; if they return unto thee with all their heart and with alltheir soul in the land of their enemies, which carried them captive, andpray unto thee toward their land, which thou gavest unto their fathers, the city which thou hast chosen, and the house which I have built forthy name: then hear thou their prayer and their supplication in heaventhy dwelling place, and maintain their cause; and forgive thy peoplewhich have sinned against thee, and all their transgressions whereinthey have transgressed against thee; and give them compassion beforethose who carried them captive, that they may have compassion on them:for they be thy people, and thine inheritance, which thou broughtestforth out of Egypt, from the midst of the furnace of iron: that thineeyes may be open unto the supplication of thy servant, and unto thesupplication of thy people Israel, to hearken unto them whensoeverthey cry unto thee. For thou didst separate them from among all thepeoples of the earth, to be thine inheritance, as thou spakest bythe hand of Moses thy servant, when thou broughtest our fathers outof Egypt, O Lord GOD. 

And it was so, that when Solomon had made an end of praying all thisprayer and supplication unto the LORD, he arose from before the altar ofthe LORD, from kneeling on his knees with his hands spread forth towardheaven. And he stood, and blessed all the congregation of Israel with aloud voice, saying, Blessed be the LORD, that hath given rest unto hispeople Israel, according to all that he promised: there hath not failedone word of all his good promise, which he promised by the hand of Moseshis servant. The LORD our God be with us, as he was with our fathers:let him not leave us, nor forsake us: that he may incline our heartsunto him, to walk in all his ways, and to keep his commandments, and hisstatutes, and his judgments, which he commanded our fathers. And letthese my words, wherewith I have made supplication before the LORD, benigh unto the LORD our God day and night, that he maintain the cause ofhis servant, and the cause of his people Israel, as every day shallrequire: that all the peoples of the earth may know that the LORD, he isGod; there is none else. Let your heart therefore be perfect with theLORD our God, to walk in his statutes, and to keep his commandments, asat this day. And the king, and all Israel with him, offered sacrificebefore the LORD. 

II. INVITATION. 

_From_ ISAIAH. 

_Translated 1611--Revised 1885. _

Ho, every one that thirsteth, come ye to the waters, and he that hath nomoney; come ye, buy, and eat; yea, come, buy wine and milk without moneyand without price. Wherefore do ye spend money for that which is notbread? and your labour for that which satisfieth not? hearken diligentlyunto me, and eat ye that which is good, and let your soul delight itselfin fatness. Incline your ear, and come unto me; hear and your soul shalllive: and I will make an everlasting covenant with you, even the suremercies of David. .. . 

Seek ye the LORD while he may be found, call ye upon him while he isnear: let the wicked forsake his way, and the unrighteous man histhoughts: and let him return unto the LORD, and he will have mercy uponhim; and to our God, for he will abundantly pardon. For my thoughts arenot your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways, saith the LORD. For asthe heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than yourways, and my thoughts than your thoughts. For as the rain cometh downand the snow from heaven, and returneth not thither, but watereth theearth, and maketh it bring forth and bud, and giveth seed to the sowerand bread to the eater; so shall my word be that goeth forth out of mymouth: it shall not return unto me void, but it shall accomplish thatwhich I please, and it shall prosper in the thing whereto I sent it. Forye shall go out with joy, and be led forth with peace: the mountains andthe hills shall break forth before you into singing, and all the treesof the field shall clap their hands. Instead of the thorn shall come upthe fir tree, and instead of the brier shall come up the myrtle tree:and it shall be to the LORD for a name, for an everlasting sign thatshall not be cut off. 

III. THE TRIAL SCENE IN THE "MERCHANT OF VENICE. "[A]

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. --1564-1616. 

_Scene_--A Court of Justice. _Present_--THE DUKE, the Magnificoes, ANTONIO, BASSANIO, GRATIANO, SOLANIO, and others. 

_Duke. _ What, is Antonio here?

_Antonio. _ Ready, so please your grace. 

_Duke. _ I am sorry for thee: thou art come to answerA stony adversary, an inhuman wretchUncapable of pity, void and emptyFrom any dram of mercy. 

_Antonio. _ I have heardYour grace hath ta'en great pains to qualifyHis rigorous course; but since he stands obdurate, And that no lawful means can carry meOut of his envy's reach, I do opposeMy patience to his fury; and am arm'dTo suffer, with a quietness of spirit, The very tyranny and rage of his. 

_Duke. _ Go one, and call the Jew into the court. 

_Solanio. _ He's ready at the door: he comes, my lord. 

_Enter_ SHYLOCK. 

_Duke. _ Make room, and let him stand before our face. --Shylock, the world thinks, and I think so too, That thou but lead'st this fashion of thy maliceTo the last hour of act; and then 'tis thoughtThou'lt show thy mercy and remorse, more strangeThan is thy strange apparent cruelty;And where thou now exact'st the penalty, --Which is a pound of this poor merchant's flesh, --Thou wilt not only loose the forfeiture, But, touch'd with human gentleness and love, Forgive a moiety of the principal;Glancing an eye of pity on his losses, That have of late so huddled on his back, Enough to press a royal merchant downAnd pluck commiseration of his stateFrom brassy bosoms and rough hearts of flint, From stubborn Turks and Tartars, never train'dTo offices of tender courtesy. We all expect a gentle answer, Jew. 

_Shylock. _ I have possess'd your grace of what I purpose;And by our holy Sabbath have I swornTo have the due and forfeit of my bond:If you deny it, let the danger lightUpon your charter and your city's freedom. You'll ask me, why I rather choose to haveA weight of carrion flesh than to receiveThree thousand ducats; I'll not answer that;But, say, it is my humor; is it answer'd?What if my house be troubled with a rat, And I be pleas'd to give ten thousand ducatsTo have it ban'd? What, are you answer'd yet?Some men there are love not a gaping pig;Some, that are mad if they behold a cat;And others, when the bagpipe sings i' the nose, Cannot contain themselves: for affection, Master of passion, sways it to the moodOf what it likes, or loathes. Now, for your answer:As there is no firm reason to be render'd, Why he cannot abide a gaping pig;Why he, a harmless necessary cat;Why he, a woollen bagpipe, --but of forceMust yield to such inevitable shameAs to offend, himself being offended;So can I give no reason, nor I will not, More than a lodg'd hate and a certain loathingI bear Antonio, that I follow thusA losing suit against him. Are you answer'd?

_Bassanio. _ This is no answer, thou unfeeling man, To excuse the current of thy cruelty. 

_Shylock. _ I am not bound to please thee with my answer. 

_Bassanio. _ Do all men kill the things they do not love?

_Shylock. _ Hates any man the thing he would not kill?

_Bassanio. _ Every offence is not a hate at first. 

_Shylock. _ What, would'st thou have a serpent sting thee twice?

_Antonio. _ I pray you, think you question with the Jew. You may as well go stand upon the beach, And bid the main flood bate his usual height;You may as well use question with the wolf, Why he hath made the ewe bleat for the lamb;You may as well forbid the mountain pinesTo wag their high tops, and to make no noise, When they are fretted with the gusts of heaven;You may as well do anything most hard, As seek to soften that--than which what's harder?--His Jewish heart: therefore, I do beseech you, Make no more offers, use no further means, But, with all brief and plain conveniency, Let me have judgment, and the Jew his will. 

_Bassanio. _ For thy three thousand ducats here is six. 

_Shylock. _ If every ducat in six thousand ducatsWere in six parts, and every part a ducat, I would not draw them; I would have my bond. 

_Duke. _ How shalt thou hope for mercy, rend'ring none?

_Shylock. _ What judgment shall I dread, doing no wrong?You have among you many a purchas'd slave, Which, like your asses, and your dogs, and mules, You use in abject and in slavish parts, Because you bought them: shall I say to you, Let them be free, marry them to your heirs?Why sweat they under burdens? let their bedsBe made as soft as yours, and let their palatesBe season'd with such viands? You will answer, "The slaves are ours:" so do I answer you:The pound of flesh, which I demand of him, Is dearly bought; 'tis mine, and I will have it:If you deny me, fie upon your law!There is no force in the decrees of Venice. I stand for judgment: answer; shall I have it?

_Duke. _ Upon my power I may dismiss this court, Unless Bellario, a learnèd doctor, Whom I have sent for to determine this, Come here to-day. 

_Solanio. _ My lord, here stays withoutA messenger with letters from the doctor, New come from Padua. 

_Duke. _ Bring us the letters; call the messenger. 

_Bassanio. _ Good cheer, Antonio! What, man, courage yet!The Jew shall have my flesh, blood, bones, and all, Ere thou shalt lose for me one drop of blood. 

_Antonio. _ I am a tainted wether of the flock, Meetest for death: the weakest kind of fruitDrops earliest to the ground, and so let me:You cannot better be employ'd, Bassanio, Than to live still, and write mine epitaph. 

_Enter_ NERISSA, _dressed like a lawyer's clerk. _

_Duke. _ Came you from Padua, from Bellario?

_Nerissa. _ From both, my lord: Bellario greets your grace. 

[_Presents a letter. _

_Bassanio. _ Why dost thou whet thy knife so earnestly?

_Shylock. _ To cut the forfeiture from that bankrupt there. 

_Gratiano. _ Not on thy sole, but on thy soul, harsh Jew, Thou mak'st thy knife keen; but no metal can, No, not the hangman's axe, bear half the keennessOf thy sharp envy. Can no prayers pierce thee?

_Shylock. _ No, none that thou hast wit enough to make. 

_Gratiano. _ O, be thou damn'd, inexorable dog!And for thy life let justice be accus'd. Thou almost mak'st me waver in my faith, To hold opinion with Pythagoras, That souls of animals infuse themselvesInto the trunks of men: thy currish spiritGovern'd a wolf, who, hang'd for human slaughter, Even from the gallows did his fell soul fleet, And, whilst thou lay'st in thy unhallow'd dam, Infus'd itself in thee; for thy desiresAre wolfish, bloody, starv'd, and ravenous. 

_Shylock. _ Till thou canst rail the seal from off my bond, Thou but offend'st thy lungs to speak so loud:Repair thy wit, good youth, or it will fallTo cureless ruin. I stand here for law. _Duke. _ This letter from Bellario doth commendA young and learnèd doctor to our court:--Where is he?

_Nerissa. _ He attendeth here hard by, To know your answer, whether you'll admit him. 

_Duke. _ With all my heart. --Some three or four of youGo give him courteous conduct to this place. --Meantime the court shall hear Bellario's letter. 

[Clerk reads. ] _Your grace shall understand, that, at the receipt ofyour letter, I am very sick: but, in the instant that your messengercame, in loving visitation was with me a young doctor of Rome; his nameis Balthazar. I acquainted him with the cause in controversy between theJew and Antonio the merchant: we turned o'er many books together: he isfurnished with my opinion: which, bettered with his own learning, thegreatness whereof I cannot enough commend, comes with him, at myimportunity, to fill up your grace's request in my stead. I beseech you, let his lack of years be no impediment to let him lack a reverendestimation; for I never knew so young a body with so old a head. I leavehim to your gracious acceptance, whose trial shall better publish hiscommendation. _

_Duke. _ You hear the learned Bellario, what he writes:And here, I take it, is the doctor come. --

_Enter_ PORTIA, _dressed like a doctor of laws. _

Give me your hand: came you from old Bellario?

_Portia. _ I did, my lord. 

_Duke. _ You are welcome; take your place. Are you acquainted with the differenceThat holds this present question in the court?

_Portia. _ I am informèd, throughly of the cause. Which is the merchant here, and which the Jew?

_Duke. _ Antonio and old Shylock, both stand forth. 

_Portia. _ Is your name Shylock?

_Shylock. _ Shylock is my name. 

_Portia. _ Of a strange nature is the suit you follow;Yet in such rule that the Venetian lawCannot impugn you as you do proceed. --You stand within his danger, do you not? [_To_ ANTONIO. 

_Antonio. _ Ay, so he says. 

_Portia. _ Do you confess the bond?

_Antonio. _ I do. 

_Portia. _ Then must the Jew be merciful. 

_Shylock. _ On what compulsion must I? Tell me that. 

_Portia. _ The quality of mercy is not strain'd;It droppeth as the gentle rain from heavenUpon the place beneath: it is twice bless'd;It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes:'Tis mightiest in the mightiest: it becomesThe thronèd monarch better than his crown;His sceptre shows the force of temporal power, The attribute to awe and majesty, Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings;But mercy is above this sceptred sway;It is enthronèd in the hearts of kings, It is an attribute to God himself;And earthly power doth then show likest God'sWhen mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew, Though justice be thy plea, consider this, --That, in the course of justice, none of usShould see salvation: we do pray for mercy;And that same prayer doth teach us all to renderThe deeds of mercy. I have spoke thus muchTo mitigate the justice of thy plea;Which if thou follow, this strict court of VeniceMust needs give sentence 'gainst the merchant there. 

_Shylock. _ My deeds upon my head! I crave the law, The penalty and forfeit of my bond. 

_Portia. _ Is he not able to discharge the money?

_Bassanio. _ Yes, here I tender it for him in the court;Yea, twice the sum: if that will not suffice, I will be bound to pay it ten times o'er, On forfeit of my hands, my head, my heart:If this will not suffice, it must appearThat malice bears down truth. And I beseech you, Wrest once the law to your authority:To do a great right, do a little wrong;And curb this cruel devil of his will. 

_Portia. _ It must not be; there is no power in VeniceCan alter a decree establishèd:'Twill be recorded for a precedent;And many an error, by the same example, Will rush into the state. It cannot be. 

_Shylock. _ A Daniel come to judgment! yea, a Daniel!O wise young judge, how do I honour thee!

_Portia. _ I pray you, let me look upon the bond. 

_Shylock. _ Here 'tis, most reverend doctor, here it is. 

_Portia. _ Shylock, there's thrice thy money offer'd thee. 

_Shylock. _ An oath, an oath, I have an oath in heaven:Shall I lay perjury upon my soul?No, not for Venice. 

_Portia. _ Why, this bond is forfeit;And lawfully by this the Jew may claimA pound of flesh, to be by him cut offNearest the merchant's heart. --Be merciful;Take thrice thy money; bid me tear the bond. 

_Shylock. _ When it is paid according to the tenor. It doth appear you are a worthy judge;You know the law, your expositionHath been most sound: I charge you by the law, Whereof you are a well-deserving pillar, Proceed to judgment. By my soul I swearThere is no power in the tongue of manTo alter me: I stay here on my bond. 

_Antonio. _ Most heartily I do beseech the courtTo give the judgment. 

_Portia. _ Why, then, thus it is:You must prepare your bosom for his knife;--

_Shylock. _ O noble judge! O excellent young man!

_Portia. _--For the intent and purpose of the lawHath full relation to the penalty, Which here appeareth due upon the bond. 

_Shylock. _ 'Tis very true: O wise and upright judge!How much more elder art thou than thy looks!

_Portia. _ Therefore, lay bare your bosom. 

_Shylock. _ Ay, his breast:So says the bond:--doth it not, noble judge?--"Nearest his heart:" those are the very words. 

_Portia. _ It is so. Are there balance here, to weighThe flesh?

_Shylock. _ I have them ready. 

_Portia. _ Have by some surgeon, Shylock, on your charge, To stop his wounds, lest he do bleed to death. 

_Shylock. _ Is it so nominated in the bond?

_Portia. _ It is not so express'd; but what of that?'Twere good you do so much for charity. 

_Shylock. _ I cannot find it; 'tis not in the bond. 

_Portia. _ Come, merchant, have you anything to say?

_Antonio. _ But little: I am arm'd, and well prepar'd. --Give me your hand, Bassanio: fare you well!Grieve not that I am fallen to this for you;For herein Fortune shows herself more kindThan is her custom: it is still her useTo let the wretched man outlive his wealth, To view with hollow eye and wrinkled browAn age of poverty; from which lingering penanceOf such a misery doth she cut me off. Commend me to your honorable wife:Tell her the process of Antonio's end;Say how I lov'd you, speak me fair in death;And, when the tale is told, bid her be judgeWhether Bassanio had not once a love. Repent not you that you shall lose your friend, And he repents not that he pays your debt;For, if the Jew do cut but deep enough, I'll pay it instantly with all my heart. 

_Bassanio. _ Antonio, I am married to a wifeWhich is as dear to me as life itself;But life itself, my wife, and all the world, Are not with me esteem'd above thy life:I would lose all, ay, sacrifice them allHere to this devil, to deliver you. 

_Portia. _ Your wife would give you little thanks for that, If she were by, to hear you make the offer. 

_Gratiano. _ I have a wife, whom, I protest, I love:I would she were in heaven, so she couldEntreat some power to change this currish Jew. 

_Nerissa. _ 'Tis well you offer it behind her back;The wish would make else an unquiet house. 

_Shylock. _ [_Aside. _] These be the Christian husbands! I have a daughter;Would any of the stock of BárrabasHad been her husband rather than a Christian!--[_To_ PORTIA. ] We trifle time; I pray thee, pursue sentence. 

_Portia. _ A pound of that same merchant's flesh is thine:The court awards it, and the law doth give it. 

_Shylock. _ Most rightful judge!

_Portia. _ And you must cut this flesh from off his breast:The law allows it, and the court awards it. 

_Shylock. _ Most learnèd judge! A sentence!--Come, prepare. 

_Portia. _ Tarry a little; there is something else. This bond doth give thee here no jot of blood;The words expressly are "a pound of flesh":Take then thy bond, take thou thy pound of flesh;But, in the cutting it, if thou dost shedOne drop of Christian blood, thy lands and goodsAre, by the laws of Venice, confiscateUnto the state of Venice. 

_Gratiano. _ O upright judge!--Mark, Jew:--O learnèd judge!

_Shylock. _ Is that the law?

_Portia. _ Thyself shalt see the act:For, as thou urgest justice, be assur'dThou shalt have justice, more than thou desirest. 

_Gratiano. _ O learnèd judge!--Mark, Jew:--a learnèd judge!

_Shylock. _ I take this offer, then: pay the bond thrice, And let the Christian go. 

_Bassanio. _ Here is the money. 

_Portia. _ Soft!The Jew shall have all justice;--soft! no haste:--He shall have nothing but the penalty. 

_Gratiano. _ O Jew! an upright judge, a learnèd judge!

_Portia. _ Therefore, prepare thee to cut off the flesh. Shed thou no blood; nor cut thou less nor moreBut just a pound of flesh: if thou tak'st moreOr less than a just pound, --be it but so muchAs makes it light, or heavy, in the substance, Or the division of the twentieth part, Of one poor scruple; nay, if the scale do turnBut in the estimation of a hair, --Thou diest, and all thy goods are confiscate. 

_Gratiano. _ A second Daniel, a Daniel, Jew!Now, infidel, I have thee on the hip. 

_Portia. _ Why doth the Jew pause? Take thy forfeiture. 

_Shylock. _ Give me my principal, and let me go. 

_Bassanio. _ I have it ready for thee; here it is. 

_Portia. _ He hath refus'd it in the open court:He shall have merely justice, and his bond. 

_Gratiano. _ A Daniel, still say I; a second Daniel!--I thank thee, Jew, for teaching me that word. 

_Shylock. _ Shall I not have barely my principal?

_Portia. _ Thou shalt have nothing but the forfeiture, To be so taken at thy peril, Jew. 

_Shylock. _ Why, then the devil give him good of it!I'll stay no longer question. 

_Portia. _ Tarry, Jew:The law hath yet another hold on you. It is enacted in the laws of Venice, If it be prov'd against an alienThat by direct or indirect attemptsHe seek the life of any citizen, The party 'gainst the which he doth contriveShall seize one half his goods; the other halfComes to the privy coffer of the state;And the offender's life lies in the mercyOf the duke only, 'gainst all other voice. In which predicament, I say, thou stand'st;For it appears, by manifest proceeding, That, indirectly, and directly too, Thou hast contriv'd against the very lifeOf the defendant; and thou hast incurr'dThe danger formerly by me rehears'd. Down, therefore, and beg mercy of the duke. 

_Gratiano. _ Beg that thou mayst have leave to hang thyself:And yet, thy wealth being forfeit to the state, Thou hast not left the value of a cord;Therefore, thou must be hang'd at the state's charge. 

_Duke. _ That thou shalt see the difference of our spirit, I pardon thee thy life before thou ask it:For half thy wealth, it is Antonio's;The other half comes to the general state, Which humbleness may drive unto a fine. 

_Portia. _ Ay, for the state; not for Antonio. 

_Shylock. _ Nay, take my life and all; pardon not that:You take my house when you do take the propThat doth sustain my house; you take my life, When you do take the means whereby I live. 

_Portia. _ What mercy can you render him, Antonio?

_Gratiano. _ A halter gratis; nothing else, for God's sake. 

_Antonio. _ So please my lord the duke, and all the court, To quit the fine for one half of his goods, I am content, so he will let me haveThe other half in use, to render it, Upon his death, unto the gentlemanThat lately stole his daughter:Two things provided more, --that, for this favor, He presently become a Christian;The other, that he do record a gift, Here in the court, of all he dies possess'd, Unto his son Lorenzo and his daughter. 

_Duke. _ He shall do this; or else I do recantThe pardon that I late pronouncèd here. 

_Portia. _ Art thou contented, Jew? what dost thou say?

_Shylock. _ I am content. 

_Portia. _ Clerk, draw a deed of gift. 

_Shylock. _ I pray you, give me leave to go from hence;I am not well: send the deed after me, And I will sign it. 

_Duke. _ Get thee gone, but do it. 

_Gratiano. _ In christening thou shalt have two godfathers;Had I been judge, thou should'st have had ten more, To bring thee to the gallows, not the font. [_Exit Shylock. _

_Duke. _ Sir, I entreat you home with me to dinner. 

_Portia. _ I humbly do desire your grace of pardon:I must away this night toward Padua, And it is meet I presently set forth. 

_Duke. _ I am sorry that your leisure serves you not. Antonio, gratify this gentleman, For, in my mind, you are much bound to him. 

[_Exeunt omnes. _

FOOTNOTES:

[A] As an introduction read "The Merchant of Venice, " FOURTH READER, page 311. 

IV. OF BOLDNESS. 

LORD BACON. --1561-1626. 

_From_ ESSAYS. 

It is a trivial grammar-school text, but yet worthy a wise man'sconsideration: question was asked of Demosthenes, what was the chiefpart of an orator? He answered, action: what next? action: what nextagain? action. He said it that knew it best, and had by nature himselfno advantage in that he commended. A strange thing, that that part of anorator which is but superficial, and rather the virtue of a player, should be placed so high above those other noble parts, of invention, elocution, and the rest; nay, almost alone, as if it were all in all. But the reason is plain. There is in human nature generally more of thefool than of the wise; and therefore those faculties by which thefoolish part of men's minds is taken, are most potent. Wonderful like isthe case of boldness in civil business; what first? boldness: whatsecond and third? boldness. And yet boldness is a child of ignorance andbaseness, far inferior to other parts: but, nevertheless, it dothfascinate, and bind hand and foot those that are either shallow injudgment or weak in courage, which are the greatest part; yea, andprevaileth with wise men at weak times; therefore we see it hath donewonders in popular states, but with senates and princes less; and more, ever upon the first entrance of bold persons into action, than soonafter; for boldness is an ill keeper of promise. Surely, as there aremountebanks for the natural body, so are there mountebanks for thepolitic body--men that undertake great cures, and perhaps have beenlucky in two or three experiments, but want the grounds of science, andtherefore cannot hold out. Nay, you shall see a bold fellow many timesdo Mahomet's miracle. Mahomet made the people believe that he would calla hill to him, and from the top of it offer up his prayers for theobservers of his law. The people assembled: Mahomet called the hill tocome to him again and again; and when the hill stood still, he was nevera whit abashed, but said, "If the hill will not come to Mahomet, Mahometwill go to the hill. " So these men, when they have promised greatmatters, and failed most shamefully, yet, if they have the perfection ofboldness, they will but slight it over, and make a turn, and no moreado. Certainly, to men of great judgment, bold persons are sport tobehold; nay, and to the vulgar also boldness hath somewhat of theridiculous: for, if absurdity be the subject of laughter, doubt you notbut great boldness is seldom without some absurdity; especially it is asport to see when a bold fellow is out of countenance, for that puts hisface into a most shrunken and wooden posture, as needs it must--for inbashfulness the spirits do a little go and come--but with bold men, uponlike occasion, they stand at a stay; like a stale at chess, where it isno mate, but yet the game cannot stir: but this last were fitter for asatire than for a serious observation. This is well to be weighed, thatboldness is ever blind, for it seeth not dangers and inconveniences:therefore it is ill in counsel, good in execution; so that the right useof bold persons is, that they never command in chief, but be seconds, and under the direction of others; for in counsel it is good to seedangers, and in execution not to see them, except they be very great. 

 * * * * *

 _He that cannot see well, let him go softly. _

 BACON. 

V. TO DAFFODILS. 

ROBERT HERRICK. --1594-1674. 

 Fair Daffodils, we weep to see You haste away so soon; As yet the early-rising sun Has not attain'd his noon. Stay, stay, Until the hasting day Has run But to the even-song; And, having pray'd together, we Will go with you along. 

 We have short time to stay, as you; We have as short a spring; As quick a growth to meet decay, As you, or anything. We die As your hours do, and dry Away, Like to the summer's rain; Or as the pearls of morning's dew, Ne'er to be found again. 

 * * * * *

 _Stone walls do not a prison make, Nor iron bars a cage; Minds innocent and quiet take That for a hermitage: If I have freedom in my love, And in my soul am free, Angels alone, that soar above, Enjoy such liberty. _

 RICHARD LOVELACE. --1618-1658. 

VI. OF CONTENTEDNESS IN ALL ESTATES AND ACCIDENTS. 

JEREMY TAYLOR. --1613-1667. 

_From_ HOLY LIVING. 

Virtues and discourses are, like friends, necessary in all fortunes; butthose are the best, which are friends in our sadnesses, and support usin our sorrows and sad accidents: and in this sense, no man that isvirtuous can be friendless; nor hath any man reason to complain of theDivine Providence, or accuse the public disorder of things, or in hisown infelicity, since God hath appointed one remedy for all the evils inthe world, and that is a contented spirit: for this alone makes a manpass through fire, and not be scorched; through seas, and not bedrowned; through hunger and nakedness, and want nothing. For since allthe evil in the world consists in the disagreeing between the object andthe appetite, as when a man hath what he desires not, or desires what hehath not, or desires amiss; he that composes his spirit to the presentaccident, hath variety of instances for his virtue, but none to troublehim, because his desires enlarge not beyond his present fortune: and awise man is placed in the variety of chances, like the nave or centre ofa wheel, in the midst of all the circumvolutions and changes of posture, without violence or change, save that it turns gently in compliance withits changed parts, and is indifferent which part is up, and which isdown; for there is some virtue or other to be exercised, whateverhappens, either patience or thanksgiving, love or fear, moderation orhumility, charity or contentedness, and they are every one of themequally in order to his great end and immortal felicity: and beauty isnot made by white or red, by black eyes and a round face, by a straightbody and a smooth skin; but by a proportion to the fancy. No rules canmake amiability; our minds and apprehensions make that: and so is ourfelicity; and we may be reconciled to poverty and a low fortune, if wesuffer contentedness and the grace of God to make the proportions. Forno man is poor that does not think himself so: but if, in a fullfortune, with impatience he desires more, he proclaims his wants and hisbeggarly condition. But because this grace of contentedness was the sumof all the old moral philosophy, and a great duty in Christianity, andof most universal use in the whole course of our lives, and the onlyinstrument to ease the burdens of the world and the enmities of sadchances, it will not be amiss to press it by the proper arguments bywhich God hath bound it upon our spirits; it being fastened by reasonand religion, by duty and interest, by necessity and conveniency, byexample, and by the proposition of excellent rewards, no less than peaceand felicity. 

Contentedness in all estates is a duty of religion; it is the greatreasonableness of complying with the Divine Providence, which governsall the world, and hath so ordered us in the administration of his greatfamily. He were a strange fool that should be angry because dogs andsheep need no shoes, and yet himself is full of care to get some. Godhath supplied those needs to them by natural provisions, and to thee byan artificial: for he hath given thee reason to learn a trade, or somemeans to make or buy them, so that it only differs in the manner of ourprovision: and which had you rather want, shoes or reason? and mypatron, that hath given me a farm, is freer to me than if he gives aloaf ready baked. But, however, all these gifts come from him, andtherefore it is fit he should dispense them as he pleases; and if wemurmur here, we may, at the next melancholy, be troubled that God didnot make us to be angels or stars. For if that which we are or have donot content us, we may be troubled for every thing in the world which isbeside our being or our possessions. 

God is the master of the scenes; we must not choose which part we shallact; it concerns us only to be careful that we do it well, alwayssaying, "If this please God, let it be as it is:" and we, who pray thatGod's will may be done in earth as it is in heaven, must remember thatthe angels do whatsoever is commanded them, and go wherever they aresent, and refuse no circumstances; and if their employment be crossed bya higher decree, they sit down in peace, and rejoice in the event; andwhen the angel of Judea could not prevail in behalf of the peoplecommitted to his charge, because the angel of Persia opposed it, he onlytold the story at the command of God, and was as content, and worshippedwith as great an ecstasy in his proportion, as the prevailing spirit. Dothou so likewise: keep the station where God hath placed you, and youshall never long for things without, but sit at home, feasting upon theDivine Providence and thy own reason, by which we are taught that it isnecessary and reasonable to submit to God. 

For is not all the world God's family? Are not we his creatures? Are wenot as clay in the hand of the potter? Do we not live upon his meat, andmove by his strength, and do our work by his light? Are we any thing butwhat we are from him? And shall there be a mutiny among the flocks andherds, because their lord or their shepherd chooses their pastures, andsuffers them not to wander into deserts and unknown ways? If we choose, we do it so foolishly that we cannot like it long, and most commonly notat all: but God, who can do what he pleases, is wise to choose safelyfor us, affectionate to comply with our needs, and powerful to executeall his wise decrees. Here, therefore, is the wisdom of the contentedman, to let God choose for him; for when we have given up our wills tohim, and stand in that station of the battle where our great Generalhath placed us, our spirits must needs rest while our conditions havefor their security the power, the wisdom, and the charity of God. 

Contentedness in all accidents brings great peace of spirit, and is thegreat and only instrument of temporal felicity. It removes the stingfrom the accident, and makes a man not to depend upon chance and theuncertain dispositions of men for his well-being, but only on God andhis own spirit. We ourselves make our fortunes good or bad; and when Godlets loose a tyrant upon us, or a sickness, or scorn, or a lessenedfortune, if we fear to die, or know not to be patient, or are proud orcovetous, then the calamity sits heavy on us. But if we know how tomanage a noble principle, and fear not death so much as a dishonestaction, and think impatience a worse evil than a fever, and pride to bethe biggest disgrace, and poverty to be infinitely desirable before thetorments of covetousness; then we who now think vice to be so easy, andmake it so familiar, and think the cure so impossible, shall quickly beof another mind, and reckon these accidents amongst things eligible. 

But no man can be happy that hath great hopes and great fears of thingswithout, and events depending upon other men, or upon the chances offortune. The rewards of virtue are certain, and our provisions for ournatural support are certain; or if we want meat till we die, then we dieof that disease--and there are many worse than to die with an atrophy orconsumption, or unapt and coarser nourishment. But he that suffers atransporting passion concerning things within the power of others, isfree from sorrow and amazement no longer than his enemy shall give himleave; and it is ten to one but he shall be smitten then and there whereit shall most trouble him; for so the adder teaches us where to strike, by her curious and fearful defending of her head. The old Stoics, whenyou told them of a sad story, would still answer, "_What is that tome?_" Yes, for the tyrant hath sentenced you also to prison. Well, whatis that? He will put a chain upon my leg; but he cannot bind my soul. No; but he will kill you. Then I will die. If presently, let me go, thatI may presently be freer than himself: but if not till anon, orto-morrow, I will dine first, or sleep, or do what reason or naturecalls for, as at other times. This, in Gentile philosophy, is the samewith the discourse of St. Paul, "I have learned, in whatsoever state Iam, therewith to be content. I know both how to be abased, and I knowhow to abound: every where and in all things I am instructed, both to befull and to be hungry; both to abound and suffer need. "

We are in the world like men playing at tables; the chance is not in ourpower, but to play it is; and when it is fallen we must manage it as wecan: and let nothing trouble us, but when we do a base action, or speaklike a fool, or think wickedly, --these things God hath put into ourpowers; but concerning those things which are wholly in the choice ofanother, they cannot fall under our deliberation, and therefore neitherare they fit for our passions. My fear may make me miserable, but itcannot prevent what another hath in his power and purpose; andprosperities can only be enjoyed by them who fear not at all to losethem; since the amazement and passion concerning the future takes offall the pleasure of the present possession. Therefore, if thou hast lostthy land, do not also lose thy constancy; and if thou must die a littlesooner, yet do not die impatiently. For no chance is evil to him that iscontent: and to a man nothing is miserable unless it be unreasonable. Noman can make another man to be his slave unless he hath first enslavedhimself to life and death, to pleasure or pain, to hope or fear: commandthese passions, and you are freer than the Parthian kings. 

VII. TO LUCASTA, ON GOING TO THE WARS. 

RICHARD LOVELACE. --1618-1658. 

 Tell me not, sweet, I am unkind, That from the nunnery Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind, To war and arms I fly. 

 True, a new mistress now I chase, The first foe in the field; And with a stronger faith embrace A sword, a horse, a shield. 

 Yet this inconstancy is such As you, too, shall adore, -- I could not love thee, dear, so much, Lov'd I not honor more. 

VIII. ANGLING. 

IZAAK WALTON. --1593-1683. 

_From_ THE COMPLETE ANGLER. 

_Venator. _--O my good master, this morning walk has been spent to mygreat pleasure and wonder; but I pray, when shall I have your directionhow to make artificial flies, like to those that the trout loves best, and also how to use them?

_Piscator. _--My honest scholar, it is now past five of the clock; wewill fish till nine, and then go to breakfast. Go you to yonsycamore-tree, and hide your bottle of drink under the hollow root ofit; for about that time, and in that place, we will make a bravebreakfast with a piece of powdered beef, and a radish or two, that Ihave in my fish-bag: we shall, I warrant you, make a good, honest, wholesome, hungry breakfast, and I will then give you direction for themaking and using of your flies; and in the meantime, there is your rodand line, and my advice is, that you fish as you see me do, and let'stry which can catch the first fish. 

_Venator. _--I thank you, master; I will observe and practise yourdirection as far as I am able. 

_Piscator. _--Look you, scholar, you see I have hold of a good fish: Inow see it is a trout. I pray put that net under him, and touch not myline, for if you do, then we break all. Well done, scholar! I thank you. 

Now for another. Trust me, I have another bite: come, scholar, come, laydown your rod, and help me to land this as you did the other. So now weshall be sure to have a good dish for supper. 

_Venator. _--I am glad of that; but I have no fortune: sure, master, yours is a better rod and better tackling. 

_Piscator. _--Nay, then, take mine; and I will fish with yours. Look you, scholar, I have another. Come, do as you did before. And now I have abite at another. Oh me! he has broke all: there's half a line and a goodhook lost. 

_Venator. _--Ay, and a good trout too. 

_Piscator. _--Nay, the trout is not lost; for pray take notice, no mancan lose what he never had. 

_Venator. _--Master, I can neither catch with the first nor second angle:I have no fortune. 

_Piscator. _--Look you, scholar, I have yet another. And now, havingcaught two brace of trouts, I will tell you a short tale as we walktowards our breakfast. A scholar, a preacher I should say, that was topreach to procure the approbation of a parish that he might be theirlecturer, had got from his fellow-pupil the copy of a sermon that wasfirst preached with great commendation by him that composed it; andthough the borrower of it preached it, word for word, as it was atfirst, yet it was utterly disliked as it was preached by the second tohis congregation; which the sermon borrower complained of to the lenderof it; and thus was answered: "I lent you, indeed, my fiddle, but not myfiddle-stick; for you are to know, that every one cannot make music withmy words, which are fitted to my own mouth. " And so, my scholar, you areto know, that as the ill pronunciation or ill accenting of words in asermon spoils it, so the ill carriage of your line, or not fishing evento a foot in a right place, makes you lose your labor; and you are toknow, that though you have my fiddle, that is, my very rod and tacklingswith which you see I catch fish, yet you have not my fiddle-stick, thatis, you yet have not skill to know how to carry your hand and line, norhow to guide it to a right place; and this must be taught you; for youare to remember, I told you angling is an art, either by practice or along observation, or both. But take this for a rule: when you fish for atrout with a worm, let your line have so much and not more lead thanwill fit the stream in which you fish; that is to say, more in a greattroublesome stream than in a smaller that is quieter; as near as may be, so much as will sink the bait to the bottom, and keep it still inmotion, and not more. 

But now let's say grace and fall to breakfast. What say you, scholar, tothe providence of an old angler? does not this meat taste well? and wasnot this place well chosen to eat it? for this sycamore-tree will shadeus from the sun's heat. 

_Venator. _--All excellent good, and my stomach excellent good too. Andnow I remember and find that true which devout Lessius says: "That poormen, and those that fast often, have much more pleasure in eating thanrich men and gluttons, that always feed before their stomachs are emptyof their last meal, and call for more; for by that means they robthemselves of that pleasure that hunger brings to poor men. " And I doseriously approve of that saying of yours, "that you would rather be acivil, well-governed, well-grounded, temperate, poor angler, than adrunken lord. " But I hope there is none such: however, I am certain ofthis, that I have been at many very costly dinners that have notafforded me half the content that this has done, for which I thank Godand you. 

And now, good master, proceed to your promised direction for making andordering my artificial fly. 

_Piscator_. --My honest scholar, I will do it; for it is a debt due untoyou by my promise. .. . 

. .. Look how it begins to rain!--and by the clouds, if I mistake not, weshall presently have a smoking shower, and therefore sit close: thissycamore-tree will shelter us; and I will tell you, as they shall comeinto my mind, more observations of fly-fishing for a trout. .. . 

. .. And now, scholar, my direction for fly-fishing is ended with thisshower, for it has done raining: and now look about you, and see howpleasantly that meadow looks; nay, and the earth smells as sweetly too. Come, let me tell you what holy Mr. Herbert says of such days andflowers as these; and then we will thank God that we enjoy them, andwalk to the river and sit down quietly, and try to catch the other braceof trouts. 

 Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright, The bridal of the earth and sky: The dew shall weep thy fall to-night; For thou must die. 

 Sweet rose, whose hue, angry and brave, Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye, Thy root is ever in its grave; And thou must die. 

 Sweet Spring, full of sweet days and roses, A box where sweets compacted lie; Thy music shows ye have your closes; And all must die. 

 Only a sweet and virtuous soul, Like season'd timber, never gives; But, though the whole world turn to coal, Then chiefly lives. 

_Venator. _--I thank you, good master, for your good direction forfly-fishing, and for the sweet enjoyment of the pleasant day, which isso far spent without offence to God or man; and I thank you for thesweet close of your discourse with Mr. Herbert's verses, who, I haveheard, loved angling; and I do the rather believe it, because he had aspirit suitable to anglers, and to those primitive Christians that youlove and have so much commended. 

_Piscator. _--Well, my loving scholar, and I am pleased to know that youare so well pleased with my direction and discourse. .. . And now, I thinkit will be time to repair to our angle-rods, which we left in the waterto fish for themselves: and you shall choose which shall be yours; andit is an even lay, one of them catches. 

And, let me tell you, this kind of fishing with a dead rod, and layingnight-hooks, are like putting money to use; for they both work for theowners, when they do nothing but sleep, or eat, or rejoice; as you knowwe have done this last hour, and sat as quietly, and as free from caresunder this sycamore, as Virgil's Tityrus and his Meliboeus did, undertheir broad beech tree. No life, my honest scholar, no life so happy andso pleasant, as the life of a well-governed angler; for when the lawyeris swallowed up with business, and the statesman is preventing orcontriving plots, then we sit on cowslip banks, hear the birds sing, andpossess ourselves in as much quietness as these silent silver streams, which we now see glide so quietly by us. Indeed, my good scholar, we maysay of angling as Dr. Boteler said of strawberries, "Doubtless, Godcould have made a better berry, but doubtless, God never did;" and so, if I might be judge, "God never did make a more calm, quiet, innocentrecreation than angling. "

IX. ON THE MORNING OF CHRIST'S NATIVITY. 

(1629). 

JOHN MILTON. --1608-1674. 

I. 

 This is the month, and this the happy morn, Wherein the Son of Heaven's Eternal King, Of wedded maid and virgin mother born, Our great redemption from above did bring; For so the holy sages once did sing, That he our deadly forfeit should release, And with his Father work us a perpetual peace. 

II. 

 That glorious form, that light unsufferable, And that far-beaming blaze of majesty, Wherewith he wont at Heaven's high council-table To sit the midst of Trinal Unity, He laid aside; and, here with us to be, Forsook the courts of everlasting day, And chose with us a darksome house of mortal clay. 

III. 

 Say, Heavenly Muse, shall not thy sacred vein Afford a present to the Infant God? Hast thou no verse, no hymn, or solemn strain, To welcome him to this his new abode, Now while the heaven, by the Sun's team untrod, Hath took no print of the approaching light, And all the spangled host keep watch in squadrons bright?

IV. 

 See how from far upon the eastern road The star-led wizards haste with odors sweet! O run, prevent them with thy humble ode, And lay it lowly at his blessèd feet; Have thou the honor first thy Lord to greet, And join thy voice unto the Angel Choir, From out his secret altar touch'd with hallow'd fire. 

 * * * * *

THE HYMN. 

1. 

 It was the winter wild, While the Heaven-born child, All meanly wrapt, in the rude manger lies; Nature, in awe to him, Had doff'd her gaudy trim, With her great Master so to sympathize: It was no season then for her To wanton with the Sun, her lusty paramour. 

2. 

 Only, with speeches fair, She woos the gentle Air To hide her guilty front with innocent snow, And on her naked shame, Pollute with sinful blame, The saintly veil of maiden white to throw; Confounded, that her Maker's eyes Should look so near upon her foul deformities. 

3. 

 But he, her fears to cease, Sent down the meek-ey'd Peace: She, crown'd with olive green, came softly sliding Down through the turning sphere, His ready harbinger, With turtle wing the amorous clouds dividing; And, waving wide her myrtle wand, She strikes a universal peace through sea and land. 

4. 

 No war, or battle's sound, Was heard the world around: The idle spear and shield were high up hung; The hookèd chariot stood, Unstain'd with hostile blood; The trumpet spake not to the armèd throng; And kings sat still with awful eye, As if they surely knew their sovran Lord was by. 

5. 

 But peaceful was the night Wherein the Prince of Light His reign of peace upon the earth began: The winds, with wonder whist, Smoothly the waters kiss'd, Whispering new joys to the mild Ocean, Who now hath quite forgot to rave, While birds of calm sit brooding on the charmèd wave. 

6. 

 The stars, with deep amaze, Stand fix'd in steadfast gaze, Bending one way their precious influence; And will not take their flight, For all the morning light, Or Lucifer that often warn'd them thence; But in their glimmering orbs did glow, Until their Lord himself bespake, and bid them go. 

7. 

 And, though the shady gloom Had given day her room, The Sun himself withheld his wonted speed; And hid his head for shame, As his inferior flame The new-enlighten'd world no more should need; He saw a greater Sun appear Than his bright throne or burning axletree could bear. 

8. 

 The shepherds on the lawn, Or ere the point of dawn, Sat simply chatting in a rustic row; Full little thought they then That the mighty Pan Was kindly come to live with them below: Perhaps their loves, or else their sheep, Was all that did their silly thoughts so busy keep. 

9. 

 When such music sweet Their hearts and ears did greet, As never was by mortal finger strook, Divinely-warbled voice Answering the stringèd noise, As all their souls in blissful rapture took: The Air, such pleasure loth to lose, With thousand echoes still prolongs each heavenly close. 

10. 

 Nature, that heard such sound Beneath the hollow round Of Cynthia's seat, the Airy region thrilling, Now was almost won To think her part was done, And that her reign had here its last fulfilling: She knew such harmony alone Could hold all Heaven and Earth in happier union. 

11. 

 At last surrounds their sight A globe of circular light, That with long beams the shame-faced Night array'd; The helmèd cherubim, And swordèd seraphim, Are seen in glittering ranks with wings display'd, Harping in loud and solemn choir, With unexpressive notes to Heaven's new-born Heir. 

12. 

 Such music (as 'tis said) Before was never made, But when of old the Sons of Morning sung, While the Creator great His constellations set, And the well-balanced world on hinges hung, And cast the dark foundations deep, And bid the welt'ring waves their oozy channel keep. 

13. 

 Ring out, ye crystal spheres! Once bless our human ears, (If ye have power to touch our senses so, ) And let your silver chime Move in melodious time; And let the bass of Heaven's deep organ blow; And with your ninefold harmony Make up full consort to the angelic symphony. 

14. 

 For, if such holy song Enwrap our fancy long, Time will run back, and fetch the Age of Gold; And speckled Vanity Will sicken soon and die; And leprous Sin will melt from earthly mould; And Hell itself will pass away, And leave her dolorous mansions to the peering day. 

15. 

 Yea, Truth and Justice then Will down return to men, Orb'd in a rainbow; and, like glories wearing, Mercy will sit between, Thron'd in celestial sheen, With radiant feet the tissu'd clouds down steering; And Heaven, as at some festival, Will open wide the gates of her high palace-hall. 

16. 

 But wisest Fate says, No, This must not yet be so; The Babe yet lies in smiling infancy, That on the bitter cross Must redeem our loss; So both himself and us to glorify: Yet first, to those ychain'd in sleep, The wakeful trump of doom must thunder through the deep. 

17. 

 With such a horrid clang As on Mount Sinai rang, While the red fire and smould'ring clouds out brake: The aged Earth, aghast, With terror of that blast, Shall from the surface to the centre shake; When, at the world's last session, The dreadful Judge in middle air shall spread his throne. 

18. 

 And then at last our bliss Full and perfect is, But now begins; for from this happy day The Old Dragon under ground, In straiter limits bound, Not half so far casts his usurpèd sway; And, wroth to see his kingdom fail, Swinges the scaly horror of his folded tail. 

19. 

 The Oracles are dumb; No voice or hideous hum Runs through the archèd roof in words deceiving. Apollo from his shrine Can no more divine, With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving. No nightly trance, or breathèd spell, Inspires the pale-ey'd priest from the prophetic cell. 

20. 

 The lonely mountains o'er, And the resounding shore, A voice of weeping heard, and loud lament; From haunted spring, and dale Edg'd with poplar pale, The parting Genius is with sighing sent; With flower-inwoven tresses torn The Nymphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn. 

21. 

 In consecrated earth, And on the holy hearth, The Lars, and Lemures, moan with midnight plaint; In urns, and altars round, A drear and dying sound Affrights the Flamens at their service quaint; And the chill marble seems to sweat, While each peculiar Power forgoes his wonted seat. 

22. 

 Peor, and Baälim, Forsake their temples dim, With that twice-batter'd God of Palestine; And moonèd Ashtaroth, Heaven's queen and mother both, Now sits not girt with tapers' holy shine: The Libyc Hammon shrinks his horn; In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded Thammuz mourn. 

23. 

 And sullen Moloch, fled, Hath left in shadows dread, His burning idol all of blackest hue In vain with cymbals' ring They call the grisly king, In dismal dance about the furnace blue; The brutish gods of Nile as fast, Isis, and Orus, and the dog Anubis, haste. 

24. 

 Nor is Osiris seen In Memphian grove or green, Trampling the unshower'd grass with lowings loud; Nor can he be at rest Within his sacred chest; Naught but profoundest Hell can be his shroud; In vain, with timbrell'd anthems dark, The sable-stolèd sorcerers bear his worshipp'd ark. 

25. 

 He feels from Juda's land The dreaded Infant's hand; The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyn; Nor all the gods beside Longer dare abide, Not Typhon huge ending in snaky twine: Our Babe, to show his Godhead true, Can in his swaddling bands control the damnèd crew. 

26. 

 So, when the sun in bed, Curtain'd with cloudy red, Pillows his chin upon an orient wave, The flocking shadows pale Troop to the infernal jail, Each fetter'd ghost slips to his several grave; And the yellow-skirted fays Fly after the night-steeds, leaving their moon-lov'd maze. 

27. 

 But see! the Virgin blest Hath laid her Babe to rest. Time is our tedious song should here have ending: Heaven's youngest-teemèd star, Hath fix'd her polish'd car, Her sleeping Lord with handmaid lamp attending; And all about the courtly stable Bright-harness'd Angels sit in order serviceable. 

X. CHARACTER OF LORD FALKLAND. 

LORD CLARENDON. --1608-1674. 

_From_ HISTORY OF THE REBELLION. 

In this unhappy battle [of Newbury] was slain the Lord ViscountFalkland; a person of such prodigious parts of learning and knowledge, of that inimitable sweetness and delight in conversation, of so flowingand obliging a humanity and goodness to mankind, and of that primitivesimplicity and integrity of life, that if there were no other brand uponthis odious and accursed civil war, than that single loss, it must bemost infamous, and execrable to all posterity. 

Before this parliament, his condition of life was so happy that it washardly capable of improvement. Before he came to be twenty years of age, he was master of a noble fortune, which descended to him by the gift ofa grandfather, without passing through his father or mother, who werethen both alive, and not well enough contented to find themselves passedby in the descent. His education for some years had been in Ireland, where his father was lord-deputy; so that, when he returned intoEngland, to the possession of his fortune, he was unentangled with anyacquaintance or friends, which usually grow up by the custom ofconversation; and therefore was to make a pure election of his company;which he chose by other rules than were prescribed to the young nobilityof that time. And it cannot be denied, though he admitted some few tohis friendship for the agreeableness of their natures, and theirundoubted affection to him, that his familiarity and friendship, for themost part, was with men of the most eminent and sublime parts, and ofuntouched reputation in point of integrity; and such men had a title tohis bosom. 

He was a great cherisher of wit, and fancy, and good parts in any man;and, if he found them clouded with poverty or want, a most liberal andbountiful patron towards them, even above his fortune; of which, inthose administrations, he was such a dispenser, as, if he had beentrusted with it to such uses, and if there had been the least of vice inhis expense, he might have been thought too prodigal. He was constantand pertinacious in whatsoever he resolved to do, and not to be weariedby any pains that were necessary to that end. And, therefore, havingonce resolved not to see London, which he loved above all places, tillhe had perfectly learned the Greek tongue, he went to his own house inthe country, and pursued it with that indefatigable industry, that itwill not be believed in how short a time he was master of it, andaccurately read all the Greek historians. 

In this time, his house being within little more than ten miles ofOxford, he contracted familiarity and friendship with the most politeand accurate men of that university; who found such an immenseness ofwit, and such a solidity of judgment in him, so infinite a fancy, boundin by a most logical ratiocination, such a vast knowledge, that he wasnot ignorant in anything, yet such an excessive humility, as if he hadknown nothing, that they frequently resorted and dwelt with him, as in acollege situated in a purer air; so that his house was a university in aless volume; whither they came not so much for repose as study; and toexamine and refine those grosser propositions, which laziness andconsent made current in vulgar conversation. .. . 

He was superior to all those passions and affections which attend vulgarminds, and was guilty of no other ambition than of knowledge, and to bereputed a lover of all good men; and that made him too much a contemnerof those arts, which must be indulged in the transactions of humanaffairs. .. . 

He had a courage of the most clear and keen temper, and so far fromfear, that he seemed not without some appetite of danger; and therefore, upon any occasion of action, he always engaged his person in thosetroops which he thought, by the forwardness of the commanders, to bemost like to be farthest engaged; and in all such encounters, he hadabout him an extraordinary cheerfulness, without at all affecting theexecution that usually attended them; in which he took no delight, buttook pains to prevent it, where it was not by resistance made necessary:insomuch that at Edge-hill, when the enemy was routed, he was like tohave incurred great peril, by interposing to save those who had thrownaway their arms, and against whom, it may be, others were more fiercefor their having thrown them away: so that a man might think he cameinto the field chiefly out of curiosity to see the face of danger, andcharity to prevent the shedding of blood. Yet, in his naturalinclination, he acknowledged he was addicted to the profession of asoldier; and shortly after he came to his fortune, before he was ofage, he went into the Low Countries, with a resolution of procuringcommand, and to give himself up to it; from which he was diverted by thecomplete inactivity of that summer; so he returned into England, andshortly after entered upon that vehement course of study we mentionedbefore, till the first alarm from the north; then again he made readyfor the field, and though he received some repulse in the command of atroop of horse, of which he had a promise, he went a volunteer with theearl of Essex. 

From the entrance into this unnatural war, his natural cheerfulness andvivacity grew clouded, and a kind of sadness and dejection of spiritstole upon him, which he had never been used to; yet being one of thosewho believed that one battle would end all differences, and that therewould be so great a victory on one side, that the other would becompelled to submit to any conditions from the victor--which suppositionand conclusion generally sunk into the minds of most men, and preventedthe looking after many advantages that might then have been laid holdof--he resisted those indispositions. But after the king's return fromBrentford, and the furious resolution of the two Houses not to admit anytreaty for peace, those indispositions, which had before touched him, grew into a perfect habit of uncheerfulness; and he, who had been soexactly unreserved and affable to all men, that his face and countenancewas always present, and vacant, to his company, and held any cloudiness, and less pleasantness of the visage, a kind of rudeness or incivility, became, on a sudden, less communicable; and thence, very sad, pale, andexceedingly affected with the spleen. In his clothes and habit, which hehad minded before always with more neatness, and industry, and expense, than is usual to so great a soul, he was not now only incurious, but toonegligent; and in his reception of suitors, and the necessary or casualaddresses to his place, so quick, and sharp, and severe, that therewanted not some men--strangers to his nature and disposition--whobelieved him proud and imperious; from which no mortal man was ever morefree. .. . 

When there was any overture or hope of peace, he would be more erect andvigorous, and exceedingly solicitous to press anything which he thoughtmight promote it; and sitting among his friends, often, after a deepsilence, and frequent sighs, would, with a shrill and sad accent, ingeminate the word _Peace, Peace_; and would passionately profess, "that the very agony of the war, and the view of the calamities anddesolation the kingdom did and must endure, took his sleep from him, andwould shortly break his heart. " This made some think, or pretend tothink, "that he was so much enamoured of peace, that he would have beenglad the king should have bought it at any price;" which was a mostunreasonable calumny. As if a man, that was himself the most punctualand precise in every circumstance that might reflect upon conscience orhonor, could have wished the king to have committed a trespass againsteither. .. . 

In the morning before the battle, as always upon action, he was verycheerful, and put himself into the first rank of the Lord Byron'sregiment, then advancing upon the enemy, who had lined the hedges onboth sides with musketeers; from whence he was shot with a musket in thelower part of the belly, and in the instant falling from his horse, hisbody was not found till the next morning; till when, there was somehope he might have been a prisoner; though his nearest friends, who knewhis temper, received small comfort from that imagination. Thus fell thatincomparable young man, in the four-and-thirtieth year of his age, having so much despatched the true business of life, that the oldestrarely attain to that immense knowledge, and the youngest enter not intothe world with more innocency: whosoever leads such a life, needs be theless anxious upon how short warning it is taken from him. 

XI. VENI, CREATOR SPIRITUS. 

JOHN DRYDEN. --1631-1700. 

 Creator Spirit, by whose aid The world's foundations first were laid, Come, visit every pious mind; Come, pour thy joys on humankind; From sin and sorrow set us free, And make thy temples worthy thee. 

 O source of uncreated light, The Father's promis'd Paraclete! Thrice holy fount, thrice holy fire, Our hearts with heavenly love inspire; Come, and thy sacred unction bring To sanctify us, while we sing. 

 Plenteous of grace, descend from high, Rich in thy sevenfold energy! Thou strength of his Almighty hand, Whose power does heaven and earth command; Proceeding Spirit, our defence, Who dost the gift of tongues dispense, And crown'st thy gift with eloquence. 

 Refine and purge our earthy parts; But, oh, inflame and fire our hearts! Our frailties help, our vice control, Submit the senses to the soul; And when rebellious they are grown, Then lay thy hand, and hold them down. 

 Chase from our minds the infernal foe, And peace, the fruit of Love, bestow; And lest our feet should step astray, Protect and guide us in the way. 

 Make us eternal truths receive, And practise all that we believe: Give us thy self, that we may see The Father and the Son by thee. 

 Immortal honor, endless fame, Attend the Almighty Father's name: The Saviour Son be glorified, Who for lost man's redemption died: And equal adoration be, Eternal Paraclete, to thee!

XII. LINES PRINTED UNDER THE PORTRAIT OF MILTON. 

DRYDEN. 

 Three poets, in three distant ages born, Greece, Italy, and England did adorn. The first in loftiness of thought surpass'd, The next in majesty, in both the last. The force of Nature could no farther go; To make a third she join'd the former two. 

XIII. REASON. 

DRYDEN. 

_From_ RELIGIO LAICI. 

 Dim as the borrowed beams of moon and stars To lonely, weary, wandering travellers, Is Reason to the soul; and as on high Those rolling fires discover but the sky, Not light us here; so Reason's glimmering ray Was lent, not to assure our doubtful way, But guide us upward to a better day And as those nightly tapers disappear, When day's bright lord ascends our hemisphere; So pale grows Reason at Religion's sight; So dies, and so dissolves, in supernatural light. 

XIV. ON THE LOVE OF COUNTRY AS A PRINCIPLE OF ACTION. 

RICHARD STEELE. --1672-1729. 

_From_ THE TATLER, June 10, 1710. 

When men look into their own bosoms, and consider the generous seedswhich are there planted, that might, if rightly cultivated, ennobletheir lives, and make their virtue venerable to futurity; how can they, without tears, reflect on the universal degeneracy from that publicspirit, which ought to be the first and principal motive of all theiractions? In the Grecian and Roman nations, they were wise enough to keepup this great incentive, and it was impossible to be in the fashionwithout being a patriot. All gallantry had its first source from hence;and to want a warmth for the public welfare, was a defect so scandalous, that he who was guilty of it had no pretence to honor or manhood. Whatmakes the depravity among us, in this behalf, the more vexatious andirksome to reflect upon, is, that the contempt of life is carried as faramongst us, as it could be in those memorable people; and we want only aproper application of the qualities which are frequent among us, to beas worthy as they. There is hardly a man to be found who will not fightupon any occasion, which he thinks may taint his own honor. Were thismotive as strong in everything that regards the public, as it is in thisour private case, no man would pass his life away without havingdistinguished himself by some gallant instance of his zeal towards it inthe respective incidents of his life and profession. But it is so farotherwise, that there cannot at present be a more ridiculous animal, than one who seems to regard the good of others. He, in civil life, whose thoughts turn upon schemes which may be of general benefit, without further reflection, is called a projector; and the man whosemind seems intent upon glorious achievements, a knight-errant. Theridicule among us runs strong against laudable actions; nay, in theordinary course of things, and the common regards of life, negligence ofthe public is an epidemic vice. The brewer in his excise, the merchantin his customs, and, for aught we know, the soldier in his muster-rolls, think never the worse of themselves for being guilty of their respectivefrauds towards the public. This evil is come to such a fantasticalheight, that he is a man _of_ a public spirit, and heroically affectedto his country, who can go so far as even to turn usurer with all hehas in her funds. There is not a citizen in whose imagination such a onedoes not appear in the same light of glory, as Codrus, Scævola, or anyother great name in old Rome. Were it not for the heroes of so much _percent. _ as have regard enough for themselves and their nation to tradewith her with their wealth, the very notion of public love would longere now have vanished from among us. But however general custom mayhurry us away in the stream of a common error, there is no evil, nocrime, so great as that of being cold in matters relating to the commongood. This is in nothing more conspicuous than in a certain willingnessto receive anything that tends to the diminution of such as have beenconspicuous instruments in our service. Such inclinations proceed fromthe most low and vile corruption, of which the soul of man is capable. This effaces not only the practice, but the very approbation of honorand virtue; and has had such an effect, that, to speak freely, the verysense of public good has no longer a part even in our conversations. Canthen the most generous motive of life, the good of others, be so easilybanished the breast of man? Is it possible to draw all our passionsinward? Shall the boiling heat of youth be sunk in pleasures, theambition of manhood in selfish intrigues? Shall all that is glorious, all that is worth the pursuit of great minds, be so easily rooted out?When the universal bent of a people seems diverted from the sense oftheir common good, and common glory, it looks like a fatality, andcrisis of impending misfortune. 

The generous nations we just now mentioned understood this so very well, that there was hardly an oration ever made, which did not turn uponthis general sense, "That the love of their country was the first andmost essential quality in an honest mind. " Demosthenes, in a causewherein his fame, reputation, and fortune, were embarked, puts his allupon this issue; "Let the Athenians, " says he, "be benevolent to me, asthey think I have been zealous for them. " This great and discerningorator knew, there was nothing else in nature could bear him up againsthis adversaries, but this one quality of having shown himself willing orable to serve his country. This certainly is the test of merit; and thefirst foundation for deserving good-will is, having it yourself. Theadversary of this orator at that time was Æschines, a man of wily artsand skill in the world, who could, as occasion served, fall in with anational start of passion, or sullenness of humor, which a whole nationis sometimes taken with as well as a private man; and by that meansdivert them from their common sense, into an aversion for receivinganything in its true light. But when Demosthenes had awakened hisaudience with that one hint of judging by the general tenor of his lifetowards them, his services bore down his opponent before him, who fledto the covert of his mean arts, until some more favorable opportunityshould offer against the superior merit of Demosthenes. 

It were to be wished, that love of their country were the firstprinciple of action in men of business, even for their own sakes; forwhen the world begins to examine into their conduct, the generality, whohave no share in, or hopes of any part in power or riches, but what isthe effect of their own labor or prosperity, will judge of them by noother method, than that of how profitable their administration has beento the whole. They who are out of the influence of men's fortune orfavor, will let them stand or fall by this one only rule; and men whocan bear being tried by it, are always popular in their fall. Those, whocannot suffer such a scrutiny, are contemptible in their advancement. 

But I am here running into shreds of maxims from reading Tacitus thismorning, which has driven me from my recommendation of public spirit, which was the intended purpose of this lucubration. There is not a moreglorious instance of it, than in the character of Regulus. This sameRegulus was taken prisoner by the Carthaginians, and was sent by them toRome, in order to demand some Punic noblemen, who were prisoners, inexchange for himself; and was bound by an oath that he would return toCarthage, if he failed in his commission. He proposes this to thesenate, who were in suspense upon it, which Regulus observing, withouthaving the least notion of putting the care of his own life incompetition with the public good, desired them to consider that he wasold, and almost useless; that those demanded in exchange were men ofdaring tempers, and great merit in military affairs; and wondered theywould make any doubt of permitting him to go back to the short torturesprepared for him at Carthage, where he should have the advantage ofending a long life both gloriously and usefully. This generous advicewas consented to; and he took his leave of his country and his weepingfriends, to go to certain death, with that cheerful composure, as a man, after the fatigue of business in a court or a city, retires to the nextvillage for the air. 

 * * * * *

 _When the heart is right there is true patriotism_. 

 BISHOP BERKELEY. --1684-1753. 

XV. THE GOLDEN SCALES. 

JOSEPH ADDISON. --1672-1719. 

_From_ THE SPECTATOR, August 21, 1712. 

I was lately entertaining myself with comparing Homer's balance, inwhich Jupiter is represented as weighing the fates of Hector andAchilles, with a passage of Virgil, wherein that deity is introduced asweighing the fates of Turnus and Æneas. I then considered how the sameway of thinking prevailed in the eastern parts of the world, as in thosenoble passages of Scripture, where we are told, that the great king ofBabylon, the day before his death, had been weighed in the balance, andbeen found wanting. In other places of the holy writings the Almighty isdescribed as weighing the mountains in scales, making the weight for thewinds, knowing the balancings of the clouds; and, in others, as weighingthe actions of men, and laying their calamities together in a balance. Milton, as I have observed in a former paper, had an eye to several ofthese foregoing instances, in that beautiful description wherein herepresents the archangel and the evil spirit as addressing themselvesfor the combat, but parted by the balance which appeared in the heavens, and weighed the consequences of such a battle. 

 The Eternal, to prevent such horrid fray, Hung forth in Heaven his golden scales, yet seen Betwixt Astrea and the Scorpion sign, Wherein all things created first he weigh'd, The pendulous round earth with balanced air In counterpoise; now ponder; all events, Battles and realms: in these he puts two weights, The sequel each of parting and of fight: The latter quick up flew, and kick'd the beam; Which Gabriel spying, thus bespake the fiend. 

 "Satan, I know thy strength, and thou know'st mine, Neither our own, but given; what folly then To boast what arms can do! since thine no more Than Heaven permits; nor mine, though doubled now To trample thee as mire: for proof look up, And read thy lot in yon celestial sign, Where thou art weigh'd, and shewn how light, how weak, If thou resist. " The fiend look'd up and knew His mounted scale aloft; nor more: but fled Murm'ring, and with him fled the shades of night. 

These several amusing thoughts having taken possession of my mind sometime before I went to sleep, and mingling themselves with my ordinaryideas, raised in my imagination a very odd kind of vision. I was, methought, replaced in my study, and seated in my elbow-chair, where Ihad indulged the foregoing speculations, with my lamp burning by me, asusual. Whilst I was here meditating on several subjects of morality, andconsidering the nature of many virtues and vices, as materials for thosediscourses with which I daily entertain the public; I saw, methought, apair of golden scales hanging by a chain in the same metal over thetable that stood before me; when, on a sudden, there were great heaps ofweights thrown down on each side of them. I found upon examining theseweights, they showed the value of everything that is in esteem amongmen. I made an essay of them, by putting the weight of wisdom in onescale, and that of riches in another, upon which the latter, to show itscomparative lightness, immediately "flew up and kicked the beam. "

But, before I proceed, I must inform my reader, that these weights didnot exert their natural gravity, till they were laid in the goldenbalance, insomuch that I could not guess which was light or heavy, whilst I held them in my hand. This I found by several instances, forupon my laying a weight in one of the scales, which was inscribed by theword Eternity; though I threw in that of time, prosperity, affliction, wealth, poverty, interest, success, with many other weights, which in myhand seemed very ponderous, they were not able to stir the oppositebalance, nor could they have prevailed, though assisted with the weightof the sun, the stars, and the earth. 

Upon emptying the scales, I laid several titles and honors, with pomps, triumphs, and many weights of the like nature, in one of them, andseeing a little glittering weight lie by me, I threw it accidentallyinto the other scale, when, to my great surprise, it proved so exact acounterpoise, that it kept the balance in an equilibrium. This littleglittering weight was inscribed upon the edges of it with the wordVanity. I found there were several other weights which were equallyheavy, and exact counterpoises to one another; a few of them I tried, asavarice and poverty, riches and content, with some others. 

There were likewise several weights that were of the same figure, andseemed to correspond with each other, but were entirely different whenthrown into the scales, as religion and hypocrisy, pedantry andlearning, wit and vivacity, superstition and devotion, gravity andwisdom, with many others. 

I observed one particular weight lettered on both sides, and uponapplying myself to the reading of it, I found on one side written "_Inthe dialect of men_, " and underneath it, "CALAMITIES;" on the other sidewas written, "_In the language of the gods_, " and underneath, "BLESSINGS. " I found the intrinsic value of this weight to be muchgreater than I imagined, for it overpowered health, wealth, good-fortune, and many other weights, which were much more ponderous inmy hand than the other. 

There is a saying among the Scotch, that "an ounce of mother is worth apound of clergy;" I was sensible of the truth of this saying, when I sawthe difference between the weight of natural parts and that of learning. The observation which I made upon these two weights opened to me a newfield of discoveries, for notwithstanding the weight of natural partswas much heavier than that of learning, I observed that it weighed anhundred times heavier than it did before, when I put learning into thesame scale with it. I made the same observation upon faith and morality;for notwithstanding the latter outweighed the former separately, itreceived a thousand times more additional weight from its conjunctionwith the former, than what it had by itself. This odd phenomenon showeditself in other particulars, as in wit and judgment, philosophy andreligion, justice and humanity, zeal and charity, depth of sense andperspicuity of style, with innumerable other particulars, too long to bementioned in this paper. 

As a dream seldom fails of dashing seriousness with impertinence, mirthwith gravity, methought I made several other experiments of a moreludicrous nature, by one of which I found that an English octavo wasvery often heavier than a French folio; and by another, that an oldGreek or Latin author weighed down a whole library of moderns. Seeingone of my _Spectators_ lying by me, I laid it into one of the scales, and flung a twopenny piece in the other. The reader will not inquireinto the event, if he remembers the first trial which I have recorded inthis paper. I afterwards threw both the sexes into the balance; but asit is not for my interest to disoblige either of them, I shall desire tobe excused from telling the result of this experiment. Having anopportunity of this nature in my hands, I could not forbear throwinginto one scale the principles of a Tory, and in the other those of aWhig; but as I have all along declared this to be a neutral paper, Ishall likewise desire to be silent under this head also, though uponexamining one of the weights, I saw the word TEKEL engraven on it incapital letters. 

I made many other experiments, and though I have not room for them allin this day's speculation, I may perhaps reserve them for another. Ishall only add, that upon my awaking I was sorry to find my goldenscales vanished, but resolved for the future to learn this lesson fromthem, not to despise or value any things for their appearances, but toregulate my esteem and passions towards them according to their real andintrinsic value. 

 * * * * *

 _It must be so--Plato, thou reasonest well!-- Else whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire, This longing after immortality? Or whence this secret dread, and inward horror, Of falling into nought? Why shrinks the soul Back on herself, and startles at destruction? 'Tis the divinity that stirs within us; 'Tis heaven itself that points out an hereafter, And intimates eternity to man. _

 _From Cato. _--ADDISON. 

XVI. MISJUDGED HOSPITALITY. 

JONATHAN SWIFT. --1667-1745. 

_From_ THE TATLER, March 6, 1711. 

_Ingenuas didicisse fideliter artesEmollit mores. _

OVID. 

Those inferior duties of life which the French call _les petitesmorales_, or the smaller morals, are with us distinguished by the nameof good manners or breeding. This I look upon, in the general notion ofit, to be a sort of artificial good sense, adapted to the meanestcapacities, and introduced to make mankind easy in their commerce witheach other. Low and little understandings, without some rules of thiskind, would be perpetually wandering into a thousand indecencies andirregularities in behavior; and in their ordinary conversation, fallinto the same boisterous familiarities that one observeth amongst themwhen a debauch hath quite taken away the use of their reason. In otherinstances, it is odd to consider, that for want of common discretion, the very end of good breeding is wholly perverted; and civility, intended to make us easy, is employed in laying chains and fetters uponus, in debarring us of our wishes, and in crossing our most reasonabledesires and inclinations. This abuse reigneth chiefly in the country, asI found to my vexation, when I was last there, in a visit I made to aneighbor about two miles from my cousin. As soon as I entered theparlor, they put me into the great chair that stood close by a hugefire, and kept me there by force, until I was almost stifled. Then a boycame in great hurry to pull off my boots, which I in vain opposed, urging that I must return soon after dinner. In the meantime, the goodlady whispered her eldest daughter, and slipped a key into her hand. Thegirl returned instantly with a beer-glass half full of _aqua mirabilis_and syrup of gillyflowers. I took as much as I had a mind for; but madamavowed I should drink it off--for she was sure it would do me good, after coming out of the cold air--and I was forced to obey; whichabsolutely took away my stomach. When dinner came in, I had a mind tosit at a distance from the fire; but they told me it was as much as mylife was worth, and set me with my back just against it. Although myappetite was quite gone, I resolved to force down as much as I could;and desired the leg of a pullet. "Indeed, Mr. Bickerstaff, " says thelady, "you must eat a wing, to oblige me;" and so put a couple upon myplate. I was persecuted at this rate during the whole meal. As often asI called for small-beer, the master tipped the wink, and the servantbrought me a brimmer of October. Some time after dinner, I ordered mycousin's man, who came with me, to get ready the horses; but it wasresolved I should not stir that night; and when I seemed pretty muchbent upon going, they ordered the stable door to be locked; and thechildren hid my cloak and boots. The next question was, what I wouldhave for supper. I said I never ate anything at night; but was at last, in my own defence, obliged to name the first thing that came into myhead. After three hours spent chiefly in apologies for my entertainment, insinuating to me, "that this was the worst time of the year forprovisions; that they were at a great distance from any market; thatthey were afraid I should be starved; and that they knew they kept me tomy loss, " the lady went, and left me to her husband--for they tookspecial care I should never be alone. As soon as her back was turned, the little misses ran backward and forward every moment; and constantlyas they came in, or went out, made a courtesy directly at me, which, ingood manners, I was forced to return with a bow, and, "Your humbleservant, pretty miss. " Exactly at eight the mother came up, anddiscovered by the redness of her face that supper was not far off. Itwas twice as large as the dinner, and my persecution doubled inproportion. I desired, at my usual hour, to go to my repose, and wasconducted to my chamber by the gentleman, his lady, and the whole trainof children. They importuned me to drink something before I went to bed;and upon my refusing, at last left a bottle of _stingo_, as they calledit, for fear I should wake and be thirsty in the night. I was forced inthe morning to rise and dress myself in the dark, because they would notsuffer my kinsman's servant to disturb me at the hour I desired to becalled. I was now resolved to break through all measures to get away;and after sitting down to a monstrous breakfast of cold beef, mutton, neats' tongues, venison-pasty, and stale-beer, took leave of the family. But the gentleman would needs see me part of my way, and carry me ashort-cut through his own grounds, which he told me would save half amile's riding. This last piece of civility had like to have cost medear, being once or twice in danger of my neck, by leaping over hisditches, and at last forced to alight in the dirt; when my horse, havingslipped his bridle, ran away, and took us up more than an hour torecover him again. It is evident that none of the absurdities I met within this visit proceeded from an ill intention, but from a wrong judgmentof complaisance, and a misapplication in the rules of it. 

XVII. FROM THE "ESSAY ON MAN. "[B]

ALEXANDER POPE. --1688-1744. 

 Heaven from all creatures hides the book of fate, All but the page prescrib'd, their present state; From brutes what men, from men what spirits know; Or who could suffer being here below? The lamb thy riot dooms to bleed to-day, Had he thy reason, would he skip and play? Pleas'd to the last, he crops the flowery food, And licks the hand just rais'd to shed his blood. O blindness to the future! kindly given, That each may fill the circle mark'd by heaven; Who sees with equal eye, as God of all, A hero perish, or a sparrow fall, Atoms or systems into ruin hurl'd, And now a bubble burst, and now a world. Hope humbly then; with trembling pinions soar; Wait the great teacher Death; and God adore. What future bliss he gives not thee to know, But gives that hope to be thy blessing now. Hope springs eternal in the human breast: Man never is, but always to be, blest. The soul, uneasy and confin'd from home, Rests and expatiates in a life to come. Lo, the poor Indian! whose untutor'd mind Sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind; His soul proud science never taught to stray Far as the solar walk, or milky way; Yet simple nature to his hope has given, Behind the cloud-topt hill, an humbler heaven; Some safer world in depth of woods embraced, Some happier island in the watery waste, Where slaves once more their native land behold, No fiends torment, no Christians thirst for gold. To be, contents his natural desire; He asks no angel's wing, no seraph's fire; But thinks, admitted to that equal sky, His faithful dog shall bear him company. 

 What if the foot, ordain'd the dust to tread, Or hand, to toil, aspir'd to be the head? What if the head, the eye, or ear repin'd To serve mere engines to the ruling mind? Just as absurd for any part to claim To be another, in this general frame; Just as absurd to mourn the tasks or pains The great directing Mind of All ordains. All are but parts of one stupendous whole, Whose body Nature is, and God the soul; That changed through all, and yet in all the same, Great in the earth, as in the ethereal frame, Warms in the sun, refreshes in the breeze, Glows in the stars, and blossoms in the trees; Lives through all life, extends through all extent, Spreads undivided, operates unspent; Breathes in our soul, informs our mortal part, As full, as perfect, in a hair as heart; As full, as perfect, in vile man that mourns, As the rapt seraph that adores and burns: To him no high, no low, no great, no small; He fills, he bounds, connects, and equals all. 

 All nature is but art unknown to thee; All chance, direction, which thou canst not see; All discord, harmony not understood; All partial evil, universal good: And spite of pride, in erring reason's spite, One truth is clear, _Whatever is, is right_. 

 Vice is a monster of so frightful mien, As, to be hated, needs but to be seen; Yet seen too oft, familiar with her face, We first endure, then pity, then embrace. 

 Virtuous and vicious every man must be, Few in the extreme, but all in the degree: The rogue and fool by fits is fair and wise; And even the best by fits what they despise. 

 Behold the child, by Nature's kindly law, Pleas'd with a rattle, tickled with a straw: Some livelier plaything gives his youth delight, A little louder, but as empty quite: Scarfs, garters, gold, amuse his riper stage, And beads and prayer-books are the toys of age: Pleas'd with this bauble still, as that before, Till tired he sleeps, and life's poor play is o'er. 

 Has God, thou fool! work'd solely for thy good Thy joy, thy pastime, thy attire, thy food? Who for thy table feeds the wanton fawn, For him as kindly spreads the flowery lawn. Is it for thee the lark ascends and sings? Joy tunes his voice, joy elevates his wings. Is it for thee the linnet pours his throat? Loves of his own and raptures swell the note. The bounding steed you pompously bestride Shares with his lord the pleasure and the pride. Is thine alone the seed that strews the plain? The birds of heaven shall vindicate their grain. Thine the full harvest of the golden year? Part pays, and justly, the deserving steer. The hog, that ploughs not, nor obeys thy call, Lives on the labors of this lord of all. Know, Nature's children all divide her care; The fur that warms a monarch warm'd a bear. While man exclaims, "See all things for my use!" "See man for mine!" replies a pamper'd goose: And just as short of reason he must fall, Who thinks all made for one, not one for all. 

 For forms of government let fools contest; Whate'er is best administer'd is best: For modes of faith let graceless zealots fight; His can't be wrong whose life is in the right. In faith and hope the world will disagree, But all mankind's concern is charity: All must be false that thwart this one great end, And all of God that bless mankind or mend. 

 Honor and shame from no condition rise; Act well your part, there all the honor lies. Fortune in men has some small difference made, One flaunts in rags, one flutters in brocade; The cobbler apron'd, and the parson gown'd, The friar hooded, and the monarch crown'd. "What differ more (you cry) than crown and cowl?" I'll tell you, friend, a wise man and a fool. You'll find, if once the monarch acts the monk, Or, cobbler-like, the parson will be drunk, Worth makes the man, and want of it, the fellow; The rest is all but leather or prunello. 

 Go! if your ancient but ignoble blood Has crept through scoundrels ever since the flood, Go! and pretend your family is young, Nor own your fathers have been fools so long. What can ennoble sots, or slaves, or cowards? Alas! not all the blood of all the Howards. 

 Who wickedly is wise, or madly brave, Is but the more a fool, the more a knave. Who noble ends by noble means obtains, Or failing, smiles in exile or in chains, Like good Aurelius let him reign, or bleed Like Socrates, --that man is great indeed. 

 An honest man's the noblest work of God. 

 Know then this truth (enough for man to know), "Virtue alone is happiness below. "

 . .. Never elated while one man's oppress'd; Never dejected while another's bless'd. .. . [C]

 See the sole bliss heaven could on all bestow! Which who but feels can taste, but thinks can know: Yet poor with fortune, and with learning blind, The bad must miss, the good untaught will find: Slave to no sect, who takes no private road, But looks through nature up to nature's God; Pursues that chain which links the immense design, Joins heaven and earth, and mortal and divine: Sees that no being any bliss can know, But touches some above and some below; Learns from this union of the rising whole, The first, last purpose of the human soul; And knows where faith, law, morals, all began, All end, in love of God and love of man. 

FOOTNOTES:

[B] If the _Essay on Man_ were shivered into fragments, it would notlose its value: for it is precisely its details which constitute itsmoral as well as literary beauties. --A. W. WARD, _quoted by_ MARKPATTISON. 

[C] In these two lines, which, so far as I know, are the mostcomplete, the most concise, and the most lofty expressions of moraltemper existing in English words, Pope sums the law of noble life. 

RUSKIN, _Lectures on Art_. 

XVIII. RULE, BRITANNIA. 

JAMES THOMSON. --1700-1748. 

 When Britain first, at Heaven's command, Arose from out the azure main, This was the charter of the land, And guardian angels sang this strain: Rule, Britannia, rule the waves! Britons never will be slaves!

 The nations not so blest as thee, Must, in their turns, to tyrants fall, Whilst thou shalt flourish, great and free, The dread and envy of them all. Rule, Britannia, rule the waves! Britons never will be slaves!

 Still more majestic shalt thou rise, More dreadful from each foreign stroke; As the loud blast that tears the skies, Serves but to root thy native oak. Rule, Britannia, rule the waves! Britons never will be slaves!

 Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame; All their attempts to bend thee down Will but arouse thy generous flame, But work their woe and thy renown. Rule, Britannia, rule the waves! Britons never will be slaves!

 To thee belongs the rural reign; Thy cities shall with commerce shine; All thine shall be the subject main, And every shore it circles thine. Rule, Britannia, rule the waves! Britons never will be slaves!

 The Muses, still with freedom found, Shall to thy happy coast repair; Blest isle! with matchless beauty crown'd, And manly hearts to guard the fair. Rule, Britannia, rule the waves! Britons never will be slaves!

XIX. THE FIRST CRUSADE. 

DAVID HUME. --1711-1776. 

_From_ HISTORY OF ENGLAND. 

After Mahomet had, by means of his pretended revelations, united thedispersed Arabians under one head, they issued forth from their desertsin great multitudes; and being animated with zeal for their newreligion, and supported by the vigor of their new government, they madedeep impression on the eastern empire, which was far in the decline, with regard both to military discipline and to civil policy. Jerusalem, by its situation, became one of their most early conquests; and theChristians had the mortification to see the holy sepulchre, and theother places, consecrated by the presence of their religious founder, fallen into the possession of infidels. But the Arabians or Saracenswere so employed in military enterprises, by which they spread theirempire in a few years from the banks of the Ganges to the Straits ofGibraltar, that they had no leisure for theological controversy: andthough the Alcoran, the original monument of their faith, seems tocontain some violent precepts, they were much less infected with thespirit of bigotry and persecution than the indolent and speculativeGreeks, who were continually refining on the several articles of theirreligious system. They gave little disturbance to those zealouspilgrims, who daily flocked to Jerusalem; and they allowed every man, after paying a moderate tribute, to visit the holy sepulchre, to performhis religious duties, and to return in peace. But the Turcomans orTurks, a tribe of Tartars, who had embraced Mahometanism, having wrestedSyria from the Saracens, and having, in the year 1065, made themselvesmasters of Jerusalem, rendered the pilgrimage much more difficult anddangerous to the Christians. The barbarity of their manners, and theconfusions attending their unsettled government, exposed the pilgrims tomany insults, robberies, and extortions: and these zealots, returningfrom their meritorious fatigues and sufferings, filled all Christendomwith indignation against the infidels, who profaned the holy city bytheir presence, and derided the sacred mysteries in the very place oftheir completion. Gregory VII. , among the other vast ideas which heentertained, had formed the design of uniting all the Western Christiansagainst the Mahometans; but the egregious and violent invasions of thatpontiff on the civil power of princes, had created him so many enemies, and had rendered his schemes so suspicious, that he was not able to makegreat progress in this undertaking. The work was reserved for a meanerinstrument, whose low condition in life exposed him to no jealousy, andwhose folly was well calculated to coincide with the prevailingprinciples of the times. 

Peter, commonly called the Hermit, a native of Amiens in Picardy, hadmade the pilgrimage to Jerusalem. Being deeply affected with the dangersto which that act of piety now exposed the pilgrims, as well as with theinstances of oppression under which the Eastern Christians labored, heentertained the bold, and, in all appearance, impracticable project ofleading into Asia, from the farthest extremities of the West, armiessufficient to subdue those potent and warlike nations which now held theholy city in subjection. He proposed his views to Martin II. , who filledthe papal chair, and who, though sensible of the advantages which thehead of the Christian religion must reap from a religious war, andthough he esteemed the blind zeal of Peter a proper means for effectingthe purpose, resolved not to interpose his authority, till he saw agreater probability of success. He summoned a council at Placentia, which consisted of four thousand ecclesiastics, and thirty thousandseculars; and which was so numerous that no hall could contain themultitude, and it was necessary to hold the assembly in a plain. Theharangues of the Pope, and of Peter himself, representing the dismalsituation of their brethren in the East, and the indignity suffered bythe Christian name, in allowing the holy city to remain in the hands ofinfidels, here found the minds of men so well prepared, that the wholemultitude suddenly and violently declared for the war, and solemnlydevoted themselves to perform this service, so meritorious, as theybelieved it, to God and religion. 

But though Italy seemed thus to have zealously embraced the enterprise, Martin knew, that, in order to insure success, it was necessary toenlist the greater and more warlike nations in the same engagement; andhaving previously exhorted Peter to visit the chief cities andsovereigns of Christendom, he summoned another council at Clermont inAuvergne. The fame of this great and pious design being now universallydiffused, procured the attendance of the greatest prelates, nobles, andprinces; and when the Pope and the Hermit renewed their patheticexhortations, the whole assembly, as if impelled by an immediateinspiration, not moved by their preceding impressions, exclaimed withone voice, _It is the will of God, It is the will of God!_--words deemedso memorable, and so much the result of a divine influence, that theywere employed as the signal of rendezvous and battle in all the futureexploits of those adventurers. Men of all ranks flew to arms with theutmost ardor; and an exterior symbol, too, a circumstance of chiefmoment, was here chosen by the devoted combatants. The sign of thecross, which had been hitherto so much revered among Christians, andwhich, the more it was an object of reproach among the Pagan world, wasthe more passionately cherished by them, became the badge of union, andwas affixed to their right shoulder, by all who enlisted themselves inthis sacred warfare. 

Europe was at this time sunk into profound ignorance and superstition. The ecclesiastics had acquired the greatest ascendant over the humanmind: the people, who, being little restrained by honor, and less bylaw, abandoned themselves to the worst crimes and disorders, knew of noother expiation than the observances imposed on them by their spiritualpastors: and it was easy to represent the holy war as an equivalent forall penances, and an atonement for every violation of justice andhumanity. But amidst the abject superstition which now prevailed, themilitary spirit also had universally diffused itself; and though notsupported by art or discipline, was become the general passion of thenations governed by the feudal law. All the great lords possessed theright of peace and war: they were engaged in perpetual hostilities witheach other: the open country was become a scene of outrage and disorder:the cities, still mean and poor, were neither guarded by walls norprotected by privileges, and were exposed to every insult: individualswere obliged to depend for safety on their own force, or their privatealliances: and valor was the only excellence which was held in esteem, or gave one man the pre-eminence above another. When all the particularsuperstitions, therefore, were here united in one great object, theardor for military enterprises took the same direction; and Europe, impelled by its two ruling passions, was loosened, as it were, from itsfoundations, and seemed to precipitate itself in one united body uponthe East. 

All orders of men, deeming the Crusades the only road to heaven, enlisted themselves under these sacred banners, and were impatient toopen the way with their sword to the holy city. Nobles, artisans, peasants, even priests, enrolled their names; and to decline thismeritorious service was branded with the reproach of impiety, or, whatperhaps was esteemed still more disgraceful, of cowardice andpusillanimity. The infirm and aged contributed to the expedition bypresents and money; and many of them, not satisfied with the merit ofthis atonement, attended it in person, and were determined, ifpossible, to breathe their last in sight of that city where theirSaviour had died for them. Women themselves, concealing their sex underthe disguise of armor, attended the camp. The greatest criminals wereforward in a service, which they regarded as a propitiation for allcrimes; and the most enormous disorders were, during the course of thoseexpeditions, committed by men enured to wickedness, encouraged byexample, and impelled by necessity. The multitude of the adventurerssoon became so great, that their more sagacious leaders, Hugh count ofVermandois, brother to the French king, Raymond count of Toulouse, Godfrey of Bouillon, prince of Brabant, and Stephen count of Blois, became apprehensive lest the greatness itself of the armament shoulddisappoint its purpose; and they permitted an undisciplined multitude, computed at 300, 000 men, to go before them, under the command of Peterthe Hermit and Walter the Moneyless. These men took the road towardsConstantinople through Hungary and Bulgaria; and trusting that Heaven, by supernatural assistance, would supply all their necessities, theymade no provision for subsistance on their march. They soon foundthemselves obliged to obtain by plunder, what they had vainly expectedfrom miracles; and the enraged inhabitants of the countries throughwhich they passed, gathering together in arms, attacked the disorderlymultitude and put them to slaughter without resistance. The moredisciplined armies followed after; and passing the straights atConstantinople, they were mustered in the plains of Asia, and amountedin the whole to the number of 700, 000 combatants. .. . 

After the adventurers in the holy war were assembled on the banks of theBosphorus, opposite to Constantinople, they proceeded on theirenterprise; but immediately experienced those difficulties which theirzeal had hitherto concealed from them, and for which, even if they hadforeseen them, it would have been almost impossible to provide a remedy. The Greek emperor, Alexis Comnenus, who had applied to the WesternChristians for succor against the Turks, entertained hopes, and thosebut feeble ones, of obtaining such a moderate supply, as, acting underhis command, might enable him to repulse the enemy: but he was extremelyastonished to see his dominions overwhelmed, on a sudden, by such aninundation of licentious barbarians, who, though they pretendedfriendship, despised his subjects as unwarlike, and detested them asheretical. By all the arts of policy, in which he excelled, heendeavored to divert the torrent; but while he employed professions, caresses, civilities, and seeming services towards the leaders of thecrusade, he secretly regarded those imperious allies as more dangerousthan the open enemies by whom his empire had been formerly invaded. Having effected that difficult point of disembarking them safely inAsia, he entered into a private correspondence with Soliman, emperor ofthe Turks; and practised every insidious art, which his genius, hispower, or his situation, enabled him to employ, for disappointing theenterprise, and discouraging the Latins from making thenceforward anysuch prodigious migrations. His dangerous policy was seconded by thedisorders inseparable from so vast a multitude, who were not unitedunder one head, and were conducted by leaders of the most independentintractable spirit, unacquainted with military discipline, anddetermined enemies to civil authority and submission. The scarcity ofprovisions, the excesses of fatigue, the influence of unknown climates, joined to the want of concert in their operations, and to the sword of awarlike enemy, destroyed the adventurers by thousands, and would haveabated the ardor of men impelled to war by less powerful motives. Theirzeal, however, their bravery, and their irresistible force, stillcarried them forward, and continually advanced them to the great end oftheir enterprise. After an obstinate siege they took Nice, the seat ofthe Turkish empire; they defeated Soliman in two great battles; theymade themselves masters of Antioch; and entirely broke the force of theTurks, who had so long retained those countries in subjection. Thesoldan of Egypt, whose alliance they had hitherto courted, recovered, onthe fall of the Turkish power, his former authority in Jerusalem; and heinformed them by his ambassadors, that if they came disarmed to thatcity, they might now perform their religious vows, and that allChristian pilgrims, who should thenceforth visit the holy sepulchre, might expect the same good treatment which they had ever received fromhis predecessors. The offer was rejected; the soldan was required toyield up the city to the Christians; and on his refusal, the championsof the cross advanced to the siege of Jerusalem, which they regarded asthe consummation of their labors. By the detachments which they hadmade, and the disasters which they had undergone, they were diminishedto the number of twenty thousand foot, and fifteen hundred horse; butthese were still formidable, from their valor, their experience, and theobedience which, from past calamities, they had learned to pay to theirleaders. After a siege of five weeks, they took Jerusalem by assault;and, impelled by a mixture of military and religious rage, they put thenumerous garrison and inhabitants to the sword without distinction. 

Neither arms defended the valiant, nor submission the timorous: no ageor sex was spared: infants on the breast were pierced by the same blowwith their mothers, who implored for mercy: even a multitude to thenumber of ten thousand persons, who had surrendered themselvesprisoners, and were promised quarter, were butchered in cold blood bythose ferocious conquerors. The streets of Jerusalem were covered withdead bodies; and the triumphant warriors, after every enemy was subduedand slaughtered, immediately turned themselves, with the sentiments ofhumiliation and contrition, towards the holy sepulchre. They threw asidetheir arms, still streaming with blood: they advanced with reclinedbodies, and naked feet and heads, to that sacred monument: they sanganthems to their Saviour, who had there purchased their salvation by hisdeath and agony: and their devotion, enlivened by the presence of theplace where he had suffered, so overcame their fury, that they dissolvedin tears, and bore the appearance of every soft and tender sentiment. Soinconsistent is human nature with itself! and so easily does the mosteffeminate superstition ally, both with the most heroic courage and withthe fiercest barbarity!

This great event happened on the fifth of July in the last year of theeleventh century. The Christian princes and nobles, after choosingGodfrey of Bouillon king of Jerusalem, began to settle themselves intheir new conquests; while some of them returned to Europe, in order toenjoy at home that glory, which their valor had acquired them in thispopular and meritorious enterprise. 

XX. THE BARD. 

_A Pindaric Ode. _[D]

THOMAS GRAY. --1716-1771. 

I. 1. 

 "Ruin seize thee, ruthless King! Confusion on thy banners wait; Though fann'd by Conquest's crimson wing, They mock the air with idle state. Helm, nor hauberk's twisted mail, Nor e'en thy virtues, Tyrant, shall avail To save thy secret soul from nightly fears, From Cambria's curse, from Cambria's tears!" Such were the sounds that o'er the crested pride Of the first Edward scatter'd wild dismay, As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy side He wound with toilsome march his long array. Stout Glo'ster stood aghast in speechless trance: "To arms!" cried Mortimer, and couch'd his quivering lance. 

I. 2. 

 On a rock, whose haughty brow Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood, Rob'd in the sable garb of woe, With haggard eyes the Poet stood; (Loose his beard, and hoary hair Stream'd, like a meteor, to the troubled air), And with a master's hand, and prophet's fire, Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre. "Hark, how each giant-oak, and desert cave, Sighs to the torrent's awful voice beneath! O'er thee, O King! their hundred arms they wave, Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe; Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal day, To high-born Hoel's harp, or soft Llewellyn's lay. 

I. 3. 

 "Cold is Cadwallo's tongue, That hush'd the stormy main: Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed: Mountains, ye mourn in vain Modred, whose magic song Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topt head. On dreary Arvon's shore they lie, Smear'd with gore, and ghastly pale: Far, far aloof the affrighted ravens sail; The famish'd eagle screams, and passes by. Dear lost companions of my tuneful art, Dear, as the light that visits these sad eyes, Dear, as the ruddy drops that warm my heart, Ye died amidst your dying country's cries-- No more I weep. They do not sleep. On yonder cliffs, a grisly band, I see them sit; they linger yet, Avengers of their native land: With me in dreadful harmony they join, And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy line. 

II. 1. 

 "Weave the warp, and weave the woof, The winding-sheet of Edward's race. Give ample room, and verge enough The characters of hell to trace. Mark the year, and mark the night, When Severn shall re-echo with affright The shrieks of death, through Berkley's roof that ring, Shrieks of an agonizing king! She-wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs, That tear'st the bowels of thy mangled mate, From thee be born, who o'er thy country hangs The scourge of heaven. What terrors round him wait! Amazement in his van, with flight combin'd, And Sorrow's faded form, and Solitude behind. 

II. 2. 

 "Mighty victor, mighty lord! Low on his funeral couch he lies! No pitying heart, no eye, afford A tear to grace his obsequies. Is the sable warrior fled? Thy son is gone. He rests among the dead. The swarm, that in thy noontide beam were born? Gone to salute the rising morn. Fair laughs the Morn, and soft the Zephyr blows, While proudly riding o'er the azure realm In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes; Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm; Regardless of the sweeping Whirlwind's sway, That, hush'd in grim repose, expects his evening prey. 

II. 3. 

 "Fill high the sparkling bowl, The rich repast prepare; Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast: Close by the regal chair Fell Thirst and Famine scowl A baleful smile upon their baffled guest. Heard ye the din of battle bray, Lance to lance, and horse to horse? Long years of havoc urge their destin'd course, And through the kindred squadrons mow their way. Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murder fed, Revere his consort's faith, his father's fame, And spare the meek usurper's holy head. Above, below, the rose of snow, Twin'd with her blushing foe, we spread: The bristled boar in infant-gore Wallows beneath the thorny shade. Now, brothers, bending o'er the accursèd loom, Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom. 

III. 1. 

 "Edward, lo! to sudden fate (Weave we the woof. The thread is spun. ) Half of thy heart we consecrate. (The web is wove. The work is done. ) Stay, O stay! nor thus forlorn Leave me unbless'd, unpitied, here to mourn: In yon bright track, that fires the western skies, They melt, they vanish from my eyes. But oh! what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height Descending slow their glittering skirts unroll? Visions of glory, spare my aching sight! Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul! No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail. All hail, ye genuine kings, Britannia's issue, hail!

III. 2. 

 "Girt with many a baron bold Sublime their starry fronts they rear; And gorgeous dames, and statesmen old In bearded majesty, appear. In the midst a form divine! Her eye proclaims her of the Briton-line; Her lion-port, her awe-commanding face, Attemper'd sweet to virgin-grace. What strings symphonious tremble in the air, What strains of vocal transport round her play. Hear from the grave, great Taliessin, hear They breathe a soul to animate thy clay. Bright Rapture calls, and soaring, as she sings, Waves in the eye of heaven her many-color'd wings. 

III. 3. 

 "The verse adorn again Fierce War, and faithful Love, And Truth severe, by fairy Fiction drest. In buskin'd measures move Pale Grief, and pleasing Pain, With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast. A voice, as of the cherub-choir, Gales from blooming Eden bear; And distant warblings lessen on my ear, That lost in long futurity expire. Fond impious man, thinks thou yon sanguine cloud, Rais'd by thy breath, has quench'd the orb of day? To-morrow he repairs the golden flood, And warms the nations with redoubled ray. Enough for me: with joy I see The different doom our fates assign. Be thine despair, and sceptred care; To triumph, and to die, are mine. " He spoke, and headlong from the mountain's height Deep in the roaring tide he plunged to endless night. 

FOOTNOTES:

[D] This ode is founded on a tradition current in Wales, that Edwardthe First, when he completed the conquest of that country, orderedall the Bards that fell into his hands to be put to death. --GRAY. 

XXI. ON AN ADDRESS TO THE THRONE CONCERNING AFFAIRS IN AMERICA. 

HOUSE OF LORDS--November 18th, 1777. 

LORD CHATHAM. --1708-1778. 

I rise, my Lords, to declare my sentiments on this most solemn andserious subject. It has imposed a load upon my mind, which, I fear, nothing can remove, but which impels me to endeavor its alleviation, bya free and unreserved communication of my sentiments. 

In the first part of the address, I have the honor of heartilyconcurring with the noble Earl who moved it. No man feels sincerer joythan I do; none can offer more genuine congratulations on everyaccession of strength to the Protestant succession. I therefore join inevery congratulation on the birth of another princess, and the happyrecovery of her Majesty. 

But I must stop here. My courtly complaisance will carry me no farther. I will not join in congratulation on misfortune and disgrace. I cannotconcur in a blind and servile address, which approves and endeavors tosanctify the monstrous measures which have heaped disgrace andmisfortune upon us. This, my Lords, is a perilous and tremendous moment!It is not a time for adulation. The smoothness of flattery cannot nowavail--cannot save us in this rugged and awful crisis. It is nownecessary to instruct the Throne in the language of truth. We mustdispel the illusion and the darkness which envelop it, and display, inits full danger and true colors, the ruin that is brought to our doors. 

This, my Lords, is our duty. It is the proper function of thisnoble assembly, sitting, as we do, upon our honors in this House, the hereditary council of the Crown. _Who_ is the minister--_where_is the minister, that has dared to suggest to the Throne thecontrary, unconstitutional language this day delivered from it? Theaccustomed language from the Throne has been application toParliament for advice, and a reliance on its constitutional adviceand assistance. As it is the right of Parliament to give, so it isthe duty of the Crown to ask it. But on this day, and in thisextreme momentous exigency, no reliance is reposed on ourconstitutional counsels! no advice is asked from the sober andenlightened care of Parliament! but the Crown, from itself and byitself, declares an unalterable determination to pursuemeasures--and what measures, my Lords? The measures that haveproduced the imminent perils that threaten us; the measures thathave brought ruin to our doors. 

Can the minister of the day now presume to expect a continuance ofsupport in this ruinous infatuation? Can Parliament be so dead to itsdignity and its duty as to be thus deluded into the loss of the one andthe violation of the other? To give an unlimited credit and support forthe steady perseverance in measures not proposed for our parliamentaryadvice, but dictated and forced upon us--in measures, I say, my Lords, which have reduced this late flourishing empire to ruin and contempt!"But yesterday, and England might have stood against the world: now noneso poor to do her reverence. " I use the words of a poet; but, though itbe poetry, it is no fiction. It is a shameful truth, that not only thepower and strength of this country are wasting away and expiring, buther well-earned glories, her true honor, and substantial dignity aresacrificed. 

France, my Lords, has insulted you; she has encouraged and sustainedAmerica; and, whether America be wrong or right, the dignity ofthis country ought to spurn at the officious insult of Frenchinterference. The ministers and ambassadors of those who are calledrebels and enemies are in Paris; in Paris they transact thereciprocal interests of America and France. Can there be a moremortifying insult? Can even our ministers sustain a more humiliatingdisgrace? Do they dare to resent it? Do they presume even to hint avindication of their honor, and the dignity of the State, byrequiring the dismission of the plenipotentiaries of America? Suchis the degradation to which they have reduced the glories ofEngland! The people whom they affect to call contemptible rebels, but whose growing power has at last obtained the name of enemies;the people with whom they have engaged this country in war, andagainst whom they now command our implicit support in every measureof desperate hostility--this people, despised as rebels, oracknowledged as enemies, are abetted against you, supplied withevery military store, their interests consulted, and theirambassadors entertained, by your inveterate enemy! and our ministersdare not interpose with dignity or effect. Is this the honor of agreat kingdom? Is this the indignant spirit of England, who "butyesterday" gave law to the house of Bourbon? My Lords, the dignityof nations demands a decisive conduct in a situation like this. .. . 

My Lords, this ruinous and ignominious situation, where we cannot act with success, nor suffer with honor, calls upon us toremonstrate in the strongest and loudest language of truth, torescue the ear of majesty from the delusions which surround it. Thedesperate state of our arms abroad is in part known. No man thinksmore highly of them than I do. I love and honor the English troops. I know their virtues and their valor. I know they can achieveanything except impossibilities; and I know that the conquest ofEnglish America _is an impossibility_. You cannot, I venture to sayit, _you cannot_ conquer America. Your armies in the last wareffected everything that could be effected; and what was it? It costa numerous army, under the command of a most able general [LordAmherst], now a noble Lord in this House, a long and laboriouscampaign, to expel five thousand Frenchmen from French America. MyLords, _you cannot conquer America_. What is your present situationthere? We do not know the worst; but we know that in three campaignswe have done nothing and suffered much. Besides the sufferings, perhaps _total loss_ of the Northern force, the best appointed armythat ever took the field, commanded by Sir William Howe, has retiredfrom the American lines. _He was obliged_ to relinquish his attempt, and with great delay and danger to adopt a new and distant plan ofoperations. We shall soon know, and in any event have reason tolament, what may have happened since. As to conquest, therefore, myLords, I repeat, it is impossible. You may swell every expense andevery effort still more extravagantly; pile and accumulate everyassistance you can buy or borrow; traffic and barter with everylittle pitiful German prince that sells and sends his subjects tothe shambles of a foreign prince; your efforts are forever vain andimpotent--doubly so from this mercenary aid on which you rely; forit irritates, to an incurable resentment, the minds of your enemies, to overrun them with the mercenary sons of rapine and plunder, devoting them and their possessions to the rapacity of hirelingcruelty! If I were an American, as I am an Englishman, while aforeign troop was landed in my country, I never would lay down myarms--never--never--never. 

But, my Lords, who is the man, that, in addition to these disgracesand mischiefs of our army, has dared to authorize and associate toour arms the tomahawk and scalping-knife of the savage? to call intocivilized alliance the wild and inhuman savage of the woods; todelegate to the merciless Indian the defence of disputed rights, andto wage the horrors of his barbarous war against our brethren? MyLords, these enormities cry aloud for redress and punishment. Unlessthoroughly done away, it will be a stain on the national character. It is a violation of the Constitution. I believe it is against law. It is not the least of our national misfortunes that the strengthand character of our army are thus impaired. Infected with themercenary spirit of robbery and rapine, familiarized to the horridscenes of savage cruelty, it can no longer boast of the noble andgenerous principles which dignify a soldier, no longer sympathizewith the dignity of the royal banner, nor feel the pride, pomp, andcircumstance of glorious war, "that make ambition virtue!" Whatmakes ambition virtue?--the sense of honor. But is the sense ofhonor consistent with a spirit of plunder, or the practice ofmurder? Can it flow from mercenary motives, or can it prompt tocruel deeds?

The independent views of America have been stated and asserted as thefoundation of this address. My Lords, no man wishes for the duedependence of America on this country more than I do. To preserve it, and not confirm that state of independence into which your measureshitherto have driven them, is the object which we ought to unite inattaining. The Americans, contending for their rights against arbitraryexactions, I love and admire. It is the struggle of free and virtuouspatriots. But, contending for independency and total disconnection fromEngland, as an Englishman, I cannot wish them success; for in a dueconstitutional dependency, including the ancient supremacy of thiscountry in regulating their commerce and navigation, consists the mutualhappiness and prosperity both of England and America. She derivedassistance and protection from us; and we reaped from her the mostimportant advantages. She was, indeed, the fountain of our wealth, thenerve of our strength, the nursery and basis of our naval power. It isour duty, therefore, my Lords, if we wish to save our country, mostseriously to endeavor the recovery of these most beneficial subjects;and in this perilous crisis, perhaps the present moment may be the onlyone in which we can hope for success. For in their negotiations withFrance, they have, or think they have, reason to complain; though it benotorious that they have received from that power important supplies andassistance of various kinds, yet it is certain they expected it in amore decisive and immediate degree. America is in ill humor with France;on some points they have not entirely answered her expectations. Let uswisely take advantage of every possible moment of reconciliation. Besides, the natural disposition of America herself still leans towardEngland; to the old habits of connection and mutual interest that unitedboth countries. This _was_ the established sentiment of all thecontinent; and still, my Lords, in the great and principal part, thesound part of America, this wise and affectionate disposition prevails. And there is a very considerable part of America yet sound--the middleand the southern provinces. Some parts may be factious and blind totheir true interests; but if we express a wise and benevolentdisposition to communicate with them those immutable rights of natureand those constitutional liberties to which they are equally entitledwith ourselves, by a conduct so just and humane we shall confirm thefavorable and conciliate the adverse. I say, my Lords, the rights andliberties to which they are equally entitled with ourselves, _but nomore_. I would participate to them every enjoyment and freedom which thecolonizing subjects of a free state can possess, or wish to possess; andI do not see why they should not enjoy every fundamental right in theirproperty, and every original substantial liberty, which Devonshire, orSurrey, or the county I live in, or any other county in England, canclaim; reserving always, as the sacred right of the mother country, thedue constitutional dependency of the colonies. The inherent supremacy ofthe state in regulating and protecting the navigation and commerce ofall her subjects, is necessary for the mutual benefit and preservationof every part, to constitute and preserve the prosperous arrangement ofthe whole empire. 

The sound parts of America, of which I have spoken, must be sensible ofthese great truths and of their real interests. America is not in thatstate of desperate and contemptible rebellion which this country hasbeen deluded to believe. It is not a wild and lawless banditti, who, having nothing to lose, might hope to snatch something from publicconvulsions. Many of their leaders and great men have a great stake inthis great contest. The gentleman who conducts their armies, I am told, has an estate of four or five thousand pounds a year; and when Iconsider these things, I cannot but lament the inconsiderate violence ofour penal acts, our declaration of treason and rebellion, with all thefatal effects of attainder and confiscation. 

As to the disposition of foreign powers which is asserted [in the King'sspeech] to be pacific and friendly, let us judge, my Lords, rather bytheir actions and the nature of things than by interested assertions. The uniform assistance supplied to America by France suggests adifferent conclusion. The most important interests of France inaggrandizing and enriching herself with what she most wants, supplies ofevery naval store from America, must inspire her with differentsentiments. The extraordinary preparations of the House of Bourbon, byland and by sea, from Dunkirk to the Straits, equally ready and willingto overwhelm these defenceless islands, should rouse us to a sense oftheir real disposition and our own danger. Not five thousand troops inEngland! hardly three thousand in Ireland! What can we oppose to thecombined force of our enemies? Scarcely twenty ships of the line sofully or sufficiently manned, that any admiral's reputation would permithim to take the command of. The river of Lisbon in the possession of ourenemies! The seas swept by American privateers! Our Channel trade tornto pieces by them! In this complicated crisis of danger, weakness athome, and calamity abroad, terrified and insulted by the neighboringpowers, unable to act in America, or acting only to be destroyed, whereis the man with the forehead to promise or hope for success in such asituation, or from perseverance in the measures that have driven us toit? Who has the forehead to do so? Where is that man? I should be gladto see his face. 

You cannot _conciliate_ America by your present measures. You cannot_subdue_ her by your present or by any measures. What, then, can you do?You cannot conquer; you cannot gain; but you can _address_; you can lullthe fears and anxieties of the moment into an ignorance of the dangerthat should produce them. But, my Lords, the time demands the languageof truth. We must not now apply the flattering unction of servilecompliance or blind complaisance. In a just and necessary war, tomaintain the rights or honor of my country, I would strip the shirt frommy back to support it. But in such a war as this, unjust in itsprinciple, impracticable in its means, and ruinous in its consequences, I would not contribute a single effort nor a single shilling. I do notcall for vengeance on the heads of those who have been guilty; I onlyrecommend to them to make their retreat. Let them walk off; and let themmake haste, or they may be assured that speedy and condign punishmentwill overtake them. 

My Lords, I have submitted to you, with the freedom and truth which Ithink my duty, my sentiments on your present awful situation. I havelaid before you the ruin of your power, the disgrace of your reputation, the pollution of your discipline, the contamination of your morals, thecomplication of calamities, foreign and domestic, that overwhelm yoursinking country. Your dearest interests, your own liberties, theConstitution itself totters to the foundation. All this disgracefuldanger, this multitude of misery, is the monstrous offspring of thisunnatural war. We have been deceived and deluded too long. Let us nowstop short. This is the crisis--the only crisis of time and situation, to give us a possibility of escape from the fatal effects of ourdelusions. But if, in an obstinate and infatuated perseverance in folly, we slavishly echo the peremptory words this day presented to us, nothingcan save this devoted country from complete and final ruin. We madlyrush into multiplied miseries, and "confusion worse confounded. "

Is it possible, can it be believed, that ministers are yet blind to thisimpending destruction? I did hope, that instead of this false and emptyvanity, this overweening pride, engendering high conceits andpresumptuous imaginations, ministers would have humbled themselves intheir errors, would have confessed and retracted them, and by an active, though a late, repentance, have endeavored to redeem them. But, myLords, since they had neither sagacity to foresee, nor justice norhumanity to shun these oppressive calamities--since not even severeexperience can make them feel, nor the imminent ruin of their countryawaken them from their stupefaction, the guardian care of Parliamentmust interpose. I shall, therefore, my Lords, propose to you anamendment of the address to his Majesty, to be inserted immediatelyafter the two first paragraphs of congratulation on the birth of aprincess, to recommend an immediate cessation of hostilities, and thecommencement of a treaty to restore peace and liberty to America, strength and happiness to England, security and permanent prosperity toboth countries. This, my Lords, is yet in our power; and let not thewisdom and justice of your Lordships neglect the happy, and, perhaps, the only opportunity. By the establishment of irrevocable law, foundedon mutual rights, and ascertained by treaty, these glorious enjoymentsmay be firmly perpetuated. And let me repeat to your Lordships, that thestrong bias of America, at least of the wise and sounder parts of it, naturally inclines to this happy and constitutional reconnection withyou. Notwithstanding the temporary intrigues with France, we may stillbe assured of their ancient and confirmed partiality to us. America andFrance _cannot_ be congenial. 

My Lords, to encourage and confirm that innate inclination to thiscountry, founded on every principle of affection, as well asconsideration of interest; to restore that favorable disposition into apermanent and powerful reunion with this country; to revive the mutualstrength of the empire; again to awe the House of Bourbon, instead ofmeanly truckling, as our present calamities compel us, to every insultof French caprice and Spanish punctilio; to re-establish our commerce;to reassert our rights and our honor; to confirm our interests, andrenew our glories forever--a consummation most devoutly to beendeavored! and which, I trust, may yet arise from reconciliation withAmerica--I have the honor of submitting to you the following amendment, which I move to be inserted after the two first paragraphs of theaddress:

 "And that this House does most humbly advise and supplicate his Majesty to be pleased to cause the most speedy and effectual measures to be taken for restoring peace in America; and that no time may be lost in proposing an immediate opening of a treaty for the final settlement of the tranquillity of these invaluable provinces, by a removal of the unhappy causes of this ruinous civil war, and by a just and adequate security against the return of the like calamities in times to come. And this House desire to offer the most dutiful assurances to his Majesty, that they will, in due time, cheerfully co-operate with the magnanimity and tender goodness of his Majesty for the preservation of his people, by such explicit and most solemn declarations, and provisions of fundamental and irrevocable laws, as may be judged necessary for the ascertaining and fixing forever the respective rights of Great Britain and her colonies. "

XXII. FROM "THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. "

THE FAMILY USE ART, WHICH IS OPPOSED WITH STILL GREATER. 

OLIVER GOLDSMITH. --1728-1774. 

Whatever might have been Sophia's sensations, the rest of the family waseasily consoled for Mr. Burchell's absence by the company of ourlandlord, whose visits now became more frequent and longer. Though hehad been disappointed in procuring my daughters the amusements of thetown, as he designed, he took every opportunity of supplying them withthose little recreations which our retirement would admit of. He usuallycame in the morning, and while my son and I followed our occupationsabroad, he sat with the family at home, and amused them by describingthe town, with every part of which he was particularly acquainted. Hecould repeat all the observations that were retailed in the atmosphereof the play-houses, and had all the good things of the high wits by rotelong before they made their way into the jest-books. The intervalsbetween conversation were employed in teaching my daughters piquet, orsometimes in setting my two little ones to box to make them _sharp_, ashe called it; but the hopes of having him for a son-in-law, in somemeasure blinded us to all his imperfections. It must be owned that mywife laid a thousand schemes to entrap him; or, to speak it moretenderly, used every art to magnify the merit of her daughter. If thecakes at tea ate short and crisp, they were made by Olivia: if thegooseberry wine was well knit, the gooseberries were of her gathering:it was her fingers that gave the pickles their peculiar green; and inthe composition of a pudding, it was her judgment that mixed theingredients. Then the poor woman would sometimes tell the 'squire, thatshe thought him and Olivia extremely of a size, and would bid both standup to see which was tallest. These instances of cunning, which shethought impenetrable, yet which everybody saw through, were verypleasing to our benefactor, who gave every day some new proofs of hispassion, which, though they had not risen to proposals of marriage, yetwe thought fell but little short of it; and his slowness was attributedsometimes to native bashfulness, and sometimes to his fear of offendinghis uncle. An occurrence, however, which happened soon after, put itbeyond a doubt that he designed to become one of our family; my wifeeven regarded it as an absolute promise. 

My wife and daughters happening to return a visit to neighborFlamborough's, found that family had lately got their pictures drawn bya limner, who travelled the country, and took likenesses for fifteenshillings a head. As this family and ours had long a sort of rivalry inpoint of taste, our spirit took the alarm at this stolen march upon us, and notwithstanding all I could say, and I said much, it was resolvedthat we should have our pictures done too. Having, therefore, engagedthe limner, for what could I do? our next deliberation was to shew thesuperiority of our taste in the attitudes. As for our neighbor's family, there were seven of them, and they were drawn with seven oranges, athing quite out of taste, no variety in life, no composition in theworld. We desired to have something in a brighter style, and after manydebates, at length came to an unanimous resolution of being drawntogether in one large historical family piece. This would be cheaper, since one frame would serve for all, and it would be infinitely moregenteel; for all families of any taste were now drawn in the samemanner. As we did not immediately recollect an historical subject to hitus, we were contented each with being drawn as independent historicalfigures. My wife desired to be represented as Venus, and the painter wasdesired not to be too frugal of his diamonds in her stomacher and hair. Her two little ones were to be as Cupids by her side, while I, with mygown and band, was to present her with my books on the Whistoniancontroversy. Olivia would be drawn as an Amazon, sitting upon a bank offlowers, dressed in a green Joseph richly laced with gold, and a whip inher hand. Sophia was to be a shepherdess, with as many sheep as thepainter could put in for nothing; and Moses was to be dressed out withan hat and white feather. Our taste so much pleased the 'squire, that heinsisted on being put in as one of the family, in the character ofAlexander the Great, at Olivia's feet. This was considered by us all asan indication of his desire to be introduced into the family, nor couldwe refuse his request. The painter was therefore set to work, and as hewrought with assiduity and expedition, in less than four days the wholewas completed. The piece was large, and it must be owned he did notspare his colors; for which my wife gave him great encomiums. We wereall perfectly satisfied with his performance; but an unfortunatecircumstance had not occurred till the picture was finished, which nowstruck us with dismay. It was so very large that we had no place in thehouse to fix it. How we all came to disregard so material a point isinconceivable; but certain it is, we had been all greatly remiss. Thepicture, therefore, instead of gratifying our vanity, as we hoped, leaned, in a most mortifying manner, against the kitchen wall, where thecanvas was stretched and painted, much too large to be got through anyof the doors, and the jest of all our neighbors. One compared it toRobinson Crusoe's long-boat, too large to be removed; another thought itmore resembled a reel in a bottle; some wondered how it could be gotout, but still more were amazed how it ever got in. 

But though it excited the ridicule of some, it effectually raised moremalicious suggestions in many. The 'squire's portrait being found unitedwith ours, was an honor too great to escape envy. Scandalous whispersbegan to circulate at our expense, and our tranquillity was continuallydisturbed by persons who came as friends to tell us what was said of usby enemies. These reports we always resented with becoming spirit; butscandal ever improves by opposition. 

We once again therefore entered into a consultation upon obviating themalice of our enemies, and at last came to a resolution which had toomuch cunning to give me entire satisfaction. It was this: as ourprincipal object was to discover the honor of Mr. Thornhill's addresses, my wife undertook to sound him by pretending to ask his advice in thechoice of an husband for her eldest daughter. If this was not foundsufficient to induce him to a declaration, it was then resolved toterrify him with a rival. To this last step, however, I would by nomeans give my consent, till Olivia gave me the most solemn assurancesthat she would marry the person provided to rival him upon thisoccasion, if he did not prevent it, by taking her himself. Such was thescheme laid, which, though I did not strenuously oppose, I did notentirely approve. 

The next time, therefore, that Mr. Thornhill came to see us, my girlstook care to be out of the way, in order to give their mamma anopportunity of putting her scheme in execution; but they only retired tothe next room, whence they could overhear the whole conversation: mywife artfully introduced it, by observing, that one of the MissFlamboroughs was like to have a very good match of it in Mr. Spanker. Tothis the 'squire assenting, she proceeded to remark, that they who hadwarm fortunes were always sure of getting good husbands: "But heavenhelp, " continued she, "the girls that have none. What signifies beauty, Mr. Thornhill? or what signifies all the virtue, and all thequalifications in the world, in this age of self-interest? It is not, what is she? but, what has she? is all the cry. "

"Madam, " returned he, "I highly approve the justice, as well as thenovelty, of your remarks, and if I were a king, it should be otherwise. It should then, indeed, be fine times for the girls without fortunes:our two young ladies should be the first for whom I would provide. "

"Ah, sir, " returned my wife, "you are pleased to be facetious: but Iwish I were a queen, and then I know where my eldest daughter shouldlook for an husband. But now that you have put it into my head, seriously, Mr. Thornhill, can't you recommend me a proper husband forher? She is now nineteen years old, well grown and well educated, and, in my humble opinion, does not want for parts. "

"Madam, " replied he, "if I were to choose, I would find out a personpossessed of every accomplishment that can make an angel happy. One withprudence, fortune, taste, and sincerity; such, madam, would be, in myopinion, the proper husband. " "Ay, sir, " said she, "but do you know ofany such person?"--"No, Madam, " returned he, "it is impossible to knowany person that deserves to be her husband: she's too great a treasurefor one man's possession: she's a goddess. Upon my soul, I speak what Ithink, she's an angel"--"Ah, Mr. Thornhill, you only flatter my poorgirl: but we have been thinking of marrying her to one of your tenants, whose mother is lately dead, and who wants a manager; you know whom Imean, farmer Williams; a warm man, Mr. Thornhill, able to give her goodbread; and who has several times made her proposals:" (which wasactually the case) "but, sir, " concluded she, "I should be glad to haveyour approbation of our choice. "--"How, Madam, " replied he, "myapprobation! My approbation of such a choice! Never. What! Sacrifice somuch beauty and sense, and goodness, to a creature insensible of theblessing! Excuse me, I can never approve of such a piece of injustice!And I have my reasons!"--"Indeed, sir, " cried Deborah, "If you have yourreasons, that's another affair; but I should be glad to know thosereasons. "--"Excuse me, madam, " returned he, "they lie too deep fordiscovery;" (laying his hand upon his bosom) "they remain buried, rivetted here. "

After he was gone, upon general consultation, we could not tell what tomake of these fine sentiments. Olivia considered them as instances ofthe most exalted passion; but I was not quite so sanguine: yet, whateverthey might portend, it was resolved to prosecute the scheme of farmerWilliams, who, from my daughter's first appearance in the country, hadpaid her his addresses. 

XXIII. MEETING OF JOHNSON WITH WILKES. 

(1776). 

JAMES BOSWELL. --1740-1795. 

_From_ LIFE OF SAMUEL JOHNSON, LL. D. 

I am now to record a very curious incident in Dr. Johnson's life, whichfell under my own observation; of which _pars magna fui_, and which I ampersuaded will, with the liberal-minded, be much to his credit. 

My desire of being acquainted with celebrated men of every descriptionhad made me, much about the same time, obtain an introduction to Dr. Samuel Johnson and to John Wilkes, Esq. Two men more different could notperhaps be selected out of all mankind. They had even attacked oneanother with some asperity in their writings; yet I lived in habits offriendship with both. I could fully relish the excellence of each; for Ihave ever delighted in that intellectual chemistry, which can separategood qualities from evil in the same person. 

Sir John Pringle, "mine own friend and my father's friend, " between whomand Dr. Johnson I in vain wished to establish an acquaintance, as Irespected and lived in intimacy with both of them, observed to me once, very ingeniously, "It is not in friendship as in mathematics, where twothings, each equal to a third, are equal between themselves. You agreewith Johnson as a middle quality, and you agree with me as a middlequality; but Johnson and I should not agree. " Sir John was notsufficiently flexible; so I desisted; knowing, indeed, that therepulsion was equally strong on the part of Johnson; who, I know notfrom what cause, unless his being a Scotchman, had formed a veryerroneous opinion of Sir John. But I conceived an irresistible wish, ifpossible, to bring Dr. Johnson and Mr. Wilkes together. How to manageit, was a nice and difficult matter. [E]

My worthy booksellers and friends, Messieurs Dilly in the Poultry, atwhose hospitable and well-covered table I have seen a greater number ofliterary men than at any other, except that of Sir Joshua Reynolds, hadinvited me to meet Mr. Wilkes and some more gentlemen on Wednesday, May15th. "Pray, " said I, "let us have Dr. Johnson. " "What, with Mr. Wilkes?not for the world, " said Mr. Edward Dilly: "Dr. Johnson would neverforgive me. " "Come, " said I, "if you'll let me negotiate for you, I willbe answerable that all shall go well. " _Dilly. _ "Nay, if you will takeit upon you, I am sure I shall be very happy to see them both here. "

Notwithstanding the high veneration which I entertained for Dr. Johnson, I was sensible that he was sometimes a little actuated by the spirit ofcontradiction, and by means of that I hoped I should gain my point. Iwas persuaded that if I had come upon him with a direct proposal, "Sir, will you dine in company with Jack Wilkes?" he would have flown into apassion, and would probably have answered, "Dine with Jack Wilkes, Sir!I'd as soon dine with Jack Ketch. " I, therefore, while we were sittingquietly by ourselves at his house in an evening, took occasion to openmy plan thus: "Mr. Dilly, Sir, sends his respectful compliments to you, and would be happy if you would do him the honor to dine with him onWednesday next along with me, as I must soon go to Scotland. " _Johnson. _"Sir, I am obliged to Mr. Dilly. I will wait upon him. " _Boswell. _"Provided, Sir, I suppose, that the company which he is to have isagreeable to you?" _Johnson. _ "What do you mean, Sir? What do you takeme for? Do you think I am so ignorant of the world as to imagine that Iam to prescribe to a gentleman what company he is to have at his table?"_Boswell. _ "I beg your pardon, Sir, for wishing to prevent you frommeeting people whom you might not like. Perhaps he may have some of whathe calls his patriotic friends with him. " _Johnson. _ "Well, Sir, andwhat then? What care I for his _patriotic friends_? Poh!" _Boswell. _ "Ishould not be surprised to find Jack Wilkes there. " _Johnson. _ "And ifJack Wilkes _should_ be there, what is that to _me_, Sir? My dearfriend, let us have no more of this. I am sorry to be angry with you;but really it is treating me strangely to talk to me as if I could notmeet any company whatever, occasionally. " _Boswell. _ "Pray forgive me, Sir, I meant well. But you shall meet whoever comes, for me. " Thus Isecured him, and told Dilly that he would find him very well pleased tobe one of his guests on the day appointed. 

Upon the much expected Wednesday, I called on him about half an hourbefore dinner, as I often did when we were to dine out together, to seethat he was ready in time, and to accompany him. I found him buffetinghis books, as upon a former occasion, covered with dust, and making nopreparation for going abroad. "How is this, Sir?" said I. "Don't yourecollect that you are to dine at Mr. Dilly's?" _Johnson. _ "Sir, I didnot think of going to Dilly's; it went out of my head. I have ordereddinner at home with Mrs. Williams. " _Boswell. _ "But, my dear Sir, youknow you were engaged to Mr. Dilly, and I told him so. He will expectyou, and will be much disappointed if you don't come. " _Johnson. _ "Youmust talk to Mrs Williams about this. "

Here was a sad dilemma. I feared that what I was so confident I hadsecured would yet be frustrated. He had accustomed himself to show Mrs. Williams such a degree of humane attention, as frequently imposed somerestraint upon him; and I knew that if she should be obstinate, he wouldnot stir. I hastened down stairs to the blind lady's room, and told herI was in great uneasiness, for Dr. Johnson had engaged to me to dinethis day at Mr. Dilly's, but that he had told me he had forgotten hisengagement, and had ordered dinner at home. "Yes, Sir, " said she, pretty peevishly, "Dr. Johnson is to dine at home. " "Madam, " said I, "his respect for you is such, that I know he will not leave you, unlessyou absolutely desire it. But as you have so much of his company, I hopeyou will be good enough to forego it for a day, as Mr. Dilly is a veryworthy man, has frequently had agreeable parties at his house for Dr. Johnson, and will be vexed if the Doctor neglects him to-day. And then, Madam, be pleased to consider my situation; I carried the message, and Iassured Mr. Dilly that Dr. Johnson was to come; and no doubt he has madea dinner, and invited a company, and boasted of the honor he expected tohave. I shall be quite disgraced if the Doctor is not there. " Shegradually softened to my solicitations, which were certainly as earnestas most entreaties to ladies upon any occasion, and was graciouslypleased to empower me to tell Dr. Johnson, "That all things considered, she thought he should certainly go. " I flew back to him, still in dust, and careless of what should be the event, "indifferent in his choice togo or stay"; but as soon as I had announced to him Mrs. Williams'sconsent, he roared, "Frank, a clean shirt, " and was very soon dressed. When I had him fairly seated in a hackney-coach with me, I exulted asmuch as a fortune-hunter who has got an heiress into a post-chaise withhim to set out for Gretna Green. 

When we entered Mr. Dilly's drawing room, he found himself in the midstof a company he did not know. I kept myself snug and silent, watchinghow he would conduct himself. I observed him whispering to Mr. Dilly, "Who is that gentleman, Sir?"--"Mr. Arthur Lee. " _Johnson. _ "Too, too, too" (under his breath), which was one of his habitual mutterings. Mr. Arthur Lee could not but be very obnoxious to Johnson, for he was notonly a _patriot_, but an _American_. He was afterwards minister from theUnited States at the court of Madrid. "And who is the gentleman inlace?"--"Mr. Wilkes, Sir. " This information confounded him still more;he had some difficulty to restrain himself, and, taking up a book, satdown upon a window-seat and read, or at least kept his eye upon itintently for some time, till he composed himself. His feelings, I daresay, were awkward enough. But he had no doubt recollected his havingrated me for supposing that he could be at all disconcerted by anycompany, and he, therefore, resolutely set himself to behave quite as aneasy man of the world, who could adapt himself at once to thedisposition and manners of those whom he might chance to meet. 

The cheering sound of "Dinner is upon the table, " dissolved his reverie, and we _all_ sat down without any symptoms of ill humor. .. . Mr. Wilkesplaced himself next to Dr. Johnson, and behaved to him with so muchattention and politeness, that he gained upon him insensibly. No man atemore heartily than Johnson, or loved better what was nice and delicate. Mr. Wilkes was very assiduous in helping him to some fine veal. "Praygive me leave, Sir--It is better here--A little of the brown--Some fat, Sir--A little of the stuffing--Some gravy--Let me have the pleasure ofgiving you some butter--Allow me to recommend a squeeze of this orange;or the lemon, perhaps may have more zest"--"Sir; sir, I am obliged toyou, Sir, " cried Johnson, bowing, and turning his head to him with alook for some time of "surly virtue, " but, in a short while ofcomplacency. 

Foote being mentioned, Johnson said, "He is not a good mimic. " One ofthe company added, "A merry-andrew, a buffoon. " _Johnson. _ "But he haswit too, and is not deficient in ideas, or in fertility and variety ofimagery, and not empty of reading; he has knowledge enough to fill uphis part. One species of wit he has in an eminent degree, that ofescape. You drive him into a corner with both hands; but he is gone, Sir, when you think you have got him--like an animal that jumps overyour head. Then he has a great range for wit; he never lets truth standbetween him and the jest, and he is sometimes mighty coarse. Garrick isunder many restraints from which Foote is free. " _Wilkes. _ "Garrick'swit is more like Lord Chesterfield's. " _Johnson. _ "The first time I wasin company with Foote was at Fitzherbert's. Having no good opinion ofthe fellow, I was resolved not to be pleased; and it is very difficultto please a man against his will. I went on eating my dinner prettysullenly, affecting not to mind him. But the dog was so very comical, that I was obliged to lay down my knife and fork, throw myself back inmy chair, and fairly laugh it out. No, Sir, he was irresistible. He uponone occasion experienced, in an extraordinary degree, the efficacy ofhis powers of entertaining. Amongst the many and various modes which hetried of getting money, he became a partner with a small-beer brewer, and he was to have a share of the profits for procuring customersamongst his numerous acquaintance. Fitzherbert was one who took hissmall-beer, but it was so bad that the servants resolved not to drinkit. They were at some loss how to notify their resolution, being afraidof offending their master, who, they knew, liked Foote much as acompanion. At last they fixed upon a little black boy, who was rather afavorite, to be their deputy, and deliver their remonstrance; and, having invested him with the sole authority of the kitchen, he was toinform Mr. Fitzherbert, in all their names, upon a certain day, thatthey would drink Foote's small-beer no longer. On that day Footehappened to dine at Fitzherbert's, and this boy served at table; he wasso delighted with Foote's stories, and merriment, and grimace, that whenhe went down stairs, he told them, 'This is the finest man I have everseen. I will not deliver your message. I will drink his small-beer. '"

. .. Mr. Wilkes remarked, that "among all the bold flights ofShakespeare's imagination, the boldest was making Birnam-wood march toDunsinane; creating a wood where there never was a shrub; a wood inScotland! ha! ha! ha!" And he also observed, that "the clannish slaveryof the Highlands of Scotland was the single exception to Milton's remarkof 'the mountain nymph, sweet Liberty, ' being worshipped in all hillycountries. " "When I was at Inverary, " said he, "on a visit to my oldfriend Archibald, Duke of Argyle, his dependents congratulated me onbeing such a favorite of his Grace. I said, 'It is, then, gentlemen, truly lucky for me; for if I had displeased the Duke, and he had wishedit, there is not a Campbell among you but would have been ready to bringJohn Wilkes's head to him in a charger. It would have been only

 "'Off with his head! so much for _Aylesbury_. '

"I was then member for Aylesbury. "

. .. Mr. Arthur Lee mentioned some Scotch who had taken possession of abarren part of America, and wondered why they should choose it. _Johnson. _ "Why, Sir, all barrenness is comparative. The _Scotch_ wouldnot know it to be barren. " _Boswell. _ "Come, come, he is flattering theEnglish. You have now been in Scotland, Sir, and say if you did not seemeat and drink enough there. " _Johnson. _ "Why, yes, Sir; meat and drinkenough to give the inhabitants sufficient strength to run away fromhome. " All these quick and lively sallies were said sportively, quite injest, and with a smile, which showed that he meant only wit. Upon thistopic he and Mr. Wilkes could perfectly assimilate; here was a bond ofunion between them, and I was conscious that as both of them had visitedCaledonia, both were fully satisfied of the strange narrow ignorance ofthose who imagine that it is a land of famine. But they amusedthemselves with persevering in the old jokes. When I claimed asuperiority for Scotland over England in one respect, that no man can bearrested there for a debt merely because another swears it against him;but there must first be the judgment of a court of law ascertaining itsjustice; and that a seizure of the person, before judgment is obtained, can take place only if his creditor should swear that he is about to flyfrom the country, or, as it is technically expressed, is _in meditationefugæ_;--_Wilkes. _ "That, I should think, may be safely sworn of all theScotch nation. " _Johnson_ (to Mr. Wilkes). "You must know, Sir, I latelytook my friend Boswell, and showed him genuine civilized life in anEnglish provincial town. I turned him loose at Lichfield, my nativecity, that he might see for once real civility; for you know he livesamong savages in Scotland and among rakes in London. " _Wilkes. _ "Exceptwhen he is with grave, sober, decent people, like you and me. " _Johnson_(smiling). "And we ashamed of him. "

. .. This record, though by no means so perfect as I could wish, willserve to give a notion of a very curious interview, which was not onlypleasing at the time, but had the agreeable and benignant effect ofreconciling any animosity, and sweetening any acidity, which, in thevarious bustle of political contest, had been produced in the minds oftwo men, who, though widely different, had so many things incommon--classical learning, modern literature, wit and humor, and readyrepartee--that it would have been much to be regretted if they had beenforever at a distance from each other. 

Mr. Burke gave me much credit for this successful _negotiation_; andpleasantly said, "that there was nothing equal to it in the wholehistory of the _corps diplomatique_. "

I attended Dr. Johnson home, and had the satisfaction to hear him tellMrs. Williams how much he had been pleased with Mr. Wilkes's company, and what an agreeable day he had passed. 

FOOTNOTES:

[E] Johnson's dislike of Mr. Wilkes was so great that it extendedeven to his connections. He happened to dine one day at Sir JoshuaReynolds's with a large and distinguished company, amongst whom wereMr. Wilkes's brother, Israel, and his lady. In the course ofconversation, Mr. Israel Wilkes was about to make some remark, whenJohnson suddenly stopped him with, "I hope, sir, what you are goingto say may be better worth hearing than what you have already said. "This rudeness shocked and spread a gloom over the whole party, particularly as Mr. Israel Wilkes was a gentleman of a very amiablecharacter and of refined taste, and, what Dr. Johnson littlesuspected, a very loyal subject. Johnson afterwards owned to me thathe was very sorry that he had "_snubbed_ Wilkes, as his wife waspresent. " I replied, that he should be sorry for many reasons. "No, "said Johnson, who was very reluctant to apologize for offences ofthis nature; "no, I only regret it because his wife was by. " Ibelieve that he had no kind of motive for this incivility to Mr. Israel Wilkes but disgust at his brother's political principles. 

 MISS REYNOLDS'S RECOLLECTIONS. 

XXIV. THE POLICY OF THE EMPIRE IN THE FIRST CENTURY. 

EDWARD GIBBON. --1737-1794. 

_From_ THE DECLINE AND FALL OF THE ROMAN EMPIRE. 

In the second century of the Christian era, the empire of Romecomprehended the fairest part of the earth, and the most civilizedportion of mankind. The frontiers of that extensive monarchy wereguarded by ancient renown and disciplined valor. The gentle but powerfulinfluence of laws and manners had gradually cemented the union of theprovinces. Their peaceful inhabitants enjoyed and abused the advantagesof wealth and luxury. The image of a free constitution was preservedwith decent reverence: the Roman senate appeared to possess thesovereign authority, and devolved on the emperors all the executivepowers of government. During a happy period of more than fourscoreyears, the public administration was conducted by the virtue andabilities of Nerva, Trajan, Hadrian, and the two Antonines. 

The principal conquests of the Romans were achieved under the republic;and the emperors, for the most part, were satisfied with preservingthose dominions which had been acquired by the policy of the senate, theactive emulation of the consuls, and the martial enthusiasm of thepeople. The seven first centuries were filled with a rapid succession oftriumphs; but it was reserved for Augustus to relinquish the ambitiousdesign of subduing the whole earth, and to introduce a spirit ofmoderation into the public councils. Inclined to peace by his temper andsituation, it was easy for him to discover that Rome, in her presentexalted situation, had much less to hope than to fear from the chance ofarms; and that, in the prosecution of remote wars, the undertakingbecame every day more difficult, the event more doubtful, and thepossession more precarious and less beneficial. The experience ofAugustus added weight to these salutary reflections, and effectuallyconvinced him that, by the prudent vigor of his counsels, it would beeasy to secure every concession which the safety or the dignity of Romemight require from the most formidable barbarians. Instead of exposinghis person and his legions to the arrows of the Parthians, he obtained, by an honorable treaty, the restitution of the standards and prisonerswhich had been taken in the defeat of Crassus. 

His generals, in the early part of his reign, attempted the reduction ofÆthiopia and Arabia Felix. They marched near a thousand miles to thesouth of the tropic; but the heat of the climate soon repelled theinvaders, and protected the unwarlike natives of those sequesteredregions. The northern countries of Europe scarcely deserved the expenseand labor of conquest. The forests and morasses of Germany were filledwith a hardy race of barbarians, who despised life when it was separatedfrom freedom; and though, on the first attack, they seemed to yield tothe weight of the Roman power, they soon, by a signal act of despair, regained their independence, and reminded Augustus of the vicissitude offortune. On the death of that emperor, his testament was publicly readin the senate. He bequeathed, as a valuable legacy to his successors, the advice of confining the empire within those limits which natureseemed to have placed as its permanent bulwarks and boundaries: on thewest the Atlantic Ocean; the Rhine and Danube on the north; theEuphrates on the east; and towards the south, the sandy deserts ofArabia and Africa. 

Happily for the repose of mankind, the moderate system recommended bythe wisdom of Augustus was adopted by the fears and vices of hisimmediate successors. Engaged in the pursuit of pleasure, or in theexercise of tyranny, the first Cæsars seldom showed themselves to thearmies or to the provinces; nor were they disposed to suffer that thosetriumphs which _their_ indolence neglected should be usurped by theconduct and valor of their lieutenants. The military fame of a subjectwas considered as an insolent invasion of the imperial prerogative; andit became the duty, as well as interest, of every Roman general to guardthe frontiers intrusted to his care, without aspiring to conquestswhich might have proved no less fatal to himself than to the vanquishedbarbarians. 

The only accession which the Roman empire received during the firstcentury of the Christian era was the province of Britain. In this singleinstance the successors of Cæsar and Augustus were persuaded to followthe example of the former, rather than the precept of the latter. Theproximity of its situation to the coast of Gaul seemed to invite theirarms; the pleasing, though doubtful, intelligence of a pearl-fisheryattracted their avarice; and as Britain was viewed in the light of adistinct and insulated world, the conquest scarcely formed any exceptionto the general system of continental measures. After a war of aboutforty years, undertaken by the most stupid, maintained by the mostdissolute, and terminated by the most timid of all the emperors, the fargreater part of the island submitted to the Roman yoke. The varioustribes of Britons possessed valor without conduct, and the love offreedom without the spirit of union. They took up arms with savagefierceness; they laid them down, or turned them against each other, withwild inconstancy; and while they fought singly, they were successivelysubdued. Neither the fortitude of Caractacus, nor the despair ofBoadicea, nor the fanaticism of the Druids, could avert the slavery oftheir country, or resist the steady progress of the imperial generals, who maintained the national glory, when the throne was disgraced by theweakest or the most vicious of mankind. At the very time when Domitian, confined to his palace, felt the terrors which he inspired, his legions, under the command of the virtuous Agricola, defeated the collected forceof the Caledonians at the foot of the Grampian hills; and his fleets, venturing to explore an unknown and dangerous navigation, displayed theRoman arms round every part of the island. The conquest of Britain wasconsidered as already achieved; and it was the design of Agricola tocomplete and insure his success by the easy reduction of Ireland, forwhich, in his opinion, one legion and a few auxiliaries were sufficient. The western isle might be improved into a valuable possession, and theBritons would wear their chains with the less reluctance, if theprospect and example of freedom was on every side removed from beforetheir eyes. 

But the superior merit of Agricola soon occasioned his removal from thegovernment of Britain; and forever disappointed this rational, thoughextensive, scheme of conquest. Before his departure the prudent generalhad provided for security as well as for dominion. He had observed thatthe island is almost divided into two unequal parts by the oppositegulfs, or, as they are now called, the Friths of Scotland. Across thenarrow interval of about forty miles he had drawn a line of militarystations, which was afterwards fortified, in the reign of AntoninusPius, by a turf rampart, erected on foundations of stone. This wall ofAntoninus, at a small distance beyond the modern cities of Edinburgh andGlasgow, was fixed as the limit of the Roman province. The nativeCaledonians preserved, in the northern extremity of the island, theirwild independence, for which they were not less indebted to theirpoverty than to their valor. Their incursions were frequently repelledand chastised, but their country was never subdued. The masters of thefairest and most wealthy climates of the globe turned with contempt fromgloomy hills assailed by the winter tempest, from lakes concealed in ablue mist, and from cold and lonely heaths, over which the deer of theforest were chased by a troop of naked barbarians. 

Such was the state of the Roman frontiers, and such the maxims ofimperial policy, from the death of Augustus to the accession of Trajan. 

XXV. ON THE ATTACKS UPON HIS PENSION. [F]

EDMUND BURKE. --1729-1797. 

In one thing I can excuse the Duke of Bedford for his attack upon me andmy mortuary pension: He cannot readily comprehend the transaction hecondemns. What I have obtained was the fruit of no bargain, theproduction of no intrigue, the result of no compromise, the effect of nosolicitation. The first suggestion of it never came from me, mediatelyor immediately, to his Majesty or any of his ministers. It was longknown that the instant my engagements would permit it, and before theheaviest of all calamities had forever condemned me to obscurity andsorrow, I had resolved on a total retreat. I had executed that design. Iwas entirely out of the way of serving or of hurting any statesman orany party, when the ministers so generously and so nobly carried intoeffect the spontaneous bounty of the crown. Both descriptions have actedas became them. When I could no longer serve them, the ministers haveconsidered my situation. When I could no longer hurt them, therevolutionists have trampled on my infirmity. My gratitude, I trust, isequal to the manner in which the benefit was conferred. It came to me, indeed, at a time of life, and in a state of mind and body, in which nocircumstance of fortune could afford me any real pleasure. But this wasno fault in the royal donor, or in his ministers, who were pleased, inacknowledging the merits of an invalid servant of the public, to assuagethe sorrows of a desolate old man. .. . 

I was not like his Grace of Bedford, swaddled, and rocked, and dandledinto a legislator: "_Nitor in adversum_" is the motto for a man like me. I possessed not one of the qualities, nor cultivated one of the arts, that recommend men to the favor and protection of the great. I was notmade for a minion or a tool. As little did I follow the trade of winningthe hearts by imposing on the understandings of the people. At everystep of my progress in life--for in every step was I traversed andopposed--and at every turnpike I met, I was obliged to shew my passport, and again and again to prove my sole title to the honor of being usefulto my country, by a proof that I was not wholly unacquainted with itslaws, and the whole system of its interests both abroad and at home. Otherwise, no rank, no toleration even, for me. I had no arts but manlyarts. On them I have stood, and, please God, in spite of the Duke ofBedford and the Earl of Lauderdale, to the last gasp will I stand. .. . 

The Duke of Bedford conceives that he is obliged to call the attentionof the House of Peers to his Majesty's grant to me, which he considersas excessive and out of all bounds. 

I know not how it has happened, but it really seems, that, whilst hisGrace was meditating his well-considered censure upon me, he fell into asort of sleep. Homer nods, and the Duke of Bedford may dream; and asdreams--even his golden dreams--are apt to be ill-pieced andincongruously put together, his Grace preserved his idea of reproach to_me_, but took the subject-matter from the crown grants to _his ownfamily_. This is "the stuff of which his dreams are made. " In that wayof putting things together, his Grace is perfectly in the right. Thegrants to the house of Russell were so enormous, as not only to outrageeconomy, but even to stagger credibility. The Duke of Bedford is theleviathan among all the creatures of the crown. He tumbles about hisunwieldy bulk; he plays and frolics in the ocean of the royal bounty. Huge as he is, and whilst "he lies floating many a rood, " he is still acreature. His ribs, his fins, his whalebone, his blubber, the veryspiracles through which he spouts a torrent of brine against his origin, and covers me all over with the spray--everything of him and about himis from the throne. Is it for _him_ to question the dispensation of theroyal favor?

I really am at a loss to draw any sort of parallel between the publicmerits of his Grace, by which he justifies the grants he holds, andthese services of mine, on the favorable construction of which I haveobtained what his Grace so much disapproves. In private life I have notat all the honor of acquaintance with the noble Duke; but I ought topresume, and it costs me nothing to do so, that he abundantly deservesthe esteem and love of all who live with him. But as to public service, why, truly, it would not be more ridiculous for me to compare myself, inrank, in fortune, in splendid descent, in youth, strength, or figure, with the Duke of Bedford, than to make a parallel between his servicesand my attempts to be useful to my country. It would not be grossadulation, but uncivil irony, to say that he has any public merit of hisown to keep alive the idea of the services by which his vast landedpensions were obtained. My merits, whatever they are, are original andpersonal: his are derivative. It is his ancestor, the originalpensioner, that has laid up this inexhaustible fund of merit, whichmakes his Grace so very delicate and exceptious about the merit of allother grantees of the crown. Had he permitted me to remain in quiet, Ishould have said: "'Tis his estate; that's enough. It is his by law;what have I to do with it or its history?" He would naturally have saidon his side: "'Tis this man's fortune. He is as good now as my ancestorwas two hundred and fifty years ago. I am a young man with very oldpensions: he is an old man with very young pensions--that's all. "

Why will his Grace, by attacking me, force me reluctantly to compare mylittle merit with that which obtained from the crown those prodigies ofprofuse donation by which he tramples on the mediocrity of humble andlaborious individuals?. .. Since the new grantees have war made on themby the old, and that the word of the sovereign is not to be taken, letus turn our eyes to history, in which great men have always a pleasurein contemplating the heroic origin of their house. 

The first peer of the name, the first purchaser of the grants, was a Mr. Russell, a person of an ancient gentleman's family, raised by being aminion of Henry the Eighth. As there generally is some resemblance ofcharacter to create these relations, the favorite was in all likelihoodmuch such another as his master. The first of those immoderate grantswas not taken from the ancient demesne of the crown, but from the recentconfiscation of the ancient nobility of the land. The lion, havingsucked the blood of his prey, threw the offal carcass to the jackal inwaiting. Having tasted once the food of confiscation, the favoritesbecame fierce and ravenous. This worthy favorite's first grant was fromthe lay nobility. The second, infinitely improving on the enormity ofthe first, was from the plunder of the church. In truth, his Grace issomewhat excusable for his dislike to a grant like mine, not only in itsquantity, but in its kind, so different from his own. 

Mine was from a mild and benevolent sovereign: his, from Henry theEighth. Mine had not its fund in the murder of any innocent person ofillustrious rank, or in the pillage of any body of unoffending men: hisgrants were from the aggregate and consolidated funds of judgmentsiniquitously legal, and from possessions voluntarily surrendered by thelawful proprietors with the gibbet at their door. 

The merit of the grantee whom he derives from, was that of being aprompt and greedy instrument of a levelling tyrant, who oppressed alldescriptions of his people, but who fell with particular fury oneverything that was great and noble. Mine has been in endeavoring toscreen every man, in every class, from oppression, and particularly indefending the high and eminent, who, in the bad times of confiscatingprinces, confiscating chief-governors, or confiscating demagogues, arethe most exposed to jealousy, avarice, and envy. 

The merit of the original grantee of his Grace's pensions was in givinghis hand to the work, and partaking the spoil with a prince whoplundered a part of the national church of his time and country. Minewas in defending the whole of the national church of my own time and myown country, and the whole of the national churches of all countries, from the principles and the examples which lead to ecclesiasticalpillage, thence to a contempt of _all_ prescriptive titles, thence tothe pillage of _all_ property, and thence to universal desolation. 

The merit of the origin of his Grace's fortune was in being a favoriteand chief adviser to a prince who left no liberty to his native country. My endeavor was to obtain liberty for the municipal country in which Iwas born, and for all descriptions and denominations in it. Mine was tosupport, with unrelaxing vigilance, every right, every privilege, everyfranchise, in this my adopted, my dearer, and more comprehensivecountry; and not only to preserve those rights in this chief seat ofempire, but in every nation, in every land, in every climate, language, and religion, in the vast domain that still is under the protection, andthe larger that was once under the protection, of the British crown. 

His founder's merits were, by arts in which he served his master andmade his fortune, to bring poverty, wretchedness, and depopulation onhis country. Mine were under a benevolent prince, in promoting thecommerce, manufactures, and agriculture of his kingdom. 

His founder's merit was the merit of a gentleman raised by the arts of acourt and the protection of a Wolsey to the eminence of a great andpotent lord. His merit in that eminence was, by instigating a tyrant toinjustice, to provoke a people to rebellion. My merit was, to awaken thesober part of the country, that they might put themselves on theirguard against any one potent lord, or any greater number of potentlords, or any combination of great leading men of any sort, if ever theyshould attempt to proceed in the same courses, but in the reverseorder, --that is, by instigating a corrupted populace to rebellion, and, through that rebellion, introducing a tyranny yet worse than the tyrannywhich his Grace's ancestor supported, and of which he profited in themanner we behold in the despotism of Henry the Eighth. 

The political merit of the first pensioner of his Grace's house was thatof being concerned as a counsellor of state in advising, and in hisperson executing, the conditions of a dishonorable peace withFrance, --the surrendering of the fortress of Boulogne, then our outguardon the Continent. By that surrender, Calais, the key of France, and thebridle in the mouth of that power, was not many years afterwards finallylost. My merit has been in resisting the power and pride of France, under any form of its rule; but in opposing it with the greatest zealand earnestness, when that rule appeared in the worst form it couldassume, --the worst, indeed, which the prime cause and principle of allevil could possibly give it. It was my endeavor by every means to excitea spirit in the House, where I had the honor of a seat, for carrying onwith early vigor and decision the most clearly just and necessary warthat this or any nation ever carried on, in order to save my countryfrom the iron yoke of its power, and from the more dreadful contagion ofits principles, --to preserve, while they can be preserved, pure anduntainted, the ancient, inbred integrity, piety, good-nature, andgood-humor of the people of England, from the dreadful pestilencewhich, beginning in France, threatens to lay waste the whole moral andin a great degree the whole physical world, having done both in thefocus of its most intense malignity. 

The labors of his Grace's founder merited the "curses, not loud, butdeep, " of the Commons of England, on whom _he_ and his master hadeffected a _complete Parliamentary Reform_, by making them, in theirslavery and humiliation, the true and adequate representatives of adebased, degraded, and undone people. My merits were in having had anactive, though not always an ostentatious share, in every one act, without exception, of undisputed constitutional utility in my time, andin having supported, on all occasions, the authority, the efficiency, and the privileges of the Commons of Great Britain. I ended my servicesby a recorded and fully reasoned assertion on their own journals oftheir constitutional rights, and a vindication of their constitutionalconduct. I labored in all things to merit their inward approbation, and(along with the assistants of the largest, the greatest, and best of myendeavors) I received their free, unbiased, public, and solemn thanks. 

Thus stands the account of the comparative merits of the crown grantswhich compose the Duke of Bedford's fortune, as balanced against mine. 

FOOTNOTES:

[F] _From_ "A LETTER TO A NOBLE LORD, _on the attacks made upon Mr. Burke and his Pension, in the House of Lords, by the Duke of Bedfordand the Earl of Lauderdale, early in the Present Session ofParliament. " 1796. _

 * * * * *

 _England, with all thy faults, I love thee still, My country! and, while yet a nook is left Where English minds and manners may be found, Shall be constrain'd to love thee. Though thy clime Be fickle, and thy year, most part, deform'd With dripping rains, or wither'd by a frost, I would not yet exchange thy sullen skies And fields without a flower, for warmer France With all her vines. _

 COWPER. --_The Timepiece_. 

XXVI. TWO EIGHTEENTH CENTURY SCENES. 

WILLIAM COWPER. --1731-1800. 

_From letters to the Rev. John Newton. _

Nov. 17th, 1783. 

. .. Since our conflagration here, we have sent two women and a boy tothe justice, for depredation; S. R. For stealing a piece of beef, which, in her excuse, she said she intended to take care of. This lady, whomyou well remember, escaped for want of evidence; not that evidence waswanting, but our men of Gotham judged it unnecessary to send it. Withher went the woman I mentioned before, who, it seems, has made some sortof profession, but upon this occasion allowed herself a latitude ofconduct rather inconsistent with it, having filled her apron withwearing-apparel, which she likewise intended to take care of. She wouldhave gone to the county gaol, had William Raban, the baker's son, whoprosecuted, insisted upon it; but he, good-naturedly, though I thinkweakly, interposed in her favor, and begged her off. The young gentlemanwho accompanied these fair ones is the junior son of Molly Boswell. Hehad stolen some iron-work, the property of Griggs the butcher. Beingconvicted, he was ordered to be whipped, which operation he underwent atthe cart's tail, from the stone-house to the high arch, and back again. He seemed to show great fortitude, but it was all an imposition upon thepublic. The beadle, who performed it, had filled his left hand withyellow ochre, through which, after every stroke, he drew the lash of hiswhip, leaving the appearance of a wound upon the skin, but in realitynot hurting him at all. This being perceived by Mr. Constable H. , whofollowed the beadle, he applied his cane, without any such management orprecaution, to the shoulders of the too merciful executioner. The sceneimmediately became more interesting. The beadle could by no means beprevailed upon to strike hard, which provoked the constable to strikeharder; and this double flogging continued, till a lass of Silver-End, pitying the pitiful beadle thus suffering under the hands of thepitiless constable, joined the procession, and placing herselfimmediately behind the latter, seized him by his capillary club, and pulling him backwards by the same, slapped his face with a mostAmazon fury. This concatenation of events has taken up more of mypaper than I intended it should, but I could not forbear to informyou how the beadle thrashed the thief, the constable the beadle, andthe lady the constable, and how the thief was the only person concernedwho suffered nothing. 

 * * * * *

March 29th, 1784. 

It being his Majesty's pleasure, that I should yet have anotheropportunity to write before he dissolves the Parliament, I avail myselfof it with all possible alacrity. I thank you for your last, which wasnot the less welcome for coming, like an extraordinary gazette, at atime when it was not expected. 

As when the sea is uncommonly agitated, the water finds its way intocreeks and holes of rocks, which in its calmer state it never reaches, in like manner the effect of these turbulent times is felt even atOrchard Side, where in general we live as undisturbed by the politicalelement as shrimps or cockles that have been accidentally deposited insome hollow beyond the water-mark, by the usual dashing of the waves. We were sitting yesterday after dinner, the two ladies and myself, verycomposedly, and without the least apprehension of any such intrusion inour snug parlor, one lady knitting, the other netting, and the gentlemanwinding worsted, when to our unspeakable surprise a mob appeared beforethe window; a smart rap was heard at the door, the boys bellowed, andthe maid announced Mr. Grenville. Puss was unfortunately let out of herbox, so that the candidate, with all his good friends at his heels, wasrefused admittance at the grand entry, and referred to the back door, asthe only possible way of approach. 

Candidates are creatures not very susceptible of affronts, and wouldrather, I suppose, climb in at the window, than be absolutely excluded. In a minute, the yard, the kitchen, and the parlor were filled. Mr. Grenville, advancing toward me, shook me by the hand with a degree ofcordiality that was extremely seducing. As soon as he, and as many moreas could find chairs, were seated, he began to open the intent of hisvisit. I told him I had no vote, for which he readily gave me credit. Iassured him I had no influence, which he was not equally inclined tobelieve, and the less, no doubt, because Mr. Ashburner, the draper, addressing himself to me at this moment, informed me that I had a greatdeal. Supposing that I could not be possessed of such a treasure withoutknowing it, I ventured to affirm my first assertion, by saying, that ifI had any I was utterly at a loss to imagine where it could be, orwherein it consisted. Thus ended the conference. Mr. Grenville squeezedme by the hand again, kissed the ladies, and withdrew. He kissedlikewise the maid in the kitchen, and seemed upon the whole a mostloving, kissing, kind-hearted gentleman. He is very young, genteel, andhandsome. He has a pair of very good eyes in his head, which not beingsufficient, as it should seem, for the many nice and difficult purposesof a senator, he has a third also, which he suspended from hisbuttonhole. The boys halloo'd, the dogs barked, puss scampered, thehero, with his long train of obsequious followers, withdrew. We madeourselves very merry with the adventure, and in a short time settledinto our former tranquillity, never probably to be thus interruptedmore. I thought myself, however, happy in being able to affirm trulythat I had not that influence for which he sued; and which, had I beenpossessed of it, with my present views of the dispute between the Crownand the Commons, I must have refused him, for he is on the side of theformer. It is comfortable to be of no consequence in a world where onecannot exercise any without disobliging somebody. The town, however, seems to be much at his service, and if he be equally successfulthroughout the country, he will undoubtedly gain his election. Mr. Ashburner, perhaps, was a little mortified, because it was evident Iowed the honor of this visit to his misrepresentation of my importance. But had he thought proper to assure Mr. Grenville that I had threeheads, I should not, I suppose, have been bound to produce them. .. . 

 * * * * *

 _Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast, Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round, And while the bubbling and loud hissing urn Throws up a steamy column, and the cups That cheer but not inebriate wait on each, So let us welcome peaceful evening in. _

 COWPER. --_The Winter Evening_. 

XXVII. FROM "THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL. "[G]

RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN. --1751-1816. 

SCENE. --_A Room in_ SIR PETER TEAZLE'S _House. _

_Enter_ SIR PETER TEAZLE. 

_Sir Pet. _ When an old bachelor marries a young wife, what is he toexpect? 'Tis now six months since Lady Teazle made me the happiest ofmen--and I have been the most miserable dog ever since. We tiffed alittle going to church, and fairly quarrelled before the bells had doneringing. I was more than once nearly choked with gall during thehoneymoon, and had lost all comfort in life before my friends had donewishing me joy. Yet I chose with caution--a girl bred wholly in thecountry, who never knew luxury beyond one silk gown, nor dissipationabove the annual gala of a race ball. Yet she now plays her part in allthe extravagant fopperies of fashion and the town with as ready a graceas if she never had seen a bush or a grass-plot out of Grosvenor Square!I am sneered at by all my acquaintance, and paragraphed in thenewspapers. She dissipates my fortune, and contradicts all my humors;yet the worst of it is, I doubt I love her, or I should never bear allthis. However, I'll never be weak enough to own it. But I meet withnothing but crosses and vexations--and the fault is entirely hers. I am, myself, the sweetest-tempered man alive, and hate a teasing temper; andso I tell her a hundred times a day. --Ay! and what is veryextraordinary, in all our disputes she is always in the wrong. But LadySneerwell, and the set she meets at her house, encourage theperverseness of her disposition. Then, to complete my vexation, Maria, my ward, whom I ought to have the power of a father over, is determinedto turn rebel too, and absolutely refuses the man whom I have longresolved on for her husband--

_Enter_ LADY TEAZLE. 

Lady Teazle, Lady Teazle, I'll not bear it!

_Lady Teaz. _ Sir Peter, Sir Peter, you may bear it or not, as youplease; but I ought to have my own way in everything, and, what's more, I will too. What! though I was educated in the country, I know very wellthat women of fashion in London are accountable to nobody after they aremarried. 

_Sir Pet. _ Very well, ma'am, very well; so a husband is to have noinfluence, no authority?

_Lady Teaz. _ Authority! No, to be sure. If you wanted authority over me, you should have adopted me, and not married me: I am sure you were oldenough. 

_Sir Pet. _ Old enough!--ay, there it is. Well, well, Lady Teazle, thoughmy life may be made unhappy by your temper, I'll not be ruined by yourextravagance!

_Lady Teaz. _ My extravagance! I'm sure I'm not more extravagant than awoman of fashion ought to be. 

_Sir Pet. _ No, no, madam, you shall throw away no more sums on suchunmeaning luxury. Such wastefulness! to spend as much to furnish yourdressing-room with flowers in winter as would suffice to turn thePantheon into a greenhouse, and give a _fête champêtre_ at Christmas. 

_Lady Teaz. _ And am I to blame, Sir Peter, because flowers are dear incold weather? You should find fault with the climate, and not with me. For my part, I'm sure I wish it was spring all the year round, and thatroses grew under our feet. 

_Sir Pet. _ Oons! madam--if you had been born to this, I shouldn't wonderat your talking thus; but you forget what your situation was when Imarried you. 

_Lady Teaz. _ No, no, I don't; 'twas a very disagreeable one, or I shouldnever have married you. 

_Sir Pet. _ Yes, yes, madam, you were then in somewhat a humblerstyle--the daughter of a plain country squire. Recollect, Lady Teazle, when I saw you first sitting at your tambour, in a pretty figured linengown, with a bunch of keys at your side, your hair combed smooth over aroll, and your apartment hung round with fruits in worsted, of your ownworking. 

_Lady Teaz. _ Oh, yes! I remember it very well, and a curious life I led. My daily occupation--to inspect the dairy, superintend the poultry, makeextracts from the family receipt-book, and comb my aunt Deborah'slap-dog. 

_Sir Pet. _ Yes, yes, ma'am, 'twas so indeed. 

_Lady Teaz. _ And then you know my evening amusements! To draw patternsfor ruffles, which I had not materials to make up; to play Pope Joanwith the curate; to read a sermon to my aunt; or to be stuck down to anold spinet to strum my father to sleep after a fox-chase. 

_Sir Pet. _ I am glad you have so good a memory. Yes, madam, these werethe recreations I took you from; but now you must have yourcoach--_vis-à-vis_--and three powdered footmen before your chair; and, in the summer, a pair of white cats to draw you to Kensington Gardens. No recollection, I suppose, when you were content to ride double, behindthe butler, on a docked coach-horse. 

_Lady Teaz. _ No--I vow I never did that: I deny the butler and thecoach-horse. 

_Sir Pet. _ This, madam, was your situation; and what have I done foryou? I have made you a woman of fashion, of fortune, of rank--in short, I have made you my wife. 

_Lady Teaz. _ Well, then, and there is but one thing more you can make meto add to the obligation, that is----

_Sir Pet. _ My widow, I suppose?

_Lady Teaz. _ Hem! hem!

_Sir Pet. _ I thank you, madam--but don't flatter yourself; for, thoughyour ill conduct may disturb my peace of mind, it shall never break myheart, I promise you: however, I am equally obliged to you for the hint. 

_Lady Teaz. _ Then why will you endeavor to make yourself so disagreeableto me, and thwart me in every little elegant expense?

_Sir Pet. _ Madam, I say, had you any of these little elegant expenseswhen you married me?

_Lady Teaz. _ Sir Peter! would you have me be out of the fashion?

_Sir Pet. _ The fashion, indeed! what had you to do with the fashionbefore you married me?

_Lady Teaz. _ For my part, I should think you would like to have yourwife thought a woman of taste. 

_Sir Pet. _ Ay--there again--taste! Zounds! madam, you had no taste whenyou married me!

_Lady Teaz. _ That's very true, indeed, Sir Peter! and after havingmarried you, I should never pretend to taste again, I allow. But now, Sir Peter, since we have finished our daily jangle, I presume I may goto my engagement at Lady Sneerwell's. 

_Sir Pet. _ Ay, there's another precious circumstance--a charming set ofacquaintances you have made there!

_Lady Teaz. _ Nay, Sir Peter, they are all people of rank and fortune, and remarkably tenacious of reputation. 

_Sir Pet. _ Yes, they are tenacious of reputation with a vengeance; forthey don't choose anybody should have a character but themselves! Such acrew! Ah! many a wretch has rid on a hurdle who has done less mischiefthan these utterers of forged tales; coiners of scandal, and clippers ofreputation. 

_Lady Teaz. _ What, would you restrain the freedom of speech?

_Sir Pet. _ Ah! they have made you just as bad as any one of the society. 

_Lady Teaz. _ Why, I believe I do bear a part with a tolerable grace. 

_Sir Pet. _ Grace, indeed!

_Lady Teaz. _ But I vow I bear no malice against the people I abuse; whenI say an ill-natured thing, 'tis out of pure good humor; and I take itfor granted they deal exactly in the same manner with me. But, SirPeter, you know you promised to come to Lady Sneerwell's too. 

_Sir Pet. _ Well, well, I'll call in, just to look after my owncharacter. 

_Lady Teaz. _ Then, indeed, you must make haste after me, or you'll betoo late. So good-bye to ye. [_Exit. _

_Sir Pet. _ So--I have gained much by my intended expostulation! Yet withwhat a charming air she contradicts everything I say; and how pleasantlyshe shows her contempt for my authority! Well, though I can't make herlove me; there is great satisfaction in quarrelling with her; and Ithink she never appears to such advantage as when she is doingeverything in her power to plague me. [_Exit_. 

SCENE. --_A room in_ LADY SNEERWELL'S _House. _

LADY SNEERWELL, MRS. CANDOUR, CRABTREE, SIR BENJAMIN BACKBITE, _and_JOSEPH SURFACE, _discovered_. 

_Enter_ LADY TEAZLE _and_ MARIA. 

_Lady Sneer. _ Lady Teazle, I hope we shall see Sir Peter?

_Lady Teaz. _ I believe he'll wait on your ladyship presently. 

_Lady Sneer. _ Maria, my love, you look grave. Come, you shall sit downto piquet with Mr. Surface. 

_Mar. _ I take very little pleasure in cards--however, I'll do as yourladyship pleases. 

_Mrs. Can. _ Now I'll die; but you are so scandalous, I'll forswear yoursociety. 

_Lady Teaz. _ What's the matter, Mrs. Candour?

_Mrs. Can. _ They'll not allow our friend Miss Vermillion to be handsome. 

_Lady Sneer. _ Oh, surely she is a pretty woman. 

_Crab. _ I am very glad you think so, ma'am. 

_Mrs. Can. _ She has a charming fresh color. 

_Lady Teaz. _ Yes, when it is fresh put on. 

_Mrs. Can. _ Oh, fie! Her color is natural: I have seen it come and go!

_Lady Teaz. _ I dare say you have, ma'am: it goes off at night, and comesagain in the morning. 

_Sir Ben. _ True, ma'am, it not only comes and goes; but, what's more, her maid can fetch and carry it!

_Mrs. Can. _ Ha! ha! ha! how I hate to hear you talk so! But surely now, her sister is, or was, very handsome. 

_Crab. _ Who? Mrs. Evergreen? Oh! she's six-and-fifty if she's an hour!

_Mrs. Can. _ Now positively you wrong her; fifty-two or fifty-three isthe utmost--and I don't think she looks more. 

_Sir Ben. _ Ah! there's no judging by her looks, unless one could see herface. 

_Lady Sneer. _ Well, well, if Mrs. Evergreen does take some pains torepair the ravages of time, you must allow she effects it with greatingenuity; and surely that's better than the careless manner in whichthe widow Ochre caulks her wrinkles. 

_Sir Ben. _ Nay, now, Lady Sneerwell, you are severe upon the widow. Come, come, 'tis not that she paints so ill--but, when she has finishedher face, she joins it on so badly to her neck, that she looks like amended statue, in which the connoisseur may see at once that the head ismodern, though the trunk's antique. 

_Crab. _ Ha! ha! ha! Well said, nephew!

_Mrs. Can. _ Ha! ha! ha! Well, you make me laugh; but I vow I hate youfor it. What do you think of Miss Simper?

_Sir Ben. _ Why, she has very pretty teeth. 

_Lady Teaz. _ Yes, and on that account, when she is neither speaking norlaughing (which very seldom happens), she never absolutely shuts hermouth, but leaves it always on a-jar, as it were--thus. 

[_Shows her teeth. _

_Mrs. Can. _ How can you be so ill-natured?

_Lady Teaz. _ Nay, I allow even that's better than the pains Mrs. Primtakes to conceal her losses in front. She draws her mouth till itpositively resembles the aperture of a poor's-box, and all her wordsappear to slide out edgewise as it were--thus: _How do you do, madam?Yes, madam. _ [_Mimics. _

_Lady Sneer. _ Very well, Lady Teazle; I see you can be a little severe. 

_Lady Teaz. _ In defence of a friend it is but justice. But here comesSir Peter to spoil our pleasantry. 

_Enter_ SIR PETER TEAZLE. 

_Sir Pet. _ Ladies, your most obedient. --[_Aside, _] Mercy on me, here isthe whole set! a character dead at every word, I suppose. 

_Mrs. Can. _ I am rejoiced you are come, Sir Peter. They have been socensorious--and Lady Teazle as bad as any one. 

_Sir Pet. _ That must be very distressing to you, indeed, Mrs. Candour. 

_Mrs. Can. _ Oh, they will allow good qualities to nobody: not even goodnature to our friend Mrs. Pursy. 

_Lady Teaz. _ What, the fat dowager who was at Mrs. Quadrille's lastnight?

_Mrs. Can. _ Nay, her bulk is her misfortune; and, when she takes so muchpains to get rid of it, you ought not to reflect on her. 

_Lady Sneer. _ That's very true, indeed. 

_Lady Teaz. _ Yes, I know she almost lives on acids and small whey; lacesherself by pulleys; and often, in the hottest noon in summer, you maysee her on a little squat pony, with her hair plaited up behind like adrummer's, and puffing round the ring on a full trot. 

_Mrs. Can. _ I thank you, Lady Teazle, for defending her. 

_Sir Pet. _ Yes, a good defence, truly. 

_Mrs. Can. _ Truly, Lady Teazle is as censorious as Miss Sallow. 

_Crab. _ Yes, and she is a curious being to pretend to be censorious--anawkward thing, without any one good point under the sun. 

_Mrs. Can. _ Positively you shall not be so very severe. Miss Sallow is anear relation of mine by marriage, and, as for her person, greatallowance is to be made; for, let me tell you, a woman labors under manydisadvantages who tries to pass for a girl of six-and-thirty. 

_Lady Sneer. _ Though, surely, she is handsome still--and for theweakness in her eyes, considering how much she reads by candlelight, itis not to be wondered at. 

_Mrs. Can. _ True, and then as to her manner; upon my word I think it isparticularly graceful, considering she never had the least education;for you know her mother was a Welsh milliner, and her father asugar-baker at Bristol. 

_Sir Ben. _ Ah! you are both of you too good-natured!

_Sir Pet. _ Yes, distressingly good-natured! This their own relation!Mercy on me! [_Aside. _

_Mrs. Can. _ For my part, I own I cannot bear to hear a friend ill-spokenof. 

_Sir Pet. _ No, to be sure!

_Sir Ben. _ Oh! you are of a moral turn. Mrs. Candour and I can sit foran hour and hear Lady Stucco talk sentiment. 

_Lady Teas. _ Nay, I vow Lady Stucco is very well with the dessert afterdinner; for she's just like the French fruit one cracks formottoes--made up of paint and proverb. 

_Mrs. Can. _ Well, I will never join in ridiculing a friend; and so Iconstantly tell my cousin Ogle, and you all know what pretensions shehas to be critical on beauty. 

_Crab. _ Oh, to be sure! she has herself the oddest countenance that everwas seen; 'tis a collection of features from all the different countriesof the globe. 

_Sir Ben. _ So she has, indeed--an Irish front----

_Crab. _ Caledonian locks----

_Sir Ben. _ Dutch nose----

_Crab. _ Austrian lips----

_Sir Ben. _ Complexion of a Spaniard----

_Crab. _ And teeth _à la Chinoise_. 

_Sir Ben. _ In short, her face resembles a _table d'hôte_ at Spa--whereno two guests are of a nation----

_Crab. _ Or a congress at the close of a general war--wherein all themembers, even to her eyes, appear to have a different interest, and hernose and chin are the only parties likely to join issue. 

_Mrs. Can. _ Ha! ha! ha!

_Sir Pet. _ Mercy on my life!--a person they dine with twice aweek! [_Aside. _

_Mrs. Can. _ Nay, but I vow you shall not carry the laugh off so--forgive me leave to say that Mrs. Ogle----

_Sir Pet. _ Madam, madam, I beg your pardon--there's no stopping thesegood gentlemen's tongues. But when I tell you, Mrs. Candour, that thelady they are abusing is a particular friend of mine, I hope you'll nottake her part. 

_Lady Sneer. _ Ha! ha! ha! well said, Sir Peter! but you are a cruelcreature--too phlegmatic yourself for a jest, and too peevish to allowwit in others. 

_Sir Pet. _ Ah, madam, true wit is more nearly allied to good nature thanyour ladyship is aware of. 

_Lady Teas. _ True, Sir Peter; I believe they are so near akin that theycan never be united. 

_Sir Ben. _ Or rather, suppose them man and wife, because one seldom seesthem together. 

_Lady Teaz. _ But Sir Peter is such an enemy to scandal, I believe hewould have it put down by parliament. 

_Sir Pet. _ Positively, madam, if they were to consider the sporting withreputation of as much importance as poaching on manors, and pass an actfor the preservation of fame, as well as game, I believe many wouldthank them for the bill. 

_Lady Sneer. _ Why! Sir Peter; would you deprive us of our privileges?

_Sir Pet. _ Ay, madam; and then no person should be permitted to killcharacters and run down reputations but qualified old maids anddisappointed widows. 

_Lady Sneer. _ Go, you monster!

_Mrs. Can. _ But, surely, you would not be quite so severe on those whoonly report what they hear?

_Sir Pet. _ Yes, madam, I would have law merchant for them too; and inall cases of slander currency, whenever the drawer of the lie was not tobe found, the injured parties should have a right to come on any of theindorsers. 

_Crab. _ Well, for my part, I believe there never was a scandalous talewithout some foundation. 

_Lady Sneer. _ Come, ladies, shall we sit down to cards in the next room?

_Enter_ Servant, _who whispers_ Sir Peter. 

_Sir Pet. _ I'll be with them directly. --[_Exit_ SERVANT. ] I'll get awayunperceived. [_Aside. _

_Lady Sneer. _ Sir Peter, you are not going to leave us?

_Sir Pet. _ Your ladyship must excuse me; I'm called away by particularbusiness. But I leave my character behind me. [_Exit. _

_Sir Ben. _ Well--certainly, Lady Teazle, that lord of yours is a strangebeing: I could tell you some stories of him would make you laughheartily if he were not your husband. 

_Lady Teaz. _ Oh, pray, don't mind that; come, do let's hearthem. [_Exeunt all but_ JOSEPH SURFACE _and_ MARIA. 

_Jos. Surf. _ Maria, I see you have no satisfaction in this society. 

_Mar. _ How is it possible I should? If to raise malicious smiles at theinfirmities or misfortunes of those who have never injured us be theprovince of wit or humor, Heaven grant me a double portion of dulness!

_Jos. Surf. _ Yet they appear more ill-natured than they are; they haveno malice at heart. 

_Mar. _ Then is their conduct still more contemptible; for, in myopinion, nothing could excuse the intemperance of their tongues but anatural and uncontrollable bitterness of mind. 

FOOTNOTES:

[G] For the sake of brevity a part of the first scene has beenexcised. It subsequently appears that Lady Teazle abandons thesociety of the scandal-mongers, and she and her fond but somewhatirascible husband become happily reconciled. 

 * * * * *

 _Oh, wad some power the giftie gie us To see oursel's as others see us! It wad frae monie a blunder free us And foolish notion: What airs in dress an' gait wad lea'e us, And e'en devotion!_

 ROBERT BURNS. 

XXVIII. THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. [H]

ROBERT BURNS. --1759-1796. 

 Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor. 

 GRAY. 

 My lov'd, my honor'd, much respected friend! No mercenary bard his homage pays; With honest pride, I scorn each selfish end, -- My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and praise: To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays, The lowly train in life's sequester'd scene; The native feelings strong, the guileless ways; What Aiken in a cottage would have been; Ah! though his worth unknown, far happier there, I ween. 

 November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh;[1] The short'ning winter-day is near a close; The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh; The black'ning trains o' craws to their repose: The toil-worn Cotter frae his labor goes-- This night his weekly moil is at an end, -- Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes, Hoping the morn[2] in ease and rest to spend, And, weary, o'er the moor, his course does hameward bend. 

 At length his lonely cot appears in view, Beneath the shelter of an aged tree; The expectant wee-things, toddlin, stacher[3] through, To meet their dad, wi' flichterin[4] noise an' glee. His wee bit ingle, [5] blinkin bonnily, His clean hearth-stane, his thriftie wifie's smile, The lisping infant prattling on his knee, Does a' his weary carking cares beguile, An' makes him quite forget his labor an' his toil. 

 Belyve, [6] the elder bairns come drapping in, At service out, amang the farmers roun'; Some ca'[7] the pleugh, some herd, some tentie[8] rin A canny[9] errand to a neebor town: Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown, In youthfu' bloom, love sparkling in her e'e, Comes hame, perhaps, to show a braw[10] new gown, Or deposite[11] her sair-won[12] penny-fee, [13] To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be. 

 Wi' joy unfeign'd, brothers and sisters meet And each for other's welfare kindly spiers:[14] The social hours, swift-wing'd, unnoticed fleet; Each tells the uncos[15] that he sees or hears; The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years; Anticipation forward points the view. The mother, wi' her needle an' her shears, Gars[16] auld claes look amaist as weel's the new; The father mixes a' wi' admonition due. 

 Their master's an' their mistress's command The younkers a' are warnèd to obey; An' mind their labors wi' an eydent[17] hand, An' ne'er, though out o' sight, to jauk[18] or play: "An' oh! be sure to fear the Lord alway, An' mind your duty, duly, morn an' night! Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray, Implore His counsel and assisting might: They never sought in vain that sought the Lord aright!"

 But, hark! a rap comes gently to the door; Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same, Tells how a neebor lad cam o'er the moor To do some errands, and convoy her hame. The wily mother sees the conscious flame Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, an' flush her cheek; Wi' heart-struck, anxious care, inquires his name, While Jenny hafflins[19] is afraid to speak; Weel pleas'd the mother hears it's nae wild, worthless rake. 

 Wi' kindly welcome Jenny brings him ben;[20] A strappan youth; he taks the mother's eye; Blithe Jenny sees the visit's no ill ta'en; The father cracks[21] of horses, pleughs, and kye. The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy, But, blate[22] an' laithfu', [23] scarce can weel behave; The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy What makes the youth sae bashfu' an' sae grave; Weel pleas'd to think her bairn's respected like the lave. [24]

 O happy love! where love like this is found! O heart-felt raptures! bliss beyond compare! I've pacèd much this weary, mortal round, And sage experience bids me this declare-- "If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare, One cordial in this melancholy vale, 'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair, In other's arms breathe out the tender tale, Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the evening gale. "

 Is there, in human form, that bears a heart-- A wretch! a villain! lost to love and truth! That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art, Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth? Curse on his perjur'd arts! dissembling smooth! Are honor, virtue, conscience, all exil'd? Is there no pity, no relenting ruth, Points to the parents fondling o'er their child? Then paints the ruin'd maid, and their distraction wild!

 But now the supper crowns their simple board, The halesome parritch, chief of Scotia's food The soupe[25] their only hawkie[26] does afford, That 'yont the hallan[27] snugly chows her cood; The dame brings forth, in complimental mood, To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd[28] kebbuck, [29] fell, [30] An' aft he's prest, an' aft he ca's it guid: The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell How 'twas a towmond[31] auld, sin' lint was i' the bell. [32]

 The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face, They, round the ingle, form a circle wide; The sire turns o'er, wi' patriarchal grace, The big ha'-Bible, [33] ance his father's pride: His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside, His lyart[34] haffets[35] wearing thin an' bare; Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide, He wales[36] a portion with judicious care; And "Let us worship God!" he says, with solemn air. 

 They chant their artless notes in simple guise; They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim: Perhaps "Dundee's" wild warbling measures rise, Or plaintive "Martyrs, " worthy of the name; Or noble "Elgin" beets[37] the heavenward flame, The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays: Compar'd with these, Italian trills are tame; The tickled ears no heart-felt raptures raise; Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise. 

 The priest-like father reads the sacred page-- How Abram was the friend of God on high; Or Moses bade eternal warfare wage With Amalek's ungracious progeny; Or how the royal bard did groaning lie Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire; Or Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry; Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire; Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. 

 Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme-- How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed; How He, who bore in Heaven the second name, Had not on earth whereon to lay His head; How His first followers and servants sped; The precepts sage they wrote to many a land; How he, who lone in Patmos banishèd, Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand; And heard great Bab'lon's doom pronounced by Heaven's command. 

 Then kneeling down, to Heaven's Eternal King, The saint, the father, and the husband prays: Hope "springs exulting on triumphant wing, " That thus they all shall meet in future days: There ever bask in uncreated rays, No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear; Together hymning their Creator's praise, In such society, yet still more dear; While circling time moves round in an eternal sphere. 

 Compar'd with this, how poor Religion's pride, In all the pomp of method, and of art, When men display to congregations wide Devotion's every grace, except the heart! The Power, incens'd, the pageant will desert, The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole; But, haply, in some cottage far apart, May hear, well pleas'd, the language of the soul; And in His book of life the inmates poor enroll. 

 Then homeward all take off their several way: The youngling cottagers retire to rest; The parent-pair their secret homage pay, And proffer up to Heaven the warm request That He, who stills the raven's clam'rous nest, And decks the lily fair in flowery pride, Would, in the way His wisdom sees the best, For them, and for their little ones provide; But chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine preside. 

 From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs, That makes her lov'd at home, rever'd abroad: Princes and lords are but the breath of kings; "An honest man's the noblest work of God;" And certes, in fair virtue's heavenly road, The cottage leaves the palace far behind; What is a lordling's pomp?--a cumbrous load, Disguising oft the wretch of human kind, Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refin'd!

 O Scotia! my dear, my native soil! For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent! Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content! And, oh! may Heaven their simple lives prevent From luxury's contagion, weak and vile! Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, A virtuous populace may rise the while, And stand a wall of fire around their much-lov'd Isle. 

 O Thou! who pour'd the patriotic tide That stream'd through Wallace's undaunted heart; Who dared to nobly stem tyrannic pride, Or nobly die, the second glorious part, (The patriot's God peculiarly Thou art, His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward!) O never, never, Scotia's realm desert; But still the patriot, and the patriot-bard, In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard. 

FOOTNOTES:

[H] Inscribed to R. Aiken, Esq. 

[1] Moan. 

[2] Morrow. 

[3] Stagger. 

[4] Fluttering. 

[5] Fire-place. 

[6] Presently. 

[7] Drive, _i. E. _, with shouting or calling. 

[8] Attentive. 

[9] Requiring judgment. 

[10] Brave, fine, handsome. 

[11] De´posite, _for_ depos´it. 

[12] Dear-won, hard-earned. 

[13] Money-wages. 

[14] Enquires. 

[15] _Unknown_ things, news. 

[16] Makes. 

[17] Diligent. 

[18] Trifle. 

[19] Half. 

[20] In, into the room. 

[21] Talks. 

[22] Bashful. 

[23] Unwilling, shy. 

[24] What is _left_, rest. 

[25] Sup; _here_, milk. 

[26] White-faced cow. 

[27] Partition wall. 

[28] Carefully kept. 

[29] Cheese. 

[30] Tasty. 

[31] Twelvemonth. 

[32] Since flax was in flower. 

[33] Hall-Bible. 

[34] Grey, greyish. 

[35] Temples, _here_ temple-locks. 

[36] Chooses. 

[37] Feeds, nourishes. 

XXIX. THE LAND O' THE LEAL. 

LADY NAIRN. --1766-1845. 

 I'm wearin' awa', John, Like snaw-wreaths in thaw, John, I'm wearin' awa' To the land o' the leal. There's nae sorrow there, John; There's neither cauld nor care, John; The day is aye fair In the land o' the leal. 

 Our bonnie bairn's there, John; She was baith gude and fair, John; And oh! we grudg'd her sair To the land o' the leal. But sorrow's sel' wears past, John, And joy's a-comin' fast, John, The joy that's aye to last In the land o' the leal. 

 Sae dear that joy was bought, John, Sae free the battle fought, John, That sinfu' man e'er brought To the land o' the leal. Oh! dry your glistening e'e, John, My soul langs to be free, John, And angels beckon me To the land o' the leal. 

 Oh! haud ye leal and true, John, Your day it's wearin' through, John, And I'll welcome you To the land o' the leal. Now fare-ye weel, my ain John, This warld's cares are vain, John, We'll meet, and we'll be fain In the land o' the leal. 

 * * * * *

 _Life! we've been long together, Through pleasant and through cloudy weather; 'Tis hard to part when friends are dear; Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear; Then steal away, give little warning, Choose thine own time; Say not Good-night, but in some brighter clime Bid me Good-morning_. 

 MRS. BARBAULD. --1743-1825. 

XXX. THE TRIAL BY COMBAT AT THE DIAMOND OF THE DESERT. [I]

_From_ THE TALISMAN. 

SIR WALTER SCOTT. --1771-1832. 

It had been agreed, on account of the heat of the climate, that thejudicial combat, which was the cause of the present assemblage ofvarious nations at the Diamond of the Desert, should take place at onehour after sunrise. The wide lists, which had been constructed under theinspection of the Knight of the Leopard, enclosed a space of hard sand, which was one hundred and twenty yards long by forty in width. Theyextended in length from north to south, so as to give both parties theequal advantage of the rising sun. Saladin's royal seat was erected onthe western side of the enclosure, just in the centre, where thecombatants were expected to meet in mid encounter. Opposed to this wasa gallery with closed casements, so contrived, that the ladies, forwhose accommodation it was erected, might see the fight without beingthemselves exposed to view. At either extremity of the lists was abarrier, which could be opened or shut at pleasure. Thrones had beenalso erected, but the Archduke, perceiving that his was lower than KingRichard's, refused to occupy it; and Coeur de Lion, who would havesubmitted to much ere any formality should have interfered with thecombat, readily agreed that the sponsors, as they were called, shouldremain on horseback during the fight. At one extremity of the lists wereplaced the followers of Richard, and opposed to them were those whoaccompanied the defender, Conrade. Around the throne destined for theSoldan were ranged his splendid Georgian Guards, and the rest of theenclosure was occupied by Christian and Mohammedan spectators. 

Long before daybreak, the lists were surrounded by even a larger numberof Saracens than Richard had seen on the preceding evening. When thefirst ray of the sun's glorious orb arose above the desert, the sonorouscall, "To prayer, to prayer!" was poured forth by the Soldan himself, and answered by others, whose rank and zeal entitled them to act asmuezzins. It was a striking spectacle to see them all sink to earth, forthe purpose of repeating their devotions, with their faces turned toMecca. But when they arose from the ground, the sun's rays, nowstrengthening fast, seemed to confirm the Lord of Gilsland's conjectureof the night before. They were flashed back from many a spear-head, forthe pointless lances of the preceding day were certainly no longer such. De Vaux pointed it out to his master, who answered with impatience, thathe had perfect confidence in the good faith of the Soldan; but if DeVaux was afraid of his bulky body, he might retire. 

Soon after this the noise of timbrels was heard, at the sound of whichthe whole Saracen cavaliers threw themselves from their horses, andprostrated themselves, as if for a second morning prayer. This was togive an opportunity to the Queen, with Edith and her attendants, to passfrom the pavilion to the gallery intended for them. Fifty guards ofSaladin's seraglio escorted them, with naked sabres, whose orders were, to cut to pieces whomsoever, were he prince or peasant, should ventureto gaze on the ladies as they passed, or even presume to raise his headuntil the cessation of the music should make all men aware that theywere lodged in their gallery, not to be gazed on by the curious eye. 

This superstitious observance of Oriental reverence to the fair sexcalled forth from Queen Berengaria some criticisms very unfavorable toSaladin and his country. But their den, as the royal fair called it, being securely closed and guarded by their sable attendants, she wasunder the necessity of contenting herself with seeing, and laying asidefor the present the still more exquisite pleasure of being seen. 

Meantime the sponsors of both champions went, as was their duty, to seethat they were duly armed, and prepared for combat. The Archduke ofAustria was in no hurry to perform this part of the ceremony, having hadrather an unusually severe debauch upon wine of Schiraz the precedingevening. But the Grand Master of the Temple, more deeply concerned inthe event of the combat, was early before the tent of Conrade ofMontserrat. To his great surprise, the attendants refused himadmittance. 

"Do you not know me, ye knaves?" said the Grand Master in great anger. 

"We do, most valiant and reverend, " answered Conrade's squire; "but even_you_ may not at present enter--the Marquis is about to confesshimself. "

"Confess himself!" exclaimed the Templar, in a tone where alarm mingledwith surprise and scorn--"and to whom I pray thee?"

"My master bid me be secret, " said the squire; on which the Grand Masterpushed past him, and entered the tent almost by force. 

The Marquis of Montserrat was kneeling at the feet of the Hermit ofEngaddi, and in the act of beginning his confession. 

"What means this, Marquis?" said the Grand Master, "up, for shame--or, if you must needs confess, am not I here?"

"I have confessed to you too often already, " replied Conrade, with apale cheek and a faltering voice. "For God's sake, Grand Master, begone, and let me unfold my conscience to this holy man. "

"In what is he holier than I am?" said the Grand Master. --"Hermit, prophet, madman--say, if thou darest, in what thou excellest me?"

"Bold and bad man, " replied the Hermit, "know that I am like thelatticed window, and the divine light passes through to avail others, though alas! it helpeth not me. Thou art like the iron stanchions, whichneither receive light themselves, nor communicate it to any one. "

"Prate not to me, but depart from this tent, " said the Grand Master;"the Marquis shall not confess this morning, unless it be to me, for Ipart not from his side. "

"Is this _your_ pleasure?" said the Hermit to Conrade; "for think not Iwill obey that proud man, if you continue to desire my assistance. "

"Alas!" said Conrade irresolutely, "what would you have me say? Farewellfor a while--we will speak anon. "

"O, procrastination!" exclaimed the Hermit, "thou art asoul-murderer!--Unhappy man, farewell; not for a while, but until weboth shall meet--no matter where. --And for thee, " he added, turning tothe Grand Master, "TREMBLE!"

"Tremble!" replied the Templar contemptuously, "I cannot if I would. "

The Hermit heard not his answer, having left the tent. 

"Come! to this gear hastily, " said the Grand Master, "since thou wiltneeds go through the foolery. --Hark thee--I think I know most of thyfrailties by heart, so we may omit the detail, which may be somewhat along one, and begin with the absolution. What signifies counting thespots of dirt that we are about to wash from our hands?"

"Knowing what thou art thyself, " said Conrade, "it is blasphemous tospeak of pardoning another. "

"That is not according to the canon, Lord Marquis, " said the Templar;"thou art more scrupulous than orthodox. The absolution of the wickedpriest is as effectual as if he were himself a saint; otherwise, --Godhelp the poor penitent! What wounded man inquires whether the surgeonthat tents his gashes have clean hands or not?--Come, shall we to thistoy?"

"No, " said Conrade, "I will rather die unconfessed than mock thesacrament. "

"Come, noble Marquis, " said the Templar, "rouse up your courage, andspeak not thus. In an hour's time thou shalt stand victorious in thelists, or confess thee in thy helmet, like a valiant knight. "

"Alas, Grand Master!" answered Conrade, "all augurs ill for this affair. The strange discovery by the instinct of a dog, the revival of thisScottish knight, who comes into the lists like a spectre, --all betokensevil. "

"Pshaw!" said the Templar, "I have seen thee bend thy lance boldlyagainst him in sport, and with equal chance of success. Think thou artbut in a tournament, and who bears him better in the tilt-yard thanthou?--Come, squires and armorers, your master must be accoutred for thefield. "

The attendants entered accordingly, and began to arm the Marquis. 

"What morning is without?" said Conrade. 

"The sun rises dimly, " answered a squire. 

"Thou seest, Grand Master, " said Conrade, "naught smiles on us. "

"Thou wilt fight the more coolly, my son, " answered the Templar. "ThankHeaven that hath tempered the sun of Palestine to suit thine occasion. "

Thus jested the Grand Master; but his jests had lost their influence onthe harassed mind of the Marquis, and, notwithstanding his attempts toseem gay, his gloom communicated itself to the Templar. 

"This craven, " he thought, "will lose the day in pure faintness andcowardice of heart, which he calls tender conscience. I, whom visionsand auguries shake not--who am firm in my purpose as the living rock--Ishould have fought the combat myself. --Would to God the Scot may strikehim dead on the spot; it were next best to his winning the victory. But, come what will, he must have no other confessor than myself. Our sinsare too much in common, and he might confess my share with his own. "

While these thoughts passed through his mind, he continued to assist theMarquis in arming, but it was in silence. 

The hour at length arrived, the trumpets sounded, the knights rode intothe lists armed at all points, and mounted like men who were to dobattle for a kingdom's honor. They wore their visors up, and, ridingaround the lists three times, showed themselves to the spectators. Bothwere goodly persons, and both had noble countenances. But there was anair of manly confidence on the brow of the Scot, a radiancy of hope, which amounted even to cheerfulness, while, although pride and efforthad recalled much of Conrade's natural courage, there lowered still onhis brow a cloud of ominous despondence. Even his steed seemed to treadless lightly and blithely to the trumpet-sound than the noble Arab whichwas bestrode by Sir Kenneth; and the _spruch-sprecher_ shook his headwhile he observed, that while the challenger rode around the lists inthe course of the sun--that is, from right to left--the defender madethe same circuit _widder-sins_--that is, from left to right--which is inmost countries held ominous. 

A temporary altar was erected just beneath the gallery occupied by theQueen, and beside it stood the Hermit in the dress of his order, as aCarmelite friar. Other churchmen were also present. To this altar thechallenger and defender were successively brought forward, conducted bytheir respective sponsors. Dismounting before it, each knight avouchedthe justice of his cause by a solemn oath on the Evangelists, and prayedthat his success might be according to the truth or falsehood of what hethen swore. They also made oath, that they came to do battle in knightlyguise, and with the usual weapons, disclaiming the use of spells, charms, or magical devices, to incline victory to their side. Thechallenger pronounced his vow with a firm and manly voice, and a boldand cheerful countenance. When the ceremony was finished, the ScottishKnight looked at the gallery, and bent his head to the earth, as if inhonor of those invisible beauties which were enclosed within; then, loaded with armor as he was, sprung to the saddle without the use of thestirrup, and made his courser carry him in a succession of caracoles tohis station at the eastern extremity of the lists. Conrade alsopresented himself before the altar with boldness enough; but his voice, as he took the oath, sounded hollow, as if drowned in his helmet. Thelips with which he appealed to Heaven to adjudge victory to the justquarrel, grew white as they uttered the impious mockery. As he turnedto remount his horse, the Grand Master approached him closer, as if torectify something about the sitting of his gorget, and whispered, "Coward and fool! recall thy senses, and do me this battle bravely;else, by Heaven, shouldst thou escape him, thou escapest not _me_!"

The savage tone in which this was whispered, perhaps completed theconfusion of the Marquis's nerves, for he stumbled as he made to horse;and though he recovered his feet, sprung to the saddle with his usualagility, and displayed his address in horsemanship as he assumed hisposition opposite to the challenger's, yet the accident did not escapethose who were on the watch for omens, which might predict the fate ofthe day. 

The priests, after a solemn prayer that God would show the rightfulquarrel, departed from the lists. The trumpets of the challenger thenrung a flourish, and the herald-at-arms proclaimed at the eastern endof the lists, --"Here stands a good knight, Sir Kenneth of Scotland, champion for the royal King Richard of England, who accuseth Conrade, Marquis of Montserrat, of foul treason and dishonor done to the saidKing. "

When the words Kenneth of Scotland announced the name and character ofthe champion, hitherto scarce generally known, a loud and cheerfulacclaim burst from the followers of King Richard, and hardly, notwithstanding repeated commands of silence, suffered the reply of thedefendant to be heard. He, of course, avouched his innocence, andoffered his body for battle. The esquires of the combatants nowapproached, and delivered to each his shield and lance, assisting tohang the former around his neck, that his two hands might remain free, one for the management of the bridle, the other to direct the lance. 

The shield of the Scot displayed his old bearing, the leopard, but withthe addition of a collar and broken chain, in allusion to his latecaptivity. The shield of the Marquis bore, in reference to his title, aserrated and rocky mountain. Each shook his lance aloft, as if toascertain the weight and toughness of the unwieldy weapon, and then laidit in the rest. The sponsors, heralds, and squires, now retired to thebarriers, and the combatants sat opposite to each other, face to face, with couched lance and closed visor, the human form so completelyenclosed, that they looked more like statues of molten iron than beingsof flesh and blood. The silence of suspense was now general--menbreathed thicker, and their very souls seemed seated in their eyes, while not a sound was to be heard save the snorting and pawing of thegood steeds, who, sensible of what was about to happen, were impatientto dash into career. They stood thus for perhaps three minutes, when ata signal given by the Soldan, an hundred instruments rent the air withtheir brazen clamors, and each champion striking his horse with thespurs, and slacking the rein, the horses started into full gallop, andthe knights met in mid space with a shock like a thunderbolt. Thevictory was not in doubt--no, not one moment. Conrade, indeed, showedhimself a practised warrior; for he struck his antagonist knightly inthe midst of his shield, bearing his lance so straight and true, that itshivered into splinters from the steel spear-head up to the verygauntlet. The horse of Sir Kenneth recoiled two or three yards and fellon his haunches, but the rider easily raised him with hand and rein. Butfor Conrade there was no recovery. Sir Kenneth's lance had piercedthrough the shield, through a plated corselet of Milan steel, through a_secret_, or coat of linked mail, worn beneath the corselet, hadwounded him deep in the bosom, and borne him from his saddle, leavingthe truncheon of the lance fixed in his wound. The sponsors, heralds, and Saladin himself, descending from his throne, crowded around thewounded man; while Sir Kenneth, who had drawn his sword ere yet hediscovered his antagonist was totally helpless, now commanded him toavow his guilt. The helmet was hastily unclosed, and the wounded man, gazing wildly on the skies, replied, "What would you more? God hathdecided justly. I am guilty--but there are worse traitors in the campthan I. --In pity to my soul, let me have a confessor!"

He revived as he uttered these words. 

"The talisman--the powerful remedy, royal brother, " said King Richard toSaladin. 

"The traitor, " answered the Soldan, "is more fit to be dragged from thelists to the gallows by the heels, than to profit by its virtues: andsome such fate is in his look, " he added, after gazing fixedly upon thewounded man; "for though his wound may be cured, yet Azrael's seal is onthe wretch's brow. "

"Nevertheless, " said Richard, "I pray you do for him what you may, thathe may at least have time for confession. Slay not soul and body! To himone half-hour of time may be worth more, by ten thousand fold, than thelife of the oldest patriarch. "

"My royal brother's wish shall be obeyed, " said Saladin. --"Slaves, bearthis wounded man to our tent. "

"Do not so, " said the Templar, who had hitherto stood gloomily lookingon in silence. "The royal Duke of Austria and myself will not permitthis unhappy Christian prince to be delivered over to the Saracens, that they may try their spells upon him. We are his sponsors, and demandthat he be assigned to our care. "

"That is, you refuse the certain means offered to recover him?" saidRichard. 

"Not so, " said the Grand Master, recollecting himself. "If the Soldanuseth lawful medicines, he may attend the patient in my tent. "

"Do so, I pray thee, good brother, " said Richard to Saladin, "though thepermission be ungraciously yielded. --But now to a more glorious work. Sound, trumpets--shout, England, in honor of England's champion!"

Drum, clarion, trumpet, and cymbal, rung forth at once, and the deep andregular shout, which for ages has been the English acclamation, soundedamidst the shrill and irregular yells of the Arabs, like the diapason ofthe organ amid the howling of a storm. There was silence at length. 

"Brave Knight of the Leopard, " resumed Coeur de Lion, "thou hast shownthat the Ethiopian _may_ change his skin and the Leopard his spots, though clerks quote Scripture for the impossibility. Yet I have more tosay to you when I have conducted you to the presence of the ladies, thebest judges, and best rewarders, of deeds of chivalry. "

The Knight of the Leopard bowed assent. 

"And thou, princely Saladin, wilt also attend them. I promise thee ourQueen will not think herself welcome, if she lacks the opportunity tothank her royal host for her most princely reception. "

Saladin bent his head gracefully, but declined the invitation. 

"I must attend the wounded man, " he said. "The leech leaves not hispatient more than the champion the lists, even if he be summoned to abower like those of Paradise. .. . At noon, " said the Soldan, as hedeparted, "I trust ye will all accept a collation under the blackcamel-skin tent of a chief of Curdistan. "

The same invitation was circulated among the Christians, comprehendingall those of sufficient importance to be admitted to sit at a feast madefor princes. 

"Hark!" said Richard, "the timbrels announce that our Queen and herattendants are leaving their gallery; and see, the turbans sink on theground, as if struck down by a destroying angel. All lie prostrate, asif the glance of an Arab's eye could sully the lustre of a lady's cheek!Come, we will to the pavillion, and lead our conqueror thither intriumph. How I pity that noble Soldan, who knows but of love as it isknown to those of inferior nature!"

Blondel tuned his harp to its boldest measure, to welcome theintroduction of the victor into the pavilion of Queen Berengaria. He entered, supported on either side by his sponsors, Richard andWilliam Longsword, and knelt gracefully down before the Queen, thoughmore than half the homage was silently rendered to Edith, who sat onher right hand. 

"Unarm him, my mistresses, " said the King, whose delight was in theexecution of such chivalrous usages; "let Beauty honor Chivalry! Undohis spurs, Berengaria; Queen though thou be, thou owest him what marksof favor thou canst give. --Unlace his helmet, Edith; by this hand, thoushalt, wert thou the proudest Plantagenet of the line, and he thepoorest knight on earth!"

Both ladies obeyed the royal commands, --Berengaria with bustlingassiduity, as anxious to gratify her husband's humor, and Edithblushing and growing pale alternately, as slowly and awkwardly sheundid, with Longsword's assistance, the fastenings which secured thehelmet to the gorget. 

"And what expect you from beneath this iron shell?" said Richard, as theremoval of the casque gave to view the noble countenance of Sir Kenneth, his face glowing with recent exertion, and not less so with presentemotion. "What think ye of him, gallants and beauties?" said Richard. "Doth he resemble an Ethiopian slave, or doth he present the face of anobscure and nameless adventurer? No, by my good sword! Here terminatehis various disguises. He hath knelt down before you, unknown save byhis worth; he arises, equally distinguished by birth and by fortune. Theadventurous knight, Kenneth, arises David, Earl of Huntingdon, PrinceRoyal of Scotland!"

There was a general exclamation of surprise, and Edith dropped from herhand the helmet which she had just received. .. . 

"May we know of your grace by what strange and happy chance this riddlehas been read?" said the Queen Berengaria. 

"Letters were brought to us from England, " said the King, "in which welearned, among other unpleasant news, that the King of Scotland hadseized upon three of our nobles, when on a pilgrimage to Saint Ninian, and alleged as a cause, that his heir being supposed to be fighting inthe ranks of the Teutonic Knights, against the heathen of Borussia, was, in fact, in our camp and in our power; and, therefore, William proposedto hold these nobles as hostages for his safety. This gave me the firstlight on the real rank of the Knight of the Leopard, and my suspicionswere confirmed by De Vaux, who, on his return from Ascalon, brought backwith him the Earl of Huntingdon's sole attendant, a thick-skulled slave, who had gone thirty miles to unfold to De Vaux a secret he should havetold to me. "

"Old Strauchan must be excused, " said the Lord of Gilsland. "He knewfrom experience that my heart is somewhat softer than if I wrote myselfPlantagenet. "

"Thy heart soft? thou commodity of old iron, and Cumberland flint thatthou art!" exclaimed the King. "It is we Plantagenets who boast soft andfeeling hearts, Edith, " he continued, turning to his cousin, with anexpression which called the blood into her cheek. --"Give me thy hand, myfair cousin, and, Prince of Scotland, thine. ". .. 

It is needless to follow into further particulars the conferences at theroyal tent, or to enquire whether David, Earl of Huntingdon, was as mutein the presence of Edith Plantagenet, as when he was bound to act underthe character of an obscure and nameless adventurer. It may be wellbelieved that he there expressed, with suitable earnestness, the passionto which he had so often before found it difficult to give words. 

The hour of noon now approached, and Saladin waited to receive thePrinces of Christendom in a tent, which, but for its large size, differed little from that of the ordinary shelter of the common Curdman, or Arab; yet, beneath its ample and sable covering, was prepared abanquet after the most gorgeous fashion of the East, extended uponcarpets of the richest stuffs, with cushions laid for the guests. But wecannot stop to describe the cloth of gold and silver, the superbembroidery in Arabesque, the shawls of Cashmere, and the muslins ofIndia, which were here unfolded in all their splendor; far less to tellthe different sweetmeats, ragouts edged with rice colored in variousmanners, with all the other niceties of Eastern cookery. Lambs roastedwhole, and game and poultry dressed in pilaus, were piled in vessels ofgold, and silver, and porcelain, and intermixed with large mazers ofsherbet, cooled in snow and ice from the caverns of Mount Lebanon. Amagnificent pile of cushions at the head of the banquet, seemed preparedfor the master of the feast, and such dignitaries as he might call toshare that place of distinction, while from the roof of the tent in allquarters, but over this seat of eminence in particular, waved many abanner and pennon, the trophies of battles won, and kingdoms overthrown. But amongst and above them all, a long lance displayed a shroud, thebanner of Death, with this impressive inscription, "SALADIN, KING OFKINGS--SALADIN, VICTOR OF VICTORS--SALADIN MUST DIE. " Amid thesepreparations, the slaves who had arranged the refreshments stood withdrooped heads and folded arms, mute and motionless as monumentalstatuary, or as automata, which waited the touch of the artist to putthem in motion. 

Expecting the approach of his princely guests, the Soldan, imbued, asmost were, with the superstitions of his time, paused over a horoscopeand corresponding scroll, which had been sent to him by the Hermit ofEngaddi when he departed from the camp. 

"Strange and mysterious science, " he muttered to himself, "which, pretending to draw the curtain of futurity, misleads those whom it seemsto guide, and darkens the scene which it pretends to illuminate! Whowould not have said that I was that enemy most dangerous to Richard, whose enmity was to be ended by marriage with his kinswoman? Yet it nowappears that a union betwixt this gallant Earl and the lady will bringabout friendship betwixt Richard and Scotland, an enemy more dangerousthan I, as a wild cat in a chamber is more to be dreaded than a lion ina distant desert. --But then, . .. --How now, what means this intrusion?"

He spoke to the dwarf Nectabanus, who rushed into the tent fearfullyagitated, with each strange and disproportioned feature wrenched byhorror into still more extravagant ugliness, --his mouth open, his eyesstaring, his hands, with their shrivelled and deformed fingers, wildlyexpanded. 

"What now?" said the Soldan, sternly. 

"_Accipe hoc!_" groaned out the dwarf. 

"Ha! say'st thou?" answered Saladin. 

"_Accipe hoc!_" replied the panic-struck creature, unconscious, perhaps, that he repeated the same words as before. 

"Hence! I am in no vein for foolery, " said the Emperor. 

"Nor am I further fool, " said the dwarf, "than to make my folly help outmy wits to earn my bread, poor helpless wretch!--Hear, hear me, greatSoldan!"

"Nay, if thou hast actual wrong to complain of, " said Saladin, "fool orwise, thou art entitled to the ear of a King. --Retire hither with me;"and he led him into the inner tent. 

Whatever their conference related to, it was soon broken off by thefanfare of the trumpets, announcing the arrival of the various Christianprinces, whom Saladin welcomed to his tent with a royal courtesy wellbecoming their rank and his own; but chiefly he saluted the young Earlof Huntingdon, and generously congratulated him upon prospects, whichseemed to have interfered with and overclouded those which he hadhimself entertained. 

"But think not, " said the Soldan, "thou noble youth, that the Prince ofScotland is more welcome to Saladin, than was Kenneth to the solitaryIlderim when they met in the desert, or the distressed Ethiop to theHakim Adonbec. A brave and generous disposition like thine hath a valueindependent of condition and birth, as the cool draught which I hereproffer thee, is as delicious from an earthen vessel as from a goblet ofgold. "

The Earl of Huntingdon made a suitable reply, gratefully acknowledgingthe various important services he had received from the generous Soldan;but when he had pledged Saladin in the bowl of sherbet which the Soldanhad proffered to him, he could not help remarking with a smile, "Thebrave cavalier, Ilderim, knew not of the formation of ice, but themunificent Soldan cools his sherbet with snow. "

"Wouldst thou have an Arab or a Curdman as wise as a Hakim?" said theSoldan. "He who does on a disguise must make the sentiments of his heartand the learning of his head accord with the dress which he assumes. Idesired to see how a brave and single-hearted cavalier of Frangistanwould conduct himself in debate with such a chief as I then seemed; andI questioned the truth of a well-known fact, to know by what argumentsthou wouldst support thy assertion. "

While they were speaking, the Archduke of Austria, who stood a littleapart, was struck with the mention of iced sherbet, and took withpleasure and some bluntness the deep goblet, as the Earl of Huntingdonwas about to replace it. 

"Most delicious!" he exclaimed, after a deep draught, which the heat ofthe weather, and the feverishness following the debauch of the precedingday, had rendered doubly acceptable. He sighed as he handed the cup tothe Grand Master of the Templars. Saladin made a sign to the dwarf, whoadvanced and pronounced, with a harsh voice, the words, _Accipe hoc!_The Templar started, like a steed who sees a lion under a bush, besidethe pathway; yet instantly recovered, and to hide, perhaps, hisconfusion, raised the goblet to his lips;--but those lips never touchedthat goblet's rim. The sabre of Saladin left its sheath as lightningleaves the cloud. It was waved in the air, --and the head of the GrandMaster rolled to the extremity of the tent, while the trunk remained, for a second, standing, with the goblet still clenched in its grasp, then fell, the liquor mingling with the blood that spurted from theveins. 

There was a general exclamation of treason, and Austria, nearest to whomSaladin stood with the bloody sabre in his hand, started back as ifapprehensive that his turn was to come next. Richard and others laidhand on their swords. 

"Fear nothing, noble Austria, " said Saladin, as composedly as if nothinghad happened, "nor you, royal England, be wroth at what you have seen. Not for his manifold treasons;--not for the attempt which, as may bevouched by his own squire, he instigated against King Richard'slife;--not that he pursued the Prince of Scotland and myself in thedesert, reducing us to save our lives by the speed of our horses;--notthat he had stirred up the Maronites to attack us upon this veryoccasion, had I not brought up unexpectedly so many Arabs as renderedthe scheme abortive;--not for any or all of these crimes does he nowlie there, although each were deserving such a doom;--but because, scarce half-an-hour ere he polluted our presence, as the simoomempoisons the atmosphere, he poniarded his comrade and accomplice, Conrade of Montserrat, lest he should confess the infamous plots inwhich they had both been engaged. "

"How! Conrade murdered?--And by the Grand Master, his sponsor and mostintimate friend!" exclaimed Richard. "Noble Soldan, I would not doubtthee; yet this must be proved; otherwise"----

"There stands the evidence, " said Saladin, pointing to the terrifieddwarf. "Allah, who sends the fire-fly to illuminate the night-season, can discover secret crimes by the most contemptible means. "

The Soldan proceeded to tell the dwarf's story, which amounted tothis. --In his foolish curiosity, or as he partly confessed, with somethoughts of pilfering, Nectabanus had strayed into the tent of Conrade, which had been deserted by his attendants, some of whom had left theencampment to carry the news of his defeat to his brother, and otherswere availing themselves of the means which Saladin had supplied forrevelling. The wounded man slept under the influence of Saladin'swonderful talisman, so that the dwarf had opportunity to pry about atpleasure, until he was frightened into concealment by the sound of aheavy step. He skulked behind a curtain, yet could see the motions, andhear the words of the Grand Master, who entered, and carefully securedthe covering of the pavillion behind him. His victim started from sleep, and it would appear that he instantly suspected the purpose of his oldassociate, for it was in a tone of alarm that he demanded wherefore hedisturbed him. 

"I come to confess and absolve thee, " answered the Grand Master. 

Of their further speech the terrified dwarf remembered little, save thatConrade implored the Grand Master not to break a wounded reed, and thatthe Templar struck him to the heart with a Turkish dagger, with thewords _Accipe hoc_, --words which long afterward haunted the terrifiedimagination of the concealed witness. 

"I verified the tale, " said Saladin, "by causing the body to beexamined; and I made this unhappy being, whom Allah hath made thediscoverer of the crime, repeat in your own presence the words which themurderer spoke, and you yourselves saw the effect which they producedupon his conscience. "

The Soldan paused, and the King of England broke silence:--

"If this be true, as I doubt not, we have witnessed a great act ofjustice, though it bore a different aspect. But wherefore in thispresence? wherefore with thine own hand?"

"I had designed otherwise, " said Saladin, "but had I not hastened hisdoom, it had been altogether averted, since, if I had permitted him totaste of my cup, as he was about to do, how could I, without incurringthe brand of inhospitality, have done him to death as he deserved? Hadhe murdered my father, and afterward partaken of my food and my bowl, not a hair of his head could have been injured by me. But enough of him;let his carcass and his memory be removed from amongst us. "

The body was carried away, and the marks of the slaughter obliterated orconcealed with such ready dexterity, as showed that the case was notaltogether so uncommon, as to paralyze the assistants and officers ofSaladin's household. 

But the Christian princes felt that the scene which they had beheldweighed heavily on their spirits, and although, at the courteousinvitation of the Soldan, they assumed their seats at the banquet, yetit was with the silence of doubt and amazement. The spirits of Richardalone surmounted all cause for suspicion or embarrassment. Yet he, too, seemed to ruminate on some proposition, as if he were desirous of makingit in the most insinuating and acceptable manner which was possible. Atlength he drank off a large bowl of wine, and addressing the Soldan, desired to know whether it was not true that he had honored the Earl ofHuntingdon with a personal encounter. 

Saladin answered with a smile, that he had proved his horse and hisweapons with the heir of Scotland, as cavaliers are wont to do with eachother when they meet in the desert; and modestly added that, though thecombat was not entirely decisive, he had not, on his part, much reasonto pride himself on the event. The Scot, on the other hand, disclaimedthe attributed superiority, and wished to assign it to the Soldan. 

"Enough of honor thou hast had in the encounter, " said Richard, "and Ienvy thee more for that, than for the smiles of Edith Plantagenet, though one of them might reward a bloody day's work. --But what say you, noble princes; is it fitting that such a royal ring of chivalry shouldbreak up without something being done for future times to speak of? Whatis the overthrow and death of a traitor, to such a fair garland of honoras is here assembled, and which ought not to part without witnessingsomething more worthy of their regard? How say you, princely Soldan;what if we two should now, and before this fair company, decide thelong-contended question for this land of Palestine, and end at oncethese tedious wars? Yonder are the lists ready, nor can Paynimrie everhope a better champion than thou. I, unless worthier offers, will laydown my gauntlet in behalf of Christendom, and, in all love and honor, we will do mortal battle for the possession of Jerusalem. "

There was a deep pause for the Soldan's answer. His cheek and browcolored highly, and it was the opinion of many present that he hesitatedwhether he should accept the challenge. At length he said: "Fighting forthe Holy City against those whom we regard as idolaters, and worshippersof stocks and stones, and graven images, I might confide that Allahwould strengthen my arm; or if I fell beneath the sword of the MelechRic, I could not pass to Paradise by a more glorious death. But Allahhas already given Jerusalem to the true believers, and it were atempting the God of the Prophet to peril, upon my own personal strengthand skill, that which I hold securely by the superiority of my forces. "

"If not for Jerusalem, then, " said Richard, in the tone of one who wouldentreat a favor of an intimate friend, "yet, for the love of honor, letus run at least three courses with grinded lances. "

"Even this, " said Saladin, half smiling at Coeur de Lion'saffectionate earnestness for the combat, "even this I may not lawfullydo. The Master places the shepherd over the flock, not for theshepherd's own sake, but for the sake of the sheep. Had I a son to holdthe sceptre when I fell, I might have had the liberty, as I have thewill, to brave this bold encounter; but your own Scripture sayeth, thatwhen the herdsman is smitten, the sheep are scattered. "

"Thou hast had all the fortune, " said Richard, turning to the Earl ofHuntingdon with a sigh. "I would have given the best year of my life forthat one half-hour beside the Diamond of the Desert!"

The chivalrous extravagance of Richard awakened the spirits of theassembly, and when at length they arose to depart, Saladin advanced andtook Coeur de Lion by the hand. 

"Noble King of England, " he said, "we now part, never to meet again. That your league is dissolved, no more to be reunited, and that yournative forces are far too few to enable you to prosecute yourenterprise, is as well known to me as to yourself. I may not yield youup that Jerusalem which you so much desire to hold. It is to us, as toyou, a Holy City. But whatever other terms Richard demands of Saladin, shall be as willingly yielded as yonder fountain yields its waters. Ay, and the same should be as frankly afforded by Saladin, if Richard stoodin the desert with but two archers in his train!"

FOOTNOTES:

[I] While the army of the crusaders was inactive near Ascalon, atruce having been agreed to between the Saracens and theirassailants, the Grand Master of the Templars, Conrade Marquis ofMontserrat, and others of the Christian Princes, were plotting toeffect its dismemberment. Richard of England was the leading spiritof the crusade, and the plotters wished either to get rid of him orto inspire his colleagues with jealousy of his leadership. The GrandMaster sought to have the King assassinated. Conrade tried to breakup the league by milder means: he first provoked the Duke of Austriato insult the English banner; and then thinking rightly that thesuspicion and wrath of Richard would fall upon Austria, he secretlystole the banner from its place. Its safe-keeping, after Austria'sinsult, had been entrusted by the King to Sir Kenneth, known as theKnight of the Leopard, in reality David Prince of Scotland, who inthe disguise of an obscure gentleman had joined the crusade as afollower of the English King. Sir Kenneth was innocently decoyed fromhis watch, and in his absence, the banner, left with but his dog toguard it, was stolen by Conrade. For his failure of duty. Sir Kennethwas condemned to immediate death, but Saladin, who in the disguise ofan Arab physician was in the English camp, and who had rescued theKing from death by fever, urgently interceding, his life was spared. Saladin took Sir Kenneth to the camp of the Saracens, and knowing hisworth and valor, having previously had knightly encounter with him inthe desert, disguised him as a Nubian slave, and sent him as apresent to Richard with the hope that he might in some way discoverby whom the banner had been stolen. Attending Richard as a slave SirKenneth saved the king from the assassination which the Grand Masterhad instigated, and aided by the instinct of his dog, also disguised, he detected the thief in Conrade. Richard thereupon, at once chargedConrade with the theft, and challenged him to mortal combat. The Kingwas prevented by the Council of the Princes from fighting in person, but having divined in the Nubian slave the former Knight of theLeopard, he permitted Sir Kenneth to fight in his stead, that theknight might atone for the dishonor of being faithless in his watch. Conrade's cause was espoused by the Grand Master, who had been hisconfidant, and by the Duke of Austria. The encounter was appointed totake place at the Diamond of the Desert, in the territory of Saladin, who was asked to act as umpire. It had been stipulated that but fivehundred Saracens should be present at the trial; Saladin, however, having been apprised of further plotting on the part of the GrandMaster, for safety's sake caused a larger attendance of hisfollowers. Sir Kenneth had long loved Edith Plantagenet, but beingknown to her only as a poor and nameless adventurer, he had not yetopenly avowed his love. 

XXXI. TO A HIGHLAND GIRL. 

(AT INVERSNEYDE, UPON LOCH LOMOND. )

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. --1770-1850. 

 Sweet Highland girl, a very shower Of beauty is thy earthly dower! Twice seven consenting years have shed Their utmost bounty on thy head: And these gray rocks; this household lawn; These trees, a veil just half withdrawn; This fall of water, that doth make A murmur near the silent lake; This little bay, a quiet road That holds in shelter thy abode; In truth, together do ye seem Like something fashion'd in a dream; Such forms as from their covert peep When earthly cares are laid asleep! Yet, dream and vision as thou art, I bless thee with a human heart: God shield thee to thy latest years! Thee neither know I nor thy peers; And yet my eyes are fill'd with tears. 

 With earnest feeling I shall pray For thee when I am far away: For never saw I mien, or face, In which more plainly I could trace Benignity and home-bred sense Ripening in perfect innocence. Here scatter'd like a random seed, Remote from men, thou dost not need The embarrass'd look of shy distress, And maidenly shamefacèdness: Thou wear'st upon thy forehead clear The freedom of a mountaineer: A face with gladness overspread! Soft smiles, by human kindness bred! And seemliness complete, that sways Thy courtesies, about thee plays; With no restraint, but such as springs From quick and eager visitings Of thoughts that lie beyond the reach Of thy few words of English speech: A bondage sweetly brook'd, a strife That gives thy gestures grace and life! So have I, not unmov'd in mind, Seen birds of tempest-loving kind, Thus beating up against the wind. 

 What hand but would a garland cull For thee who art so beautiful? O happy pleasure! here to dwell Beside thee in some heathy dell; Adopt your homely ways, and dress, A shepherd, thou a shepherdess! But I could frame a wish for thee More like a grave reality: Thou art to me but as a wave Of the wild sea; and I would have Some claim upon thee, if I could, Though but of common neighborhood. What joy to hear thee, and to see! Thy elder brother I would be, Thy father, anything to thee!

 Now thanks to Heaven! that of its grace Hath led me to this lonely place. Joy have I had; and going hence I bear away my recompense. In spots like these it is we prize Our memory, feel that she hath eyes: Then, why should I be loth to stir? I feel this place was made for her; To give new pleasure like the past, Continued long as life shall last. Nor am I loth, though pleas'd at heart, Sweet Highland girl! from thee to part; For I, methinks, till I grow old, As fair before me shall behold, As I do now, the cabin small, The lake, the bay, the waterfall; And thee, the spirit of them all!

XXXII. FRANCE: AN ODE. 

(1797. )

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. --1772-1834. 

I. 

 Ye Clouds! that far above me float and pause, Whose pathless march no mortal may control! Ye Ocean-Waves! that, wheresoe'er ye roll, Yield homage only to eternal laws! Ye Woods! that listen to the night-birds singing, Midway the smooth and perilous slope reclin'd, Save when your own imperious branches, swinging, Have made a solemn music of the wind! Where, like a man belov'd of God, Through glooms, which never woodman trod, How oft, pursuing fancies holy, My moonlight way o'er flowering weeds I wound, Inspir'd, beyond the guess of folly, By each rude shape and wild unconquerable sound! O ye loud Waves! and O ye Forests high! And O ye Clouds that far above me soar'd! Thou rising Sun! thou blue rejoicing Sky! Yea, every thing that is and will be free! Bear witness for me, wheresoe'er ye be, With what deep worship I have still ador'd The spirit of divinest Liberty. 

II. 

 When France in wrath her giant-limbs uprear'd, And with that oath, which smote air, earth, and sea, Stamp'd her strong foot and said she would be free, Bear witness for me, how I hoped and fear'd! With what a joy my lofty gratulation Unaw'd I sang, amid a slavish band; And when to whelm the disenchanted nation, Like fiends embattled by a wizard's wand. The Monarchs march'd in evil day, And Britain join'd the dire array, Though dear her shores and circling ocean, Though many friendships, many youthful loves, Had swoll'n the patriot emotion, And flung a magic light o'er all her hills and groves; Yet still my voice, unalter'd, sang defeat To all that brav'd the tyrant-quelling lance, And shame too long delay'd and vain retreat! For ne'er, O Liberty! with partial aim I dimm'd thy light or damp'd thy holy flame; But bless'd the pæans of deliver'd France, And hung my head and wept at Britain's name. 

III. 

 "And what, " I said, "though Blasphemy's loud scream With that sweet music of deliverance strove! Though all the fierce and drunken passions wove A dance more wild than e'er was maniac's dream! Ye Storms, that round the dawning east assembled, The Sun was rising, though ye hid his light!" And when, to soothe my soul, that hoped and trembled, The dissonance ceas'd, and all seem'd calm and bright; When France her front deep-scarr'd and gory Conceal'd with clustering wreaths of glory; When, insupportably advancing, Her arm made mockery of the warrior's tramp, While, timid looks of fury glancing, Domestic treason, crush'd beneath her fatal stamp, Writh'd like a wounded dragon in his gore: Then I reproach'd my fears that would not flee; "And soon, " I said, "shall Wisdom teach her lore In the low huts of them that toil and groan! And, conquering by her happiness alone, Shall France compel the nations to be free, Till Love and Joy look round, and call the earth their own. "

IV. 

 Forgive me, Freedom! O forgive those dreams! I hear thy voice, I hear thy loud lament, From bleak Helvetia's icy cavern sent, -- I hear thy groans upon her blood-stain'd streams! Heroes, that for your peaceful country perish'd, And ye that, fleeing, spot your mountain-snows With bleeding wounds, forgive me, that I cherish'd One thought that ever bless'd your cruel foes! To scatter rage, and traitorous guilt, Where Peace her jealous home had built; A patriot-race to disinherit Of all that made their stormy wilds so dear, And with inexpiable spirit To taint the bloodless freedom of the mountaineer, -- O France, that mockest Heaven, adulterous, blind, And patriot only in pernicious toils, Are these thy boasts, champion of human kind? To mix with kings in the low lust of sway, Yell in the hunt, and share the murderous prey; To insult the shrine of Liberty with spoils From freemen torn; to tempt and to betray?

V. 

 The Sensual and the Dark rebel in vain, Slaves by their own compulsion! In mad game They burst their manacles and wear the name Of Freedom, graven on a heavier chain! O Liberty! with profitless endeavor Have I pursued thee, many a weary hour; But thou nor swell'st the victor's strain, nor ever Didst breathe thy soul in forms of human power. Alike from all, howe'er they praise thee (Nor prayer, nor boastful name delays thee), Alike from Priestcraft's harpy minions, And factious Blasphemy's obscener slaves, Thou speedest on thy subtle pinions, The guide of homeless winds, and playmate of the waves! And there I felt thee!--on that sea-cliff's verge, Whose pines, scarce travell'd by the breeze above, Had made one murmur with the distant surge! Yes, while I stood and gaz'd, my temples bare, And shot my being through earth, sea, and air, Possessing all things with intensest love, O Liberty! my spirit felt thee there. 

XXXIII. COMPLAINT AND REPROOF. 

COLERIDGE. 

I. 

 How seldom, friend! a good great man inherits Honor or wealth, with all his worth and pains! It sounds like stories from the land of spirits, If any man obtain that which he merits, Or any merit that which he obtains. 

II. 

 For shame, dear friend! renounce this canting strain! What wouldst thou have a good great man obtain? Place--titles--salary--a gilded chain-- Or throne of corses which his sword hath slain?-- Greatness and goodness are not means but ends! Hath he not always treasures, always friends, The good great man?--three treasures, --love, and light, And calm thoughts, regular as infant's breath;-- And three firm friends, more sure than day and night, -- Himself, his Maker, and the angel Death. 

XXXIV. THE WELL OF ST. KEYNE. 

ROBERT SOUTHEY. --1774-1843. 

 A well there is in the west country, And a clearer one never was seen; There is not a wife in the west country But has heard of the Well of St. Keyne. 

 An oak and an elm-tree stand beside, And behind doth an ash-tree grow, And a willow from the bank above Droops to the water below. 

 A traveller came to the Well of St. Keyne; Joyfully he drew nigh; For from cock-crow he had been travelling, And there was not a cloud in the sky. 

 He drank of the water so cool and clear, For thirsty and hot was he; And he sat down upon the bank Under the willow-tree. 

 There came a man from the house hard by, At the well to fill his pail; On the well-side he rested it, And he bade the stranger hail. 

 "Now, art thou a bachelor, stranger?" quoth he; "For, an if thou hast a wife, The happiest draught thou hast drank this day That ever thou didst in thy life. 

 "Or has thy good woman, if one thou hast, Ever here in Cornwall been? For, an if she have, I'll venture my life She has drank of the Well of St. Keyne. "

 "I have left a good woman who never was here, " The stranger he made reply; "But that my draught should be the better for that, I pray you answer me why. "

 "St. Keyne, " quoth the Cornish-man, "many a time Drank of this crystal well; And, before the angel summon'd her, She laid on the water a spell, --

 "If the husband of this gifted well Shall drink before his wife, A happy man thenceforth is he, For he shall be master for life;

 "But if the wife should drink of it first, God help the husband then!" The stranger stoop'd to the Well of St. Keyne, And drank of the water again. 

 "You drank of the well, I warrant, betimes?" He to the Cornish-man said; But the Cornish-man smiled as the stranger spake, And sheepishly shook his head:--

 "I hasten'd, as soon as the wedding was done, And left my wife in the porch; But i' faith she had been wiser than me, For she took a bottle to church. "

XXXV. THE ISLES OF GREECE. 

LORD BYRON. --1788-1824. 

 The isles of Greece! the isles of Greece! Where burning Sappho lov'd and sung, Where grew the arts of war and peace, Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung! Eternal summer gilds them yet, But all, except their sun, is set. 

 The Scian and the Teian muse, The hero's harp, the lover's lute, Have found the fame your shores refuse: Their place of birth alone is mute To sounds which echo further west Than your sires' "Islands of the Blest. "

 The mountains look on Marathon-- And Marathon looks on the sea; And musing there an hour alone, I dream'd that Greece might still be free; For standing on the Persians' grave, I could not deem myself a slave. 

 A king sate on the rocky brow Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis; And ships, by thousands, lay below, And men in nations;--all were his! He counted them at break of day-- And when the sun set, where were they?

 And where are they? and where art thou, My country? On thy voiceless shore The heroic lay is tuneless now-- The heroic bosom beats no more! And must thy lyre, so long divine, Degenerate into hands like mine?

 'Tis something, in the dearth of fame, Though link'd among a fetter'd race, To feel at least a patriot's shame, Even as I sing, suffuse my face; For what is left the poet here? For Greeks a blush--for Greece a tear. 

 Must _we_ but weep o'er days more blest? Must _we_ but blush?--Our fathers bled. Earth! render back from out thy breast A remnant of our Spartan dead! Of the three hundred grant but three, To make a new Thermopylæ!

 What, silent still? and silent all? Ah! no;--the voices of the dead Sound like a distant torrent's fall, And answer, "Let one living head, But one, arise, --we come, we come!" 'Tis but the living who are dumb. 

 In vain--in vain: strike other chords; Fill high the cup with Samian wine! Leave battles to the Turkish hordes, And shed the blood of Scio's vine! Hark! rising to the ignoble call-- How answers each bold Bacchanal!

 You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet; Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone? Of two such lessons, why forget The nobler and the manlier one? You have the letters Cadmus gave-- Think ye he meant them for a slave?

 Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! We will not think of themes like these! It made Anacreon's song divine: He served--but served Polycrates-- A tyrant; but our masters then Were still, at least, our countrymen. 

 The tyrant of the Chersonese Was freedom's best and bravest friend; _That_ tyrant was Miltiades! Oh! that the present hour would lend Another despot of the kind! Such chains as his were sure to bind. 

 Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! On Suli's rock, and Parga's shore, Exists the remnant of a line Such as the Doric mothers bore; And there, perhaps, some seed is sown, The Heracleidan blood might own. 

 Trust not for freedom to the Franks-- They have a king who buys and sells: In native swords, and native ranks, The only hope of courage dwells; But Turkish force, and Latin fraud, Would break your shield, however broad. 

 Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! Our virgins dance beneath the shade-- I see their glorious black eyes shine; But gazing on each glowing maid, My own the burning tear-drop laves, To think such breasts must suckle slaves. 

 Place me on Sunium's marbled steep, Where nothing, save the waves and I, May hear our mutual murmurs sweep; There, swan-like, let me sing and die: A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine-- Dash down yon cup of Samian wine!

XXXVI. GO WHERE GLORY WAITS THEE. 

THOMAS MOORE. --1779-1852. 

 Go where glory waits thee; But, while fame elates thee, O, still remember me! When the praise thou meetest To thine ear is sweetest, O, then remember me! Other arms may press thee, Dearer friends caress thee, All the joys that bless thee Sweeter far may be; But when friends are nearest, And when joys are dearest, O, then remember me!

 When, at eve, thou rovest By the star thou lovest, O, then remember me! Think, when home returning, Bright we've seen it burning, O, thus remember me! Oft as summer closes, When thine eye reposes On its lingering roses, Once so lov'd by thee, Think of her who wove them, Her who made thee love them, O, then remember me!

 When, around thee dying, Autumn leaves are lying, O, then remember me! And, at night, when gazing On the gay hearth blazing, O, still remember me! Then, should music, stealing All the soul of feeling, To thy heart appealing, Draw one tear from thee; Then let memory bring thee Strains I used to sing thee, -- O, then remember me!

XXXVII. DEAR HARP OF MY COUNTRY. 

MOORE. 

 Dear Harp of my Country! in darkness I found thee, The cold chain of silence had hung o'er thee long, When proudly, my own Island Harp, I unbound thee, And gave all thy chords to light, freedom, and song!

 The warm lay of love and the light note of gladness Have waken'd thy fondest, thy liveliest thrill; But, so oft hast thou echo'd the deep sigh of sadness, That ev'n in thy mirth it will steal from thee still. 

 Dear Harp of my Country! farewell to thy numbers, This sweet wreath of song is the last we shall twine! Go, sleep with the sunshine of fame on thy slumbers, Till touch'd by some hand less unworthy than mine;

 If the pulse of the patriot, soldier, or lover, Have throbb'd at our lay, 'tis thy glory alone; I was _but_ as the wind, passing heedlessly over, And all the wild sweetness I waked was thy own. 

XXXVIII. COME, YE DISCONSOLATE. 

MOORE. 

 Come, ye disconsolate, where'er you languish, Come, at God's altar fervently kneel; Here bring your wounded hearts, here tell your anguish-- Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot heal. 

 Joy of the desolate, Light of the straying, Hope, when all others die, fadeless and pure, Here speaks the Comforter, in God's name saying, -- "Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot cure. "

 Go, ask the infidel, what boon he brings us, What charm for aching hearts _he_ can reveal, Sweet as that heavenly promise Hope sings us, "Earth has no sorrow that God cannot heal. "

XXXIX. ON A LOCK OF MILTON'S HAIR. 

LEIGH HUNT. --1784-1859. 

 It lies before me there, and my own breath Stirs its thin outer threads, as though beside The living head I stood in honor'd pride, Talking of lovely things that conquer death. Perhaps he press'd it once, or underneath Ran his fine fingers, when he leant, blank-ey'd, And saw, in fancy, Adam and his bride With their rich locks, or his own Delphic wreath. There seems a love in hair, though it be dead. It is the gentlest, yet the strongest thread Of our frail plant, --a blossom from the tree Surviving the proud trunk;--as though it said Patience and gentleness is power; in me Behold affectionate eternity. 

XL. THE GLOVE AND THE LIONS. 

LEIGH HUNT. 

 King Francis was a hearty king, and lov'd a royal sport, And one day, as his lions strove, sat looking on the court: The nobles fill'd the benches round, the ladies by their side, And 'mongst them Count de Lorge, with one he hoped to make his bride; And truly 'twas a gallant thing to see that crowning show, Valor and love, and a king above, and the royal beasts below. 

 Ramp'd and roar'd the lions, with horrid laughing jaws; They bit, they glared, gave blows like beams, a wind went with their paws; With wallowing might and stifled roar they roll'd one on another, Till all the pit, with sand and mane, was in a thund'rous smother; The bloody foam above the bars came whizzing through the air; Said Francis then, "Good gentlemen, we're better here than there!"

 De Lorge's love o'erheard the King, a beauteous, lively dame, With smiling lips, and sharp bright eyes, which always seem'd the same: She thought, "The Count, my lover, is as brave as brave can be; He surely would do desperate things to show his love of me! King, ladies, lovers, all look on; the chance is wondrous fine; I'll drop my glove to prove his love; great glory will be mine!"

 She dropp'd her glove to prove his love: then look'd on him and smiled; He bow'd, and in a moment leap'd among the lions wild: The leap was quick; return was quick; he soon regain'd his place; Then threw the glove, but not with love, right in the lady's face! "In truth!" cried Francis, "rightly done!" and he rose from where he sat: "No love, " quoth he, "but vanity, sets love a task like that!"

 * * * * *

 _Rough wind, that moanest loud Grief too sad for song; Wild wind, when sullen cloud Knells all the night long; Sad storm, whose tears are vain, Bare woods, whose branches strain, Deep caves and dreary main, Wail, for the world's wrong. _

 _A Dirge_. --SHELLEY. 

XLI. THE CLOUD. 

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. --1792-1822. 

I. 

 I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers From the seas and the streams; I bear light shade for the leaves when laid In their noon-day dreams. From my wings are shaken the dews that waken The sweet buds every one, When rock'd to rest on their Mother's breast, As she dances about the sun. I wield the flail of the lashing hail, And whiten the green plains under; And then again I dissolve it in rain, And laugh as I pass in thunder. 

II. 

 I sift the snow on the mountains below, And their great pines groan aghast; And all the night 'tis my pillow white, While I sleep in the arms of the Blast. Sublime on the towers of my skyey bowers Lightning, my pilot, sits; In a cavern under is fetter'd the Thunder, -- It struggles and howls at fits. Over earth and ocean with gentle motion This pilot is guiding me, Lured by the love of the Genii that move In the depths of the purple sea; Over the rills and the crags and the hills, Over the lakes and the plains, Wherever he dream under mountain or stream The Spirit he loves remains; And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile, Whilst he is dissolving in rains. 

III. 

 The sanguine Sunrise, with his meteor eyes, And his burning plumes outspread, Leaps on the back of my sailing rack, When the morning star shines dead; As on the jag of a mountain-crag, Which an earthquake rocks and swings, An eagle alit one moment may sit In the light of its golden wings. And, when Sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath, Its ardor of rest and of love, And the crimson pall of eve may fall From the depth of heaven above, With wings folded I rest on mine airy nest, As still as a brooding dove. 

IV. 

 That orbèd maiden, with white-fire laden, Whom mortals call the Moon, Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor By the midnight breezes strewn; And wherever the beat of her unseen feet, Which only the angels hear, May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof, The Stars peep behind her and peer. And I laugh to see them whirl and flee Like a swarm of golden bees, When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent, -- Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas, Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high, Are each pav'd with the moon and these. 

V. 

 I bind the Sun's throne with a burning zone, And the Moon's with a girdle of pearl; The volcanoes are dim, and the Stars reel and swim, When the Whirlwinds my banner unfurl. From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape, Over a torrent sea, Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof, -- The mountains its columns be. The triumphal arch, through which I march, With hurricane, fire, and snow, When the Powers of the air are chain'd to my chair, Is the million-color'd bow; The Sphere-fire above its soft colors wove, While the moist Earth was laughing below. 

VI. 

 I am the daughter of Earth and Water, And the nursling of the Sky; I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores; I change, but I cannot die. For after the rain, when with never a stain The pavilion of heaven is bare, And the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleams Build up the blue dome of air, I silently laugh at my own cenotaph, -- And out of the caverns of rain, Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb, I arise, and unbuild it again. 

XLII. ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN'S HOMER. 

JOHN KEATS. --1795-1821. 

 Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold, And many goodly states and kingdoms seen; Round many western islands have I been Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. Oft of one wide expanse had I been told That deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne: Yet did I never breathe its pure serene Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold: Then felt I like some watcher of the skies When a new planet swims into his ken; Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes He stared at the Pacific--and all his men Look'd at each other with a wild surmise-- Silent, upon a peak in Darien. 

XLIII. ON THE GRASSHOPPER AND THE CRICKET. 

KEATS. 

 The poetry of earth is never dead: When all the birds are faint with the hot sun, And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead: That is the grasshopper's--he takes the lead In summer luxury, --he has never done With his delights, for, when tired out with fun, He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed. The poetry of earth is ceasing never: On a lone winter evening, when the frost Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills The cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever, And seems to one in drowsiness half lost, The grasshopper's among some grassy hills. 

XLIV. THE POWER AND DANGER OF THE CÆSARS. 

THOMAS DE QUINCEY. --1785-1859. 

_From_ THE CÆSARS. 

To this view of the imperial character and relations must be added onesingle circumstance, which in some measure altered the whole for theindividual who happened to fill the office. The emperor _de facto_ mightbe viewed under two aspects; there was the man, and there was theoffice. In his office he was immortal and sacred: but as a questionmight still be raised, by means of a mercenary army, as to the claims ofthe particular individual who at any time filled the office, the verysanctity and privilege of the character with which he was clothed mightactually be turned against himself; and here it is, at this point, thatthe character of Roman emperor became truly and mysteriously awful. Gibbon has taken notice of the extraordinary situation of a _subject_ inthe Roman empire who should attempt to fly from the wrath of the Cæsar. Such was the ubiquity of the emperor that this was metaphysicallyhopeless. Except across pathless deserts or amongst barbarous nomads, itwas impossible to find even a transient sanctuary from the imperialpursuit. If the fugitive went down to the sea, there he met the emperor:if he took the wings of the morning, and fled to the uttermost parts ofthe earth, there was also Cæsar in the person of his lieutenants. But, by a dreadful counter-charm, the same omnipresence of imperial anger andretribution which withered the hopes of the poor humble prisoner, metand confounded the emperor himself, when hurled from his elevation bysome fortunate rival. All the kingdoms of the earth, to one in thatsituation, became but so many wards of the same infinite prison. Flight, if it were even successful for the moment, did but a little retard hisinevitable doom. And so evident was this, that hardly in one instancedid the fallen prince _attempt_ to fly; passively he met the death whichwas inevitable, in the very spot where ruin had overtaken him. Neitherwas it possible even for a merciful conqueror to show mercy; for, inthe presence of an army so mercenary and factious, his own safety wasbut too deeply involved in the extermination of rival pretenders tothe crown. 

Such, amidst the sacred security and inviolability of the office, wasthe hazardous tenure of the individual. Nor did his dangers always arisefrom persons in the rank of competitors and rivals. Sometimes it menacedhim in quarters which his eye had never penetrated, and from enemies tooobscure to have reached his ear. By way of illustration we will cite acase from the life of the Emperor Commodus, which is wild enough to havefurnished the plot of a romance, though as well authenticated as anyother passage in that reign. The story is narrated by Herodian, and theoutline was this:--A slave of noble qualities, and of magnificentperson, having liberated himself from the degradations of bondage, determined to avenge his own wrongs by inflicting continual terror uponthe town and neighborhood which had witnessed his humiliation. For thispurpose he resorted to the woody recesses of the province (somewhere inthe modern Transylvania), and, attracting to his wild encampment as manyfugitives as he could, by degrees he succeeded in training a veryformidable troop of freebooters. Partly from the energy of his ownnature, and partly from the neglect and remissness of the provincialmagistrates, the robber captain rose from less to more, until he hadformed a little army, equal to the task of assaulting fortified cities. In this stage of his adventures he encountered and defeated several ofthe imperial officers commanding large detachments of troops; and atlength grew of consequence sufficient to draw upon himself the emperor'seye, and the honor of his personal displeasure. In high wrath anddisdain at the insults offered to his eagles by this fugitive slave, Commodus fulminated against him such an edict as left him no hope ofmuch longer escaping with impunity. 

Public vengeance was now awakened; the imperial troops were marchingfrom every quarter upon the same centre; and the slave became sensiblethat in a very short space of time he must be surrounded and destroyed. In this desperate situation he took a desperate resolution: he assembledhis troops, laid before them his plan, concerted the various steps forcarrying it into effect, and then dismissed them as independentwanderers. So ends the first chapter of the tale. 

The next opens in the passes of the Alps, whither, by various routes, ofseven or eight hundred miles in extent, these men had threaded their wayin manifold disguises, through the very midst of the emperor's camps. According to this man's gigantic enterprise, in which the means were asaudacious as the purpose, the conspirators were to rendezvous, and firstto recognize each other, at the gates of Rome. From the Danube to theTiber did this band of robbers severally pursue their perilous routesthrough all the difficulties of the road and the jealousies of themilitary stations, sustained by the mere thirst of vengeance--vengeanceagainst that mighty foe whom they knew only by his proclamations againstthemselves. Everything continued to prosper; the conspirators met underthe walls of Rome; the final details were arranged; and those also wouldhave prospered but for a trifling accident. The season was one ofgeneral carnival at Rome; and, by the help of those disguises which thelicense of this festival time allowed, the murderers were to havepenetrated as maskers to the emperor's retirement, when a casual word ortwo awoke the suspicions of a sentinel. One of the conspirators wasarrested; under the terror and uncertainty of the moment, he made muchampler discoveries than were expected of him; the other accomplices weresecured: and Commodus was delivered from the uplifted daggers of thosewho had sought him by months of patient wanderings, pursued through allthe depths of the Illyrian forests, and the difficulties of the Alpinepasses. It is not easy to find words of admiration commensurate to theenergetic hardihood of a slave--who, by way of answer and reprisal to anedict summarily consigning him to persecution and death, determines tocross Europe in quest of its author, though no less a person than themaster of the world--to seek him out in the inmost recesses of hiscapital city, of his private palace, of his consecrated bed-chamber--andthere to lodge a dagger in his heart, as the adequate reply to theimperial sentence of proscription against himself. 

Such, amidst the superhuman grandeur and hallowed privileges of theRoman emperor's office, were the extraordinary perils which menaced theindividual officer. The office rose by its grandeur to a region abovethe clouds and vapors of earth: the officer might find his personalsecurity as unsubstantial as those wandering vapors. Nor is it possiblethat these circumstances of violent opposition can be betterillustrated than in this tale of Herodian. Whilst the emperor's mightyarms were stretched out to arrest some potentate in the heart of Asia, apoor slave is silently and stealthily creeping round the base of theAlps, with the purpose of winning his way as a murderer to the imperialbed-chamber; Cæsar is watching some potent rebel of the Orient, at adistance of two thousand leagues, and he overlooks the dagger which iswithin three stealthy steps, and one tiger's leap, of his own heart. Allthe heights and the depths which belong to man's frailty, all thecontrasts of glory and meanness, the extremities of what is highest andlowest in human casualties, meeting in the station of the Roman CæsarSemper Augustus--have combined to call him into high marble relief, andto make him the most interesting study of all whom history hasemblazoned with colors of fire and blood, or has crowned most lavishlywith diadems of cyprus and laurel. 

XLV. UNTHOUGHTFULNESS. 

DR. ARNOLD. --1795-1842. 

_A Lecture delivered in Rugby Chapel. _

The state of spiritual folly is, I suppose, one of the most universalevils in the world. For the number of those who are naturally foolish isexceedingly great; of those, I mean, who understand no worldly thingwell; of those who are careless about everything, carried about by everybreath of opinion, without knowledge, and without principle. But theterm spiritual folly includes, unhappily, a great many more than these;it takes in not those only who are in the common sense of the termfoolish, but a great many who are in the common sense of the termclever, and many who are even in the common sense of the terms, prudent, sensible, thoughtful, and wise. It is but too evident that some of theablest men who have ever lived upon earth, have been in no less a degreespiritually fools. And thus, it is not without much truth that Christianwriters have dwelt upon the insufficiency of worldly wisdom, and havewarned their readers to beware, lest, while professing themselves to bewise, they should be accounted as fools in the sight of God. 

But the opposite to this notion, that those who are, as it were, foolsin worldly matters are wise before God, --although this also is true in acertain sense, and under certain peculiar circumstances, yet takengenerally, it is the very reverse of truth; and the careless andincautious language which has been often used on this subject, has beenextremely mischievous. On the contrary, he who is foolish in worldlymatters is likely also to be, and most commonly is, no less foolish inthe things of God. And the opposite belief has arisen mainly from thatstrange confusion between ignorance and innocence, with which manyignorant persons seem to solace themselves. Whereas, if you take away aman's knowledge, you do not bring him to the state of an infant, but tothat of a brute; and of one of the most mischievous and malignant of thebrute creation. For you do not lessen or weaken the man's body bylowering his mind; he still retains his strength and his passions, thepassions leading to self-indulgence, the strength which enables him tofeed them by continued gratification. He will not think, it is true, toany good purpose; it is very possible to destroy in him the power ofreflection, whether as exercised upon outward things, or upon himselfand his own nature, or upon God. But you cannot destroy the power ofadapting means to ends, nor that of concealing his purposes by fraud orfalsehood; you take only his wisdom, and leave that cunning which marksso notoriously both the savage and the madman. He, then, who is a foolas far as regards earthly things, is much more a fool with regard toheavenly things; he who cannot raise himself even to the lower height, how is he to attain to the higher? he who is without reason andconscience, how shall he be endowed with the spirit of God?

It is my deep conviction and long experience of this truth, which makesme so grieve over a want of interest in your own improvement in humanlearning, whenever I observe it, --over the prevalence of a thoughtlessand childish spirit amongst you. .. . The idleness and want of interestwhich I grieve for, is one which extends itself, but too impartially, toknowledge of every kind: to divine knowledge, as might be expected, evenmore than to human. Those whom we commonly find careless about theirgeneral lessons, are quite as ignorant and as careless about theirBibles; those who have no interest in general literature, in poetry, orin history, or in philosophy, have certainly no greater interest, I donot say in works of theology, but in works of practical devotion, in thelives of holy men, in meditations, or in prayers. Alas, the interest oftheir minds is bestowed on things far lower than the very lowest of allwhich I have named; and therefore, to see them desiring something only alittle higher than their present pursuits, could not but be encouraging;it would, at least, show that the mind was rising upwards. It may, indeed, stop at a point short of the highest, it may learn to loveearthly excellence, and rest there contented, and seek for nothingmore perfect; but that, at any rate, is a future and merely contingentevil. It is better to love earthly excellence than earthly folly; it isfar better in itself, and it is, by many degrees, nearer to the Kingdomof God. 

There is another case, however, which I cannot but think is morefrequent now than formerly; and if it is so, it may be worth while todirect our attention to it. Common idleness and absolute ignorance arenot what I wish to speak of now, but a character advanced above these; acharacter which does not neglect its school-lessons, but really attainsto considerable proficiency in them; a character at once regular andamiable, abstaining from evil, and for evil in its low and grosser formshaving a real abhorrence. What, then, you will say, is wanting here? Iwill tell you what seems to be wanting--a spirit of manly, and much moreof Christian, thoughtfulness. There is quickness and cleverness; muchpleasure, perhaps, in distinction, but little in improvement; there isno desire of knowledge for its own sake, whether human or divine. Thereis, therefore, but little power of combining and digesting what is read;and, consequently, what is read passes away, and takes no root in themind. This same character shows itself in matters of conduct; it willadopt, without scruple, the most foolish, commonplace notions of boys, about what is right and wrong; it will not, and cannot, from thelightness of its mind, concern itself seriously about what is evil inthe conduct of others, because it takes no regular care of its own, withreference to pleasing God; it will not do anything low or wicked, but itwill sometimes laugh at those who do; and it will by no means takepains to encourage, nay, it will sometimes thwart and oppose anythingthat breathes a higher spirit, and asserts a more manly and Christianstandard of duty. 

One cause of this consists in the number and character and cheapness, and peculiar mode of publication, of the works of amusement of thepresent day. The works of amusement published only a very few yearssince were comparatively few in number; they were less exciting, andtherefore less attractive; they were dearer, and therefore lessaccessible; and, not being published periodically, they did not occupythe mind for so long a time, nor keep alive so constant an expectation;nor, by thus dwelling upon the mind, and distilling themselves into itas it were drop by drop, did they possess it so largely, coloring even, in many instances, its very language, and affording frequent matter forconversation. 

The evil of all these circumstances is actually enormous. The mass ofhuman minds, and much more of the minds of young persons, have no greatappetite for intellectual exercise; but they have some, which by carefultreatment may be strengthened and increased. But here to this weak anddelicate appetite is presented an abundance of the most stimulating andleast nourishing food possible. It snatches it greedily, and is not onlysatisfied, but actually conceives a distaste for anything simpler andmore wholesome. That curiosity which is wisely given us to lead us on toknowledge, finds its full gratification in the details of an excitingand protracted story, and then lies down as it were gorged, and goes tosleep. Other faculties claim their turn, and have it. We know that inyouth the healthy body and lively spirits require exercise, and in thisthey may and ought to be indulged; but the time and interest whichremain over when the body has had its enjoyment, and the mind desiresits share, this has been already wasted and exhausted upon thingsutterly unprofitable: so that the mind goes to its work hurriedly andlanguidly, and feels it to be no more than a burden. The mere lessonsmay be learnt from a sense of duty; but that freshness of power which inyoung persons of ability would fasten eagerly upon some one portion orother of the wide field of knowledge, and there expatiate, drinking inhealth and strength to the mind, as surely as the natural exercise ofthe body gives to it bodily vigor, --that is tired prematurely, perverted, and corrupted; and all the knowledge which else it might socovet, it now seems a wearying effort to retain. 

Great and grievous as is the evil, it is peculiarly hard to find theremedy for it. If the books to which I have been alluding were books ofdownright wickedness, we might destroy them wherever we found them; wemight forbid their open circulation; we might conjure you to shun themas you would any other clear sin, whether of word or deed. But they arenot wicked books for the most part; they are of that class which cannotbe actually prohibited; nor can it be pretended that there is a sin inreading them. They are not the more wicked for being published so cheap, and at regular intervals; but yet these two circumstances make them sopeculiarly injurious. All that can be done is to point out the evil;that it is real and serious I am very sure, and its defects are mostdeplorable on the minds of the fairest promise; but the remedy for itrests with yourselves, or rather with each of you individually, so faras he is himself concerned. That an unnatural and constant excitement ofthe mind is most injurious, there is no doubt; that excitement involvesa consequent weakness, is a law of our nature than which none is surer;that the weakness of mind thus produced is and must be adverse to quietstudy and thought, to that reflection which alone is wisdom, is alsoclear in itself, and proved too largely by experience. And that withoutreflection there can be no spiritual understanding, is at once evident;while without spiritual understanding, that is, without a knowledge anda study of God's will, there can be no spiritual life. And thereforechildishness and unthoughtfulness cannot be light evils; and if I haverightly traced the prevalence of these defects to its cause, althoughthat cause may seem to some to be trifling, yet surely it is well tocall your attention to it, and to remind you that in reading works ofamusement, as in every other lawful pleasure, there is and must be anabiding responsibility in the sight of God; that, like other lawfulpleasures, we must beware of excess in it; and not only so, but if wefind it hurtful to us, either because we have used it too freely intimes past, or because our nature is too weak to bear it, that then weare bound most solemnly to abstain from it; because, however lawful initself, or to others who can practise it without injury, whatever is tous an hindrance in the way of our intellectual and moral and spiritualimprovement, that is in our case a positive sin. 

 * * * * *

 _There is a book, who runs may read, which heavenly truth imparts; And all the lore its scholars need, --pure eyes and Christian hearts. The works of God, above, below, within us and around, Are pages in that book, to show how God Himself is found. _

 JOHN KEBLE. --1792-1866. 

XLVI. THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS. 

THOMAS HOOD. --1799-1845. 

 One more Unfortunate, Weary of breath, Rashly importunate, Gone to her death!

 Take her up tenderly, Lift her with care; Fashion'd so slenderly, Young, and so fair!

 Look at her garments Clinging like cerements; Whilst the wave constantly Drips from her clothing; Take her up instantly, Loving, not loathing. --

 Touch her not scornfully; Think of her mournfully, Gently and humanly; Not of the stains of her, -- All that remains of her Now is pure womanly. 

 Make no deep scrutiny Into her mutiny Rash and undutiful: Past all dishonor, Death has left on her Only the beautiful. 

 Still, for all slips of hers, One of Eve's family, -- Wipe those poor lips of hers Oozing so clammily. 

 Loop up her tresses Escaped from the comb, -- Her fair auburn tresses; Whilst wonderment guesses Where was her home?

 Who was her father? Who was her mother? Had she a sister? Had she a brother? Or was there a dearer one Still, and a nearer one Yet, than all other?

 Alas! for the rarity Of Christian charity Under the sun! Oh! it was pitiful! Near a whole city full, Home she had none. 

 Sisterly, brotherly, Fatherly, motherly Feelings had changed: Love, by harsh evidence, Thrown from its eminence; Even God's providence Seeming estranged. 

 Where the lamps quiver So far in the river, With many a light From window and casement, From garret to basement, She stood, with amazement, Houseless by night. 

 The bleak wind of March Made her tremble and shiver; But not the dark arch, Or the black flowing river: Mad from life's history, Glad to death's mystery, Swift to be hurl'd-- Anywhere, anywhere Out of the world!

 In she plunged boldly, -- No matter how coldly The dark river ran, -- Over the brink of it, Picture it, --think of it, Dissolute Man! Lave in it, drink of it, Then, if you can!

 Take her up tenderly, Lift her with care; Fashion'd so slenderly, Young, and so fair!

 Ere her limbs frigidly Stiffen too rigidly, Decently, --kindly, -- Smooth and compose them; And her eyes, close them, Staring so blindly!

 Dreadfully staring Through muddy impurity, As when with the daring Last look of despairing Fix'd on futurity. 

 Perishing gloomily, Spurr'd by contumely, Cold inhumanity, Burning insanity, Into her rest. -- Cross her hands humbly, As if praying dumbly, Over her breast!

 Owning her weakness, Her evil behavior, And leaving, with meekness, Her sins to her Saviour!

XLVII. A PARENTAL ODE TO MY SON. 

AGED THREE YEARS AND FIVE MONTHS. 

THOMAS HOOD. 

 Thou happy, happy elf! (But stop, --first let me kiss away that tear)-- Thou tiny image of myself! (My love, he's poking peas into his ear!) Thou merry, laughing sprite! With spirits feather-light, Untouch'd by sorrow, and unsoil'd by sin-- (Good heavens! the child is swallowing a pin!) Thou little tricksy Puck! With antic toys so funnily bestuck, Light as the singing bird that wings the air-- (The door! the door! he'll tumble down the stair!) Thou darling of thy sire! (Why, Jane, he'll set his pinafore a-fire!) Thou imp of mirth and joy! In Love's dear chain so strong and bright a link, Thou idol of thy parents--(Drat the boy! There goes my ink!)

 Thou cherub--but of earth; Fit playfellow for Fays, by moonlight pale, In harmless sport and mirth, (That dog will bite him if he pulls its tail!) Thou human humming-bee extracting honey From ev'ry blossom in the world that blows, Singing in Youth's Elysium ever sunny, (Another tumble!--that's his precious nose!) Thy father's pride and hope! (He'll break the mirror with that skipping-rope!) With pure heart newly stamp'd from Nature's mint-- (Where did he learn that squint?)

 Thou young domestic dove! (He'll have that jug off with another shove!) Dear nursling of the hymeneal nest! (Are those torn clothes his best?) Little epitome of man! (He'll climb upon the table, that's his plan!) Touch'd with the beauteous tints of dawning life-- (He's got a knife!)

 Thou enviable being! No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky foreseeing, Play on, play on, My elfin John! Toss the light ball--bestride the stick-- (I knew so many cakes would make him sick!) With fancies buoyant as the thistle-down, Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk, With many a lamb-like frisk, (He's got the scissors, snipping at your gown!)

 Thou pretty opening rose! (Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose!) Balmy, and breathing music like the South, (He really brings my heart into my mouth!) Fresh as the morn, and brilliant as its star, -- (I wish that window had an iron bar!) Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove, -- (I tell you what, my love, I cannot write, unless he's sent above!)

XLVIII. METAPHYSICS. 

THOMAS CHANDLER HALIBURTON. --1796-1865. 

_From_ TRAITS OF AMERICAN HUMOR. 

Old Doctor Sobersides, the minister of Pumpkinville, where I lived in myyouth, was one of the metaphysical divines of the old school, and couldcavil upon the ninth part of a hair about entities and quiddities, nominalism and realism, free-will and necessity, with which sort oflearning he used to stuff his sermons and astound his learned hearers, the bumpkins. They never doubted that it was all true, but were apt tosay with the old woman in Molière: "He speaks so well that I don'tunderstand him a bit. "

I remember a conversation that happened at my grandfather's, in whichthe Doctor had some difficulty in making his metaphysics all "as clearas preaching. " There was my grandfather; Uncle Tim, who was the greatesthand at raising onions in our part of the country, but "not knowingmetaphysics, had no notion of the true reason of his not being sad"; myAunt Judy Keturah Titterwell, who could knit stockings "like allpossest, " but could not syllogise; Malachi Muggs, our hired man thatdrove the oxen; and Isaac Thrasher, the district schoolmaster, who haddropped in to warm his fingers and get a drink of cider. Something wasunder discussion, and my grandfather could make nothing of it; but theDoctor said it was "metaphysically true. "

"Pray, Doctor, " said Uncle Tim, "tell me something about metaphysics; Ihave often heard of that science, but never for my life could find outwhat it was. "

"Metaphysics, " said the Doctor, "is the science of abstraction. "

"I'm no wiser for that explanation, " said Uncle Tim. 

"It treats, " said the Doctor, "of matters most profound and sublime, alittle difficult perhaps for a common intellect or an unschooledcapacity to fathom, but not the less important on that account, to allliving beings. "

"What does it teach?" asked the Schoolmaster. 

"It is not applied so much to the operation of teaching, " answered theDoctor, "as to that of inquiring; and the chief inquiry is, whetherthings are, or whether they are not. "

"I don't understand the question, " said Uncle Tim, taking the pipe outof his mouth. 

"For example, whether this earth on which we tread, " said the Doctor, giving a heavy stamp on the floor, and setting his foot on the cat'stail, "whether the earth does really exist, or whether it does notexist. "

"That is a point of considerable consequence to settle, " said mygrandfather. 

"Especially, " added the schoolmaster, "to the holders of real estate. "

"Now the earth, " continued the Doctor, "may exist--"

"Why, who ever doubted that?" asked Uncle Tim. 

"A great many men, " said the Doctor, "and some very learned ones. "

Uncle Tim stared a moment, and then began to fill his pipe, whistlingthe tune of "Heigh! Betty Martin, " while the Doctor went on:

"The earth, I say, may exist, although Bishop Berkeley has proved beyondall possible gainsaying or denial, that it does not exist. The case isclear; the only difficulty is, to know whether we shall believe it ornot. "

"And how, " asked Uncle Tim, "is all this to be found out?"

"By digging down to the first principles, " answered the Doctor. 

"Ay, " interrupted Malachi, "there is nothing equal to the spade andpickaxe. "

"That is true, " said my grandfather, going on in Malachi's way, "'tis bydigging for the foundation, that we shall find out whether the worldexists or not; for, if we dig to the bottom of the earth and find thefoundation--why then we are sure of it. But if we find no foundation, itis clear that the world stands upon nothing, or, in other words, that itdoes not stand at all; therefore, it stands to reason--"

"I beg your pardon, " interrupted the Doctor, "but you totally mistakeme; I used the word digging metaphorically, meaning the profoundestcogitation and research into the nature of things. That is the way inwhich we may ascertain whether things are, or whether they are not. "

"But if a man can't believe his eyes, " said Uncle Tim, "what signifiestalking about it?"

"Our eyes, " said the Doctor, "are nothing at all but the inlets ofsensation, and when we see a thing, all we are aware of is, that we havea sensation of it: we are not aware that the thing exists. We are sureof nothing that we see with our eyes. "

"Not without spectacles, " said Aunt Judy. 

"Plato, for instance, maintains that the sensation of any object isproduced by a perpetual succession of copies, images, or counterfeits, streaming off from the object to the organ of sensation. Descartes, too, has explained the matter upon the principle of whirligigs. "

"But does the world exist?" asked the Schoolmaster. 

"A good deal may be said on both sides, " replied the Doctor, "though theablest heads are for non-existence. "

"In common cases, " said Uncle Tim, "those who utter nonsense areconsidered blockheads. "

"But in metaphysics, " said the Doctor, "the case is different. "

"Now all this is hocus-pocus to me, " said Aunt Judy, suspending herknitting-work, and scratching her forehead with one of the needles, "Idon't understand a bit more of the business than I did at first. "

"I'll be bound there is many a learned professor, " said Uncle Tim, "could say the same after spinning a long yarn of metaphysics. "

The Doctor did not admire this gibe at his favorite science. 

"That is as the case may be, " said he; "this thing or that thing may bedubious, but what then? Doubt is the beginning of wisdom. "

"No doubt of that, " said my grandfather, beginning to poke the fire, "and when a man has got through his doubting, what does he begin tobuild up in the metaphysical way?"

"Why, he begins by taking something for granted, " said the Doctor. 

"But is that a sure way of going to work?"

"'Tis the only thing he can do, " replied the Doctor, after a pause, andrubbing his forehead as if he was not altogether satisfied that hisfoundation was a solid one. My grandfather might have posed him withanother question, but he poked the fire and let him go on. 

"Metaphysics, to speak exactly----"

"Ah, " interrupted the Schoolmaster, "bring it down to vulgar fractions, and then we shall understand it. "

"'Tis the consideration of immateriality, or the mere spirit and essenceof things. "

"Come, come, " said Aunt Judy, taking a pinch of snuff, "now I see intoit. "

"Thus, man is considered, not in his corporeality, but in his essence orcapability of being; for a man, metaphysically, or to metaphysicalpurposes, hath two natures, that of spirituality, and that ofcorporeality, which may be considered separate. "

"What man?" asked Uncle Tim. 

"Why, any man; Malachi there, for example; I may consider him as Malachispiritual, or Malachi corporeal. "

"That is true, " said Malachi, "for when I was in the militia they mademe a sixteenth corporal, and I carried grog to the drummer. "

"That is another affair, " said the Doctor in continuation; "we speak ofman in his essence; we speak, also, of the essence of locality, theessence of duration--"

"And essence of peppermint, " said Aunt Judy. 

"Pooh!" said the Doctor, "the essence I mean is quite a differentessence. "

"Something too fine to be dribbled through the worm of a still, " said mygrandfather. 

"Then I am all in the dark again, " rejoined Aunt Judy. 

"By the spirit and essence of things I mean things in the abstract. "

"And what becomes of a thing when it goes into the abstract?" askedUncle Tim. 

"Why, it becomes an abstraction. "

"There we are again, " said Uncle Tim; "but what on earth is anabstraction?"

"It is a thing that has no matter: that is, it cannot be felt, seen, heard, smelt, or tasted; it has no substance or solidity; it is neitherlarge nor small, hot nor cold, long nor short. "

"Then what is the long and short of it?" asked the Schoolmaster. 

"Abstraction, " replied the Doctor. 

"Suppose, for instance, " said Malachi, "that I had a pitchfork----"

"Ay, " said the Doctor, "consider a pitchfork in general; that is, neither this one nor that one, nor any particular one, but a pitchforkor pitchforks divested of their materiality--these are things in theabstract. "

"They are things in the hay-mow, " said Malachi. 

"Pray, " said Uncle Tim, "have there been many such things discovered?"

"Discovered!" returned the Doctor, "why, all things, whether in heaven, or upon the earth, or in the waters under the earth, whether small orgreat, visible or invisible, animate or inanimate; whether the eye cansee, or the ear can hear, or the nose can smell, or the fingers touch;finally, whatever exists or is imaginable in the nature of things, past, present, or to come, all may be abstractions. "

"Indeed!" said Uncle Tim, "pray, what do you make of the abstraction ofa red cow?"

"A red cow, " said the Doctor, "considered metaphysically or as anabstraction, is an animal possessing neither hide nor horns, bones norflesh, but is the mere type, eidolon, and fantastical semblance of theseparts of a quadruped. It has a shape without any substance, and no colorat all, for its redness is the mere counterfeit or imagination of such. As it lacks the positive, so is it also deficient in the accidentalproperties of all the animals in its tribe, for it has no locomotion, stability, or endurance, neither goes to pasture, gives milk, chews thecud, nor performs any other function of the horned beast, but is a merecreation of the brain, begotten by a freak of the fancy and nourished bya conceit of the imagination. "

"Pshaw!" exclaimed Aunt Judy. "All the metaphysics under the sunwouldn't make a pound of butter!"

"That's a fact, " said Uncle Tim. 

 * * * * *

 _There is no great and no small To the Soul that maketh all: And where it cometh, all things are:-- And it cometh everywhere. _

 EMERSON. 

XLIX. INDIAN SUMMER. [J]

SAMUEL LOVER. --1797-1868. 

 When summer's verdant beauty flies, And autumn glows with richer dyes, A softer charm beyond them lies-- It is the Indian summer. Ere winter's snows and winter's breeze Bereave of beauty all the trees, The balmy spring renewal sees In the sweet Indian summer. 

 And thus, dear love, if early years Have drown'd the germ of joy in tears, A later gleam of hope appears-- Just like the Indian summer: And ere the snows of age descend, O trust me, dear one, changeless friend, Our falling years may brightly end-- Just like the Indian summer. 

FOOTNOTES:

[J] The brief period which succeeds the autumnal close, called the"Indian Summer, "--a reflex, as it were, of the early portion of theyear--strikes a stranger in America as peculiarly beautiful, andquite charmed me. --LOVER. 

L. TO HELEN. [K]

JULY 7, 1839. 

WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED. --1802-1839. 

 Dearest, I did not dream, four years ago, When through your veil I saw your bright tear shine, Caught your clear whisper, exquisitely low, And felt your soft hand tremble into mine, That in so brief--so very brief a space, He, who in love both clouds and cheers our life, Would lay on you, so full of light, joy, grace, The darker, sadder duties of the wife, -- Doubts, fears, and frequent toil, and constant care For this poor frame, by sickness sore bested; The daily tendance on the fractious chair, The nightly vigil by the feverish bed. 

 Yet not unwelcom'd doth this morn arise, Though with more gladsome beams it might have shone: Strength of these weak hands, light of these dim eyes, In sickness, as in health, --bless you, My Own!

FOOTNOTES:

[K] Praed died on the 15th of July. 

LI. HORATIUS. [L]

A LAY MADE ABOUT THE YEAR OF THE CITY CCCLX. 

LORD MACAULAY. --1800-1859. 

 Lars Porsena of Clusium by the Nine Gods he swore That the great house of Tarquin should suffer wrong no more. By the Nine Gods he swore it, and named a trysting day, And bade his messengers ride forth, east and west and south and north, To summon his array. 

 East and west and south and north the messengers ride fast, And tower and town and cottage have heard the trumpet's blast. Shame on the false Etruscan who lingers in his home, When Porsena of Clusium is on the march for Rome. 

 The horsemen and the footmen are pouring in amain From many a stately market-place; from many a fruitful plain; From many a lonely hamlet, which, hid by beech and pine, Like an eagle's nest, hangs on the crest of purple Apennine; From lordly Volaterræ, where scowls the far-famed hold Piled by the hands of giants for godlike kings of old; From seagirt Populonia, whose sentinels descry Sardinia's snowy mountain-tops fringing the southern sky; From the proud mart of Pisæ, queen of the western waves, Where ride Massilia's triremes heavy with fair-hair'd slaves; From where sweet Clanis wanders through corn and vines and flowers; From where Cortona lifts to heaven her diadem of towers. 

 Tall are the oaks whose acorns drop in dark Auser's rill; Fat are the stags that champ the boughs of the Ciminian hill; Beyond all streams Clitumnus is to the herdsman dear; Best of all pools the fowler loves the great Volsinian mere. But now no stroke of woodman is heard by Auser's rill; No hunter tracks the stag's green path up the Ciminian hill; Unwatch'd along Clitumnus grazes the milk-white steer; Unharm'd the waterfowl may dip in the Volsinian mere. The harvests of Arretium, this year, old men shall reap; This year, young boys in Umbro shall plunge the struggling sheep; And in the vats of Luna, this year, the must shall foam Round the white feet of laughing girls whose sires have march'd to Rome. 

 There be thirty chosen prophets, the wisest of the land, Who alway by Lars Porsena both morn and evening stand: Evening and morn the Thirty have turn'd the verses o'er, Traced from the right on linen white by mighty seers of yore. And with one voice the Thirty have their glad answer given: "Go forth, go forth, Lars Porsena; go forth, belov'd of heaven. Go, and return in glory to Clusium's royal dome; And hang round Nurscia's altars the golden shields of Rome. "

 And now hath every city sent up her tale of men: The foot are fourscore thousand, the horse are thousands ten. Before the gates of Sutrium is met the great array. A proud man was Lars Porsena upon the trysting day. For all the Etruscan armies were ranged beneath his eye, And many a banish'd Roman, and many a stout ally; And with a mighty following to join the muster came The Tusculan Mamilius, prince of the Latian name. 

 But by the yellow Tiber was tumult and affright: From all the spacious champaign to Rome men took their flight. A mile around the city, the throng stopp'd up the ways; A fearful sight it was to see through two long nights and days. For aged folks on crutches, and women great with child, And mothers sobbing over babes that clung to them and smiled, And sick men borne in litters high on the necks of slaves, And troops of sun-burn'd husbandmen with reaping-hooks and staves, And droves of mules and asses laden with skins of wine, And endless flocks of goats and sheep, and endless herds of kine, And endless trains of wagons that creak'd beneath the weight Of corn-sacks and of household goods, choked every roaring gate. 

 Now, from the rock Tarpeian, could the wan burghers spy The line of blazing villages red in the midnight sky. The Fathers of the City, they sat all night and day, For every hour some horseman came with tidings of dismay. To eastward and to westward have spread the Tuscan bands; Nor house, nor fence, nor dovecote in Crustumerium stands. Verbenna down to Ostia hath wasted all the plain; Astur hath storm'd Janiculum, and the stout guards are slain. I wis, in all the Senate, there was no heart so bold, But sore it ached, and fast it beat, when that ill news was told. Forthwith up rose the Consul, up rose the Fathers all; In haste they girded up their gowns, and hied them to the wall. They held a council standing, before the River-Gate; Short time was there, ye well may guess, for musing or debate. Out spake the Consul roundly: "The bridge must straight go down; For, since Janiculum is lost, nought else can save the town. "

 Just then a scout came flying, all wild with haste and fear: "To arms! to arms! Sir Consul: Lars Porsena is here. " On the low hills to westward the Consul fix'd his eye, And saw the swarthy storm of dust rise fast along the sky. And nearer fast and nearer doth the red whirlwind come; And louder still and still more loud, from underneath that rolling cloud, Is heard the trumpet's war-note proud, the trampling, and the hum. And plainly and more plainly now through the gloom appears, Far to left and far to right, in broken gleams of dark-blue light, The long array of helmets bright, the long array of spears. And plainly and more plainly above that glimmering line, Now might ye see the banners of twelve fair cities shine; But the banner of proud Clusium was highest of them all, The terror of the Umbrian, the terror of the Gaul. And plainly and more plainly now might the burghers know, By port and vest, by horse and crest, each warlike Lucumo. There Cilnius of Arretium on his fleet roan was seen; And Astur of the four-fold shield, girt with the brand none else may wield, Tolumnius with the belt of gold, and dark Verbenna from the hold By reedy Thrasymene. 

 Fast by the royal standard, o'erlooking all the war, Lars Porsena of Clusium sat in his ivory car. By the right wheel rode Mamilius, prince of the Latian name; And by the left false Sextus, that wrought the deed of shame. But when the face of Sextus was seen among the foes, A yell that rent the firmament from all the town arose. On the house-tops was no woman but spat towards him and hiss'd, No child but scream'd out curses, and shook its little fist. But the Consul's brow was sad, and the Consul's speech was low, And darkly look'd he at the wall, and darkly at the foe. "Their van will be upon us before the bridge goes down; And if they once may win the bridge, what hope to save the town?"

 Then out spake brave Horatius, the Captain of the Gate: "To every man upon this earth death cometh soon or late. And how can man die better than facing fearful odds, For the ashes of his fathers, and the temples of his Gods, And for the tender mother who dandled him to rest, And for the wife who nurses his baby at her breast, And for the holy maidens who feed the eternal flame, To save them from false Sextus that wrought the deed of shame? Hew down the bridge, Sir Consul, with all the speed ye may; I, with two more to help me, will hold the foe in play. In yon strait path a thousand may well be stopp'd by three. Now who will stand on either hand, and keep the bridge with me?"

 Then out spake Spurius Lartius; a Ramnian proud was he: "Lo, I will stand at thy right hand, and keep the bridge with thee. " And out spake strong Herminius; of Titian blood was he: "I will abide on thy left side, and keep the bridge with thee. "

 "Horatius, " quoth the Consul, "as thou sayest, so let it be. " And straight against that great array forth went the dauntless Three. For Romans in Rome's quarrel spared neither land nor gold, Nor son nor wife, nor limb nor life, in the brave days of old. Then none was for a party; then all were for the state; Then the great man help'd the poor, and the poor man lov'd the great: Then lands were fairly portion'd; then spoils were fairly sold: The Romans were like brothers in the brave days of old. Now Roman is to Roman more hateful than a foe, And the Tribunes beard the high, and the Fathers grind the low. As we wax hot in faction, in battle we wax cold: Wherefore men fight not as they fought in the brave days of old. 

 Now while the Three were tightening their harness on their backs, The Consul was the foremost man to take in hand an axe: And Fathers mix'd with Commons seized hatchet, bar, and crow, And smote upon the planks above, and loosed the props below. 

 Meanwhile the Tuscan army, right glorious to behold, Came flashing back the noonday light, rank behind rank, like surges bright Of a broad sea of gold. Four hundred trumpets sounded a peal of warlike glee, As that great host, with measured tread, and spears advanced, and ensigns spread, Roll'd slowly towards the bridge's head, where stood the dauntless Three. 

 The Three stood calm and silent, and look'd upon the foes, And a great shout of laughter from all the vanguard rose: And forth three chiefs came spurring before that deep array; To earth they sprang, their swords they drew, and lifted high their shields, and flew To win the narrow way; Aunus from green Tifernum, lord of the Hill of Vines; And Seius, whose eight hundred slaves sicken in Ilva's mines; And Picus, long to Clusium vassal in peace and war, Who led to fight his Umbrian powers from that gray crag where, girt with towers, The fortress of Nequinum lowers o'er the pale waves of Nar. 

 Stout Lartius hurled down Aunus into the stream beneath: Herminius struck at Seius, and clove him to the teeth: At Picus brave Horatius darted one fiery thrust; And the proud Umbrian's gilded arms clash'd in the bloody dust. 

 Then Ocnus of Falerii rush'd on the Roman Three; And Lausulus of Urgo, the rover of the sea; And Aruns of Volsinium, who slew the great wild boar, The great wild boar that had his den amidst the reeds of Cosa's fen, And wasted fields, and slaughter'd men, along Albinia's shore. 

 Herminius smote down Aruns: Lartius laid Ocnus low: Right to the heart of Lausulus Horatius sent a blow. "Lie there, " he cried, "fell pirate! no more, aghast and pale, From Ostia's walls the crowd shall mark the track of thy destroying bark. No more Campania's hinds shall fly to woods and caverns when they spy. Thy thrice accursèd sail. "

 But now no sound of laughter was heard among the foes. A wild and wrathful clamor from all the vanguard rose. Six spears' lengths from the entrance halted that deep array, And for a space no man came forth to win the narrow way. 

 But hark! the cry is Astur: and lo! the ranks divide; And the great Lord of Luna comes with his stately stride. Upon his ample shoulders clangs loud the four-fold shield, And in his hand he shakes the brand which none but he can wield. 

 He smiled on those bold Romans a smile serene and high; He eyed the flinching Tuscans, and scorn was in his eye. Quoth he, "The she-wolf's litter stand savagely at bay: But will ye dare to follow, if Astur clears the way?" Then, whirling up his broadsword with both hands to the height, He rush'd against Horatius, and smote with all his might. With shield and blade Horatius right deftly turn'd the blow. The blow, though turn'd, came yet too nigh; it miss'd his helm, but gash'd his thigh: The Tuscans raised a joyful cry to see the red blood flow. He reel'd, and on Herminius he lean'd one breathing-space; Then, like a wild-cat mad with wounds, sprang right at Astur's face. Through teeth, and skull, and helmet, so fierce a thrust he sped, The good sword stood a hand-breadth out behind the Tuscan's head. And the great Lord of Luna fell at that deadly stroke, As falls on Mount Alvernus a thunder-smitten oak. Far o'er the crashing forest the giant arms lie spread; And the pale augurs, muttering low, gaze on the blasted head. On Astur's throat Horatius right firmly press'd his heel, And thrice and four times tugg'd amain, ere he wrench'd out the steel. "And see, " he cried, "the welcome, fair guests, that waits you here! What noble Lucumo comes next to taste our Roman cheer?"

 But at his haughty challenge a sullen murmur ran, Mingled of wrath, and shame, and dread, along that glittering van. There lack'd not men of prowess, nor men of lordly race; For all Etruria's noblest were round the fatal place. But all Etruria's noblest felt their hearts sink to see On the earth the bloody corpses, in the path the dauntless Three: And, from the ghastly entrance where those bold Romans stood, All shrank, like boys who unaware, ranging the woods to start a hare, Come to the mouth of the dark lair where, growling low, a fierce old bear Lies amidst bones and blood. Was none who would be foremost to lead such dire attack: But those behind cried "Forward!" and those before cried "Back!" And backward now and forward wavers the deep array; And on the tossing sea of steel, to and fro the standards reel; And the victorious trumpet-peal dies fitfully away. 

 Yet one man for one moment stood out before the crowd; Well known was he to all the Three, and they gave him greeting loud. "Now welcome, welcome, Sextus! now welcome to thy home! Why dost thou stay, and turn away? here lies the road to Rome. " Thrice look'd he at the city; thrice look'd he at the dead; And thrice came on in fury, and thrice turn'd back in dread; And, white with fear and hatred, scowl'd at the narrow way Where, wallowing in a pool of blood, the bravest Tuscans lay. 

 But meanwhile axe and lever have manfully been plied; And now the bridge hangs tottering above the boiling tide. "Come back, come back, Horatius!" loud cried the Fathers all. "Back, Lartius! back, Herminius! back, ere the ruin fall!" Back darted Spurius Lartius; Herminius darted back: And, as they pass'd, beneath their feet they felt the timbers crack. But when they turn'd their faces, and on the farther shore Saw brave Horatius stand alone, they would have cross'd once more. But with a crash like thunder fell every loosen'd beam, And, like a dam, the mighty wreck lay right athwart the stream: And a long shout of triumph rose from the walls of Rome, As to the highest turret-tops was splash'd the yellow foam. And, like a horse unbroken when first he feels the rein, The furious river struggled hard, and toss'd his tawny mane, And burst the curb, and bounded, rejoicing to be free, And whirling down, in fierce career, battlement, and plank, and pier, Rush'd headlong to the sea. 

 Alone stood brave Horatius, but constant still in mind; Thrice thirty thousand foes before, and the broad flood behind. "Down with him!" cried false Sextus, with a smile on his pale face. "Now yield thee, " cried Lars Porsena, "now yield thee to our grace. " Round turn'd he, as not deigning those craven ranks to see; Nought spake he to Lars Porsena, to Sextus nought spake he; But he saw on Palatinus the white porch of his home; And he spake to the noble river that rolls by the towers of Rome. "O Tiber! father Tiber! to whom the Romans pray, A Roman's life, a Roman's arms, take thou in charge this day!" So he spake, and speaking sheathed the good sword by his side, And with his harness on his back plunged headlong in the tide. 

 No sound of joy or sorrow was heard from either bank; But friends and foes in dumb surprise, with parted lips and straining eyes, Stood gazing where he sank; And when above the surges they saw his crest appear, All Rome sent forth a rapturous cry, and even the ranks of Tuscany Could scarce forbear to cheer. But fiercely ran the current, swollen high by months of rain: And fast his blood was flowing, and he was sore in pain, And heavy with his armor, and spent with changing blows: And oft they thought him sinking, but still again he rose. Never, I ween, did swimmer, in such an evil case, Struggle through such a raging flood safe to the landing-place: But his limbs were borne up bravely by the brave heart within, And our good father Tiber bare bravely up his chin. 

 "Curse on him!" quoth false Sextus; "will not the villain drown? But for this stay, ere close of day we should have sack'd the town!" "Heaven help him!" quoth Lars Porsena, "and bring him safe to shore; For such a gallant feat of arms was never seen before. " And now he feels the bottom; now on dry earth he stands; Now round him throng the Fathers to press his gory hands; And now, with shouts and clapping, and noise of weeping loud, He enters through the River-Gate, borne by the joyous crowd. 

 They gave him of the corn-land, that was of public right, As much as two strong oxen could plough from morn till night; And they made a molten image, and set it up on high, And there it stands unto this day to witness if I lie. It stands in the Comitium, plain for all folk to see; Horatius in his harness, halting upon one knee: And underneath is written, in letters all of gold, How valiantly he kept the bridge in the brave days of old. 

 And still his name sounds stirring unto the men of Rome, As the trumpet-blast that cries to them to charge the Volscian home; And wives still pray to Juno for boys with hearts as bold As his who kept the bridge so well in the brave days of old. And in the nights of winter, when the cold north-winds blow, And the long howling of the wolves is heard amidst the snow; When round the lonely cottage roars loud the tempest's din, And the good logs of Algidus roar louder yet within; When the oldest cask is open'd, and the largest lamp is lit; When the chestnuts glow in the embers, and the kid turns on the spit; When young and old in circle around the firebrands close; When the girls are weaving baskets, and the lads are shaping bows; When the goodman mends his armor, and trims his helmet's plume; When the goodwife's shuttle merrily goes flashing through the loom; With weeping and with laughter still is the story told, How well Horatius kept the bridge in the brave days of old. 

FOOTNOTES:

[L] For the sake of space a change has been made from the usual formof the poem. 

LII. THE RAVEN. 

EDGAR ALLAN POE. --1809-1849. 

 Once upon a midnight dreary, while I ponder'd, 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 mutter'd, "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 wish'd 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 forevermore. 

 And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrill'd me--fill'd 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 open'd wide the door;-- Darkness there, and nothing more. 

 Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before; But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whisper'd word "Lenore?" This I whisper'd, and an echo murmur'd 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 stepp'd a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore. Not the least obeisance made he, not a minute stopp'd or stay'd he, But, with mien of lord or lady, perch'd above my chamber-door; Perch'd upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber-door;-- Perch'd, 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 shore;-- Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore. " Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore. "

 Much I marvell'd 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 bless'd 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 further then he utter'd, not a feather then he flutter'd, Till I scarcely more than mutter'd, "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 Follow'd fast, and follow'd 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 wheel'd a cushion'd 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 burn'd 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 lamp-light gloated o'er; But whose velvet violet lining, with the lamp-light 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 God hath lent thee--by these angels he hath sent thee-- Respite, respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore! Quaff, Oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!" Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore. "

 "Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!--prophet still, if bird or devil! Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest toss'd thee here ashore, 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 God 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 shriek'd, upstarting, -- "Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore! 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 lamp-light 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!

LIII. DAVID SWAN--A FANTASY. 

NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. --1804-1864. 

_From_ "TWICE-TOLD TALES. "

We can be but partially acquainted even with the events which actuallyinfluence our course through life, and our final destiny. There areinnumerable other events, if such they may be called, which come closeupon us, yet pass away without actual results, or even betraying theirnear approach by the reflection of any light or shadow across our minds. Could we know all the vicissitudes of our fortunes, life would be toofull of hope and fear, exultation or disappointment, to afford us asingle hour of true serenity. This idea may be illustrated by a pagefrom the secret history of David Swan. 

We have nothing to do with David until we find him, at the age oftwenty, on the high road from his native place to the city of Boston, where his uncle, a small dealer in the grocery line, was to take himbehind the counter. Be it enough to say, that he was a native of NewHampshire, born of respectable parents, and had received an ordinaryschool education, with a classic finish by a year at Gilmanton Academy. After journeying on foot from sunrise till nearly noon of a summer'sday, his weariness and the increasing heat determined him to sit down inthe first convenient shade, and await the coming up of the stage-coach. As if planted on purpose for him, there soon appeared a little tuft ofmaples, with a delightful recess in the midst, and such a fresh bubblingspring, that it seemed never to have sparkled for any wayfarer but DavidSwan. Virgin or not, he kissed it with his thirsty lips, and then flunghimself along the brink, pillowing his head upon some shirts and a pairof pantaloons, tied up in a striped cotton handkerchief. The sunbeamscould not reach him; the dust did not yet rise from the road, after theheavy rain of yesterday; and his grassy lair suited the young man betterthan a bed of down. The spring murmured drowsily beside him; thebranches waved dreamily across the blue sky overhead; and a deep sleep, perchance hiding dreams within its depths, fell upon David Swan. But weare to relate events which he did not dream of. 

While he lay sound asleep in the shade, other people were wide-awake, and passed to an fro, afoot, on horseback, and in all sorts of vehicles, along the sunny road by his bed-chamber. Some looked neither to theright hand nor to the left, and knew not that he was there; some merelyglanced that way, without admitting the slumberer among their busythoughts; some laughed to see how soundly he slept; and several, whosehearts were brimming full of scorn, ejected their venomous superfluityupon David Swan. A middle-aged widow, when nobody else was near, thrusther head a little way into the recess, and vowed that the young fellowlooked charming in his sleep. A temperance lecturer saw him, and wroughtpoor David into the texture of his evening's discourse, as an awfulinstance of dead-drunkenness by the road-side. But censure, praise, merriment, scorn, and indifference, were all one, or rather all nothing, to David Swan. 

He had slept only a few moments when a brown carriage, drawn by ahandsome pair of horses, bowled easily along, and was brought to astand-still nearly in front of David's resting-place. A linch-pin hadfallen out, and permitted one of the wheels to slide off. The damage wasslight, and occasioned merely a momentary alarm to an elderly merchantand his wife, who were returning to Boston in the carriage. While thecoachman and a servant were replacing the wheel, the lady and gentlemansheltered themselves beneath the maple-trees, and there espied thebubbling fountain, and David Swan asleep beside it. Impressed with theawe which the humblest sleeper usually sheds around him, the merchanttrod as lightly as the gout would allow; and his spouse took good heednot to rustle her silk gown, lest David should start up, all of asudden. 

"How soundly he sleeps!" whispered the old gentleman. "From what a depthhe draws that easy breath! Such sleep as that, brought on without anopiate, would be worth more to me than half my income, for it wouldsuppose health and an untroubled mind. "

"And youth besides, " said the lady. "Healthy and quiet age does notsleep thus. Our slumber is no more like his than our wakefulness. "

The longer they looked, the more did this elderly couple feel interestedin the unknown youth, to whom the wayside and the maple shade were as asecret chamber, with the rich gloom of damask curtains brooding overhim. Perceiving that a stray sunbeam glimmered down upon his face, thelady contrived to twist a branch aside, so as to intercept it. Andhaving done this little act of kindness, she began to feel like a motherto him. 

"Providence seems to have laid him here, " whispered she to her husband, "and to have brought us hither to find him, after our disappointment inour cousin's son. Methinks I can see a likeness to our departed Henry. Shall we waken him?"

"To what purpose?" said the merchant, hesitating. "We know nothing ofthe youth's character. "

"That open countenance!" replied his wife, in the same hushed voice, yetearnestly. "This innocent sleep!"

While these whispers were passing, the sleeper's heart did not throb, nor his breath become agitated, nor his features betray the least tokenof interest. Yet Fortune was bending over him, just ready to let fall aburthen of gold. The old merchant had lost his only son, and had no heirto his wealth, except a distant relative, with whose conduct he wasdissatisfied. In such cases, people sometimes do stranger things than toact the magician, and awaken a young man to splendor, who fell asleep inpoverty. 

"Shall we not waken him?" repeated the lady, persuasively. 

"The coach is ready, sir, " said the servant, behind. 

The old couple started, reddened, and hurried away, mutually wonderingthat they should ever have dreamed of doing anything so very ridiculous. The merchant threw himself back in the carriage, and occupied his mindwith the plan of a magnificent asylum for unfortunate men of business. Meanwhile, David Swan enjoyed his nap. 

The carriage could not have gone above a mile or two, when a prettyyoung girl came along with a tripping pace, which showed precisely howher little heart was dancing in her bosom. Perhaps it was this merrykind of motion that caused--is there any harm in saying it?--her garterto slip its knot. Conscious that the silken girth, if silk it were, wasrelaxing its hold, she turned aside into the shelter of the maple-trees, and there found a young man asleep by the spring! Blushing as red as anyrose, that she should have intruded into a gentleman's bed-chamber, andfor such a purpose, too, she was about to make her escape on tiptoe. Butthere was peril near the sleeper. A monster of a bee had been wanderingoverhead--buzz, buzz, buzz--now among the leaves, now flashing throughthe strips of sunshine, and now lost in the dark shade, till finally heappeared to be settling on the eyelid of David Swan. The sting of a beeis sometimes deadly. As free-hearted as she was innocent, the girlattacked the intruder with her handkerchief, brushed him soundly, anddrove him from the maple shade. How sweet a picture! This good deedaccomplished, with quickened breath, and a deeper blush, she stole aglance at the youthful stranger, for whom she had been battling with adragon in the air. 

"He is handsome!" thought she, and blushed redder yet. 

How could it be that no dream of bliss grew so strong within him, that, shattered by its very strength, it should part asunder, and allow him toperceive the girl among its phantoms? Why, at least, did no smile ofwelcome brighten upon his face? She was come, the maid whose soul, according to the old and beautiful idea, had been severed from his own, and whom, in all his vague but passionate desires, he yearned to meet. Her only could he love with a perfect love--him only could she receiveinto the depths of her heart--and now her image was faintly blushing inthe fountain by his side; should it pass away, its happy lustre wouldnever gleam upon his life again. 

"How sound he sleeps!" murmured the girl. 

She departed, but did not trip along the road so lightly as when shecame. 

Now, this girl's father was a thriving country merchant in theneighborhood, and happened, at that identical time, to be looking outfor just such a young man as David Swan. Had David formed a waysideacquaintance with the daughter, he would have become the father's clerk, and all else in natural succession. So here, again, had goodfortune--the best of fortunes--stolen so near, that her garments brushedagainst him; and he knew nothing of the matter. 

The girl was hardly out of sight, when two men turned aside beneath themaple shade. Both had dark faces, set off by cloth caps, which weredrawn down aslant over their brows. Their dresses were shabby, yet had acertain smartness. These were a couple of rascals, who got their livingby whatever the devil sent them, and now, in the interim of otherbusiness, had staked the joint profits of their next piece of villainyon a game of cards, which was to have been decided here under the trees. But, finding David asleep by the spring, one of the rogues whispered tohis fellow--

"Hist!--Do you see that bundle under his head?"

The other villain nodded, winked, and leered. 

"I'll bet you a horn of brandy, " said the first, "that the chap haseither a pocket-book or a snug little hoard of small change, stowed awayamongst his shirts. And if not there, we shall find it in hispantaloons' pocket. "

"But how if he wakes?" said the other. 

His companion thrust aside his waistcoat, pointed to the handle of adirk, and nodded. 

"So be it!" muttered the second villain. 

They approached the unconscious David, and, while one pointed the daggertowards his heart, the other began to search the bundle beneath hishead. Their two faces, grim, wrinkled, and ghastly with guilt and fear, bent over their victim, looking horribly enough to be mistaken forfiends, should he suddenly awake. Nay, had the villains glanced asideinto the spring, even they would hardly have known themselves, asreflected there. But David Swan had never worn a more tranquil aspect, even when asleep on his mother's breast. 

"I must take away the bundle, " whispered one. 

"If he stirs, I'll strike, " muttered the other. 

But, at this moment, a dog, scenting along the ground, came in beneaththe maple-trees, and gazed alternately at each of these wicked men, andthen at the quiet sleeper. He then lapped out of the fountain. 

"Pshaw!" said one villain. "We can do nothing now. The dog's master mustbe close behind. "

"Let's take a drink, and be off, " said the other. 

The man with the dagger thrust back the weapon into his bosom, and drewforth a pocket-pistol, but not of that kind which kills by a singledischarge. It was a flask of liquor, with a block-tin tumbler screwedupon the mouth. Each drank a comfortable dram, and left the spot, withso many jests, and such laughter at their unaccomplished wickedness, that they might be said to have gone on their way rejoicing. In a fewhours they had forgotten the whole affair, nor once imagined that therecording angel had written down the crime of murder against theirsouls, in letters as durable as eternity. As for David Swan, he stillslept quietly, neither conscious of the shadow of death when it hungover him, nor of the glow of renewed life when that shadow waswithdrawn. 

He slept, but no longer so quietly as at first. An hour's repose hadsnatched from his elastic frame the weariness with which many hours oftoil had burthened it. Now he stirred--now moved his lips, without asound--now talked in an inward tone to the noonday spectres of hisdream. But a noise of wheels came rattling louder and louder along theroad, until it dashed through the dispersing mist of David'sslumber--and there was the stage-coach. He started up, with all hisideas about him. 

"Hallo, driver! Take a passenger?" shouted he. 

"Room on top!" answered the driver. 

Up mounted David, and bowled away merrily towards Boston, without somuch as a parting glance at that fountain of dreamlike vicissitude. Heknew not that a phantom of Wealth had thrown a golden hue upon itswaters, nor that one of Love had sighed softly to their murmur, nor thatone of Death had threatened to crimson them with his blood--all, in thebrief hour since he lay down to sleep. Sleeping or waking, we hear notthe airy footsteps of the strange things that almost happen. Does it notargue a superintending Providence, that, while viewless and unexpectedevents thrust themselves continually athwart our path, there shouldstill be regularity enough in mortal life, to render foresight evenpartially available?

LIV. MY KATE. 

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. --1809-1861. 

 She was not as pretty as women I know, And yet all your best made of sunshine and snow Drop to shade, melt to nought in the long-trodden ways, While she's still remember'd on warm and cold days-- My Kate. 

 Her air had a meaning, her movements a grace; You turn'd from the fairest to gaze on her face: And when you had once seen her forehead and mouth, You saw as distinctly her soul and her truth-- My Kate. 

 Such a blue inner light from her eyelids outbroke, You look'd at her silence and fancied she spoke: When she did, so peculiar yet soft was the tone, Though the loudest spoke also, you heard her alone-- My Kate. 

 I doubt if she said to you much that could act As a thought or suggestion: she did not attract In the sense of the brilliant or wise: I infer 'Twas her thinking of others, made you think of her-- My Kate. 

 She never found fault with you, never implied Your wrong by her right; and yet men at her side Grew nobler, girls purer, as through the whole town The children were gladder that pull'd at her gown-- My Kate. 

 None knelt at her feet confess'd lovers in thrall; They knelt more to God than they used, --that was all; If you praised her as charming, some ask'd what you meant, But the charm of her presence was felt when she went-- My Kate. 

 The weak and the gentle, the ribald and rude, She took as she found them, and did them all good: It always was so with her: see what you have! She has made the grass greener even here . .. With her grave-- My Kate. 

 My dear one!--when thou wast alive with the rest, I held thee the sweetest and lov'd thee the best: And now thou art dead, shall I not take thy part As thy smiles used to do for thyself, my sweet Heart-- My Kate?

LV. A DEAD ROSE. 

MRS. BROWNING. 

 O Rose, who dares to name thee? No longer roseate now, nor soft nor sweet, But pale and hard and dry as stubble wheat, -- Kept seven years in a drawer, thy titles shame thee. 

 The breeze that used to blow thee Between the hedgerow thorns, and take away An odor up the lane to last all day, -- If breathing now, unsweeten'd would forego thee. 

 The sun that used to smite thee, And mix his glory in thy gorgeous urn Till beam appear'd to bloom, and flower to burn, -- If shining now, with not a hue would light thee. 

 The dew that used to wet thee, And, white first, grow incarnadined because It lay upon thee where the crimson was, -- If dropping now, would darken where it met thee. 

 The fly that 'lit upon thee To stretch the tendrils of its tiny feet Along thy leafs pure edges after heat, -- If 'lighting now, would coldly overrun thee. 

 The bee that once did suck thee, And build thy perfumed ambers up his hive, And swoon in thee for joy, till scarce alive, -- If passing now, would blindly overlook thee. 

 The heart doth recognize thee, Alone, alone! the heart doth smell thee sweet, Doth view thee fair, doth judge thee most complete, Perceiving all those changes that disguise thee. 

 Yes, and the heart doth owe thee More love, dead rose, than to any roses bold Which Julia wears at dances, smiling cold:-- Lie still upon this heart which breaks below thee!

LVI. TO THE EVENING WIND. 

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. --1794-1878. 

 Spirit that breathest through my lattice, thou That cool'st the twilight of the sultry day, Gratefully flows thy freshness round my brow; Thou hast been out upon the deep at play, Riding all day the wild blue waves till now, Roughening their crests, and scattering high their spray, And swelling the white sail. I welcome thee To the scorch'd land, thou wanderer of the sea. 

 Nor I alone;--a thousand bosoms round Inhale thee in the fulness of delight; And languid forms rise up, and pulses bound Livelier at coming of the wind of night; And languishing to hear thy grateful sound, Lies the vast inland stretch'd beyond the sight. Go forth into the gathering shade; go forth, God's blessing breathed upon the fainting earth!

 Go, rock the little wood-bird in his nest, Curl the still waters, bright with stars, and rouse The wide old wood from his majestic rest, Summoning from the innumerable boughs The strange deep harmonies that haunt his breast; Pleasant shall be thy way where meekly bows The shutting flower, and darkling waters pass, And where the o'er-shadowing branches sweep the grass. 

 The faint old man shall lean his silver head To feel thee; thou shalt kiss the child asleep, And dry the moisten'd curls that overspread His temples, while his breathing grows more deep; And they who stand about the sick man's bed Shall joy to listen to thy distant sweep, And softly part his curtains to allow Thy visit, grateful to his burning brow. 

 Go, --but the circle of eternal change, Which is the life of nature, shall restore, With sounds and scents from all thy mighty range, Thee to thy birthplace of the deep once more; Sweet odors in the sea-air, sweet and strange, Shall tell the homesick mariner of the shore; And, listening to thy murmur, he shall dream He hears the rustling leaf and running stream. 

LVII. --DEATH OF THE PROTECTOR. [M]

THOMAS CARLYLE. --1795-1881. 

_From_ OLIVER CROMWELL'S LETTERS AND SPEECHES. 

And so we have now nothing more;--and Oliver has nothing more. HisSpeakings, and also his Actings, all his manifold Strugglings, more orless victorious, to utter the great God's-Message that was in him, --havehere what we call ended. This Summer of 1658, likewise victorious afterstruggle, is his last in our World of Time. Thenceforth he enters theEternities; and rests upon his arms _there_. 

Oliver's look was yet strong; and young for his years, which wereFifty-nine last April. The "Three-score and ten years, " the Psalmist'slimit, which probably was often in Oliver's thoughts and in those ofothers there, might have been anticipated for him: Ten Years more ofLife;--which, we may compute, would have given another History to allthe Centuries of England. But it was not to be so, it was to beotherwise. Oliver's health, as we might observe, was but uncertain inlate times; often "indisposed" the spring before last. His course oflife had not been favorable to health! "A burden too heavy for man!" ashe himself, with a sigh, would sometimes say. Incessant toil;inconceivable labor, of head and heart and hand; toil, peril, and sorrowmanifold, continued for near Twenty years now, had done their part:those robust life-energies, it afterwards appeared, had been graduallyeaten out. Like a Tower strong to the eye, but with its foundationsundermined; which has not long to stand; the fall of which, on anyshock, may be sudden. --

The Manzinis and Ducs de Crequi, with their splendors, andcongratulations about Dunkirk, interesting to the street-populations andgeneral public, had not yet withdrawn, when at Hampton Court there hadbegun a private scene, of much deeper and quite opposite interest there. The Lady Claypole, Oliver's favorite Daughter, a favorite of all theworld, had fallen sick we know not when; lay sick now, --to death, as itproved. Her disease was of a nature, the painfullest and most harassingto mind and sense, it is understood, that falls to the lot of a humancreature. Hampton Court we can fancy once more, in those July days, ahouse of sorrow; pale Death knocking there, as at the door of themeanest hut. "She had great sufferings, great exercises of spirit. "Yes:--and in the depths of the old Centuries, we see a pale anxiousMother, anxious Husband, anxious weeping Sisters, a poor young Francesweeping anew in her weeds. "For the last fourteen days" his Highness hadbeen by her bedside at Hampton Court, unable to attend to any publicbusiness whatever. Be still, my Child; trust thou yet in God: in thewaves of the Dark River, there too is He a God of help!--On the 6th dayof August she lay dead; at rest forever. My young, my beautiful, mybrave! She is taken from me; I am left bereaved of her. The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away; blessed be the Name of the Lord!--. .. 

In the same dark days, occurred George Fox's third and last interviewwith Oliver. --. .. . George dates nothing; and his facts everywhere lieround him like the leather-parings of his old shop: but we judge it mayhave been about the time when the Manzinis and the Ducs de Crequi wereparading in their gilt coaches, That George and two Friends "going outof Town, " on a summer day, "two of Hacker's men" had met them, --takenthem, brought them to the Mews. "Prisoners there awhile:"--but theLord's power was over Hacker's men; they had to let us go. Whereupon:

"The same day, taking boat I went down" (_up_) "to Kingston, and fromthence to Hampton Court, to speak with the Protector about theSufferings of Friends. I met him riding into Hampton-Court Park; andbefore I came to him, as he rode at the head of his Lifeguard, I saw andfelt a waft" (_whiff_) "of death go forth against him. "----Or in favorof him, George? His life, if thou knew it, has not been a merry thingfor this man, now or heretofore! I fancy he has been looking, this longwhile, to give it up, whenever the Commander-in-Chief required. To quithis laborious sentry-post; honorably lay-up his arms, and be gone to hisrest:--all Eternity to rest in, O George! Was thy own life merry, forexample, in the hollow of the tree; clad permanently in leather? Anddoes kingly purple, and governing refractory worlds instead of stitchingcoarse shoes, make it merrier? The waft of death is not against _him_, Ithink, --perhaps against thee, and me, and others, O George, when theNell-Gwynn Defender and Two Centuries of all-victorious Cant have comein upon us! My unfortunate George----"a waft of death go forth againsthim; and when I came to him, he looked like a dead man. After I had laidthe Sufferings of Friends before him, and had warned him according as Iwas moved to speak to him, he bade me come to his house. So I returnedto Kingston; and, the next day, went up to Hampton Court to speakfarther with him. But when I came, Harvey, who was one that waited onhim, told me the Doctors were not willing that I should speak with him. So I passed away, and never saw him more. "

Friday the 20th of August 1658, this was probably the day on whichGeorge Fox saw Oliver riding into Hampton Park with his Guards, for thelast time. That Friday, as we find, his Highness seemed much better: buton the morrow a sad change had taken place; feverish symptoms, for whichthe Doctors rigorously prescribed quiet. Saturday to Tuesday thesymptoms continued ever worsening: a kind of tertian ague, "bastardtertian" as the old Doctors name it; for which it was ordered that hisHighness should return to Whitehall, as to a more favorable air in thatcomplaint. On Tuesday accordingly he quitted Hampton Court;--never tosee it more. 

"His time was come, " says Harvey; "and neither prayers nor tears couldprevail with God to lengthen out his life and continue him longer to us. Prayers abundantly and incessantly poured out on his behalf, bothpublicly and privately, as was observed, in a more than ordinary way. Besides many a secret sigh, --secret and unheard by men, yet like the cryof Moses, more loud, and strongly laying hold on God, than many spokensupplications. All which, --the hearts of God's People being thusmightily stirred up, --did seem to beget confidence in some, and hopes inall; yea some thoughts in himself, that God would restore him. "

"Prayers public and private:" they are worth imagining to ourselves. Meetings of Preachers, Chaplains, and Godly Persons; "Owen, Goodwin, Sterry, with a company of others, in an adjoining room"; in Whitehall, and elsewhere over religious London and England, fervent outpourings ofmany a loyal heart. For there were hearts to whom the nobleness of thisman was known; and his worth to the Puritan Cause was evident. Prayers, --strange enough to us; in a dialect fallen obsolete, forgottennow. Authentic wrestlings of ancient Human Souls, --who were alive then, with their affections, awestruck pieties; with their Human Wishes, risento be _transcendent_, hoping to prevail with the Inexorable. Allswallowed now in the depths of dark Time; which is full of such, sincethe beginning!--Truly it is a great scene of World-History, this in oldWhitehall: Oliver Cromwell drawing nigh to his end. The exit of OliverCromwell and of English Puritanism; a great Light, one of our fewauthentic Solar Luminaries, going down now amid the clouds of Death. Like the setting of a great victorious Summer Sun; its course nowfinished. "_So stirbt ein Held_, " says Schiller, "So dies a Hero! Sightworthy to be worshipped!"--He died, this Hero Oliver, in Resignation toGod; as the Brave have all done. "We could not be more desirous heshould abide, " says the pious Harvey, "than he was content and willingto be gone. " The struggle lasted, amid hope and fear, for ten days. .. . 

On Monday August 30th, there roared and howled all day a mighty storm ofwind. .. . It was on this stormy Monday, while rocking winds, heard in thesickroom and everywhere, were piping aloud, that Thurloe and an Officialperson entered to enquire, Who, in case of the worst, was to be hisHighness's Successor? The Successor is named in a sealed Paper alreadydrawn-up, above a year ago, at Hampton Court; now lying in such and sucha place. The Paper was sent for, searched for; it could never be found. Richard's is the name understood to have been written in that Paper: nota good name; but in fact one does not know. In ten years' time, had tenyears more been granted, Richard might have become a fitter man; mighthave been cancelled, if palpably unfit. Or perhaps it was Fleetwood'sname, --and the Paper, by certain parties, was stolen? None knows. On theThursday night following, "and not till then, " his Highness isunderstood to have formally named "Richard", --or perhaps it might onlybe some heavy-laden "Yes, yes!" spoken, out of the thick death-slumbers, in answer to Thurloe's _question_ "Richard?" The thing is a littleuncertain. It was, once more, a matter of much moment;--giving colorprobably to all the subsequent Centuries of England, this answer!--. .. 

Thursday night the Writer of our old Pamphlet [Harvey] was himself inattendance on his Highness; and has preserved a trait or two; with whichlet us hasten to conclude. Tomorrow is September Third, always kept as aThanksgiving day, since the Victories of Dunbar and Worcester. Thewearied one, "that very night before the Lord took him to hiseverlasting rest, " was heard thus, with oppressed voice, speaking:

"'Truly God is good; indeed He is; He will not'----Then his speechfailed him, but as I apprehended, it was, 'He will not leave me. ' Thissaying, 'God is good, ' he frequently used all along; and would speak itwith much cheerfulness, and fervor of spirit, in the midst of hispains. --Again he said: 'I would be willing to live to be fartherserviceable to God and His People: but my work is done. Yet God will bewith His People. '

"He was very restless most part of the night, speaking often to himself. And there being something to drink offered him, he was desired To takethe same, and endeavor to sleep. --Unto which he answered: 'It is not mydesign to drink or sleep; but my design is, to make what haste I can tobe gone. '--

"Afterwards, towards morning, he used divers holy expressions, implyingmuch inward consolation and peace; among the rest he spake someexceeding self-debasing words, _annihilating_ and judging himself. Andtruly it was observed, that a public spirit to God's Cause did breathein him, --as in his lifetime, so now to his very last. "

When the morrow's sun rose, Oliver was speechless; between three andfour in the afternoon, he lay dead. Friday 3rd September 1658. "Theconsternation and astonishment of all people, " writes Fauconberg, "areinexpressible; their hearts seem as if sunk within them. My poorWife, --I know not what on earth to do with her. When seemingly quieted, she bursts out again into a passion that tears her very heart inpieces. "--Husht, poor weeping Mary! Here is a Life-battle right noblydone. Seest thou not, "The storm is changed into a calm, At His command and will; So that the waves which raged before Now quiet are and still!

 "Then are _they_ glad, --because at rest And quiet now they be: So to the haven He them brings Which they desired to see. "

"Blessed are the dead that die in the Lord;" blessed are the valiantthat have lived in the Lord. "Amen, saith the Spirit, "--Amen. "They dorest from their labors, and their works follow them. "

"Their works follow them. " As, I think, this Oliver Cromwell's workshave done and are still doing! We have had our "Revolutions ofEighty-eight, " officially called "glorious"; and other Revolutions notyet called glorious; and somewhat has been gained for poor Mankind. Men's ears are not now slit-off by rash Officiality; Officiality will, for long henceforth, be more cautious about men's ears. The tyrannousStar-chambers, branding-irons, chimerical Kings and Surplices atAll-hallowtide, they are gone, or with immense velocity going. Oliver'sworks do follow him!--The works of a man, bury them under whatguano-mountains and obscene owl-droppings you will, do not perish, cannot perish. What of Heroism, what of Eternal Light was in a Man andhis Life, is with very great exactness added to the Eternities; remainsforever a new divine portion of the Sum of Things; and no owl's voice, this way or that, in the least avails in the matter. --But we have toend here. 

Oliver is gone; and with him England's Puritanism, laboriously builttogether by this man, and made a thing far-shining, miraculous to itsown Century, and memorable to all the Centuries, soon goes. Puritanism, without its King, is _kingless_, anarchic; falls into dislocation, self-collision; staggers, plunges into ever deeper anarchy; King, Defender of the Puritan Faith there can now none be found;--and nothingis left but to recall the old disowned Defender with the remnants of hisFour Surplices, and Two Centuries of _Hypocrisis_ (or Play-acting _not_so-called), and put-up with all that, the best we may. The Genius ofEngland no longer soars Sunward, world-defiant, like an Eagle throughthe storms, "mewing her mighty youth, " as John Milton saw her do: theGenius of England, much liker a greedy Ostrich intent on provender and awhole skin mainly, stands with its _other_ extremity Sunward; with itsOstrich-head stuck into the readiest bush, of old Church-tippets, King-cloaks, or what other "sheltering Fallacy" there may be, and _so_awaits the issue. The issue has been slow; but it is now seen to havebeen inevitable. No Ostrich, intent on gross terrene provender, andsticking its head into Fallacies, but will be awakened one day, --in aterrible _à-posteriori_ manner, if not otherwise!----Awake before itcome to that; gods and men bid us awake! The Voices of our Fathers, withthousand-fold stern monition to one and all, bid us awake. 

FOOTNOTES:

[M] The author's use of capital letters and punctuation marks hasbeen retained. 

LVIII. EACH AND ALL. 

RALPH WALDO EMERSON. --1803-1882. 

 Little thinks, in the field, yon red-cloak'd clown Of thee from the hill-top looking down; The heifer that lows in the upland farm, Far-heard, lows not thine ear to charm; The sexton, tolling his bell at noon, Deems not that great Napoleon Stops his horse, and lists with delight, While his files sweep round yon Alpine height; Nor knowest thou what argument Thy life to thy neighbor's creed has lent. All are needed by each one-- Nothing is fair or good alone. 

 I thought the sparrow's note from heaven, Singing at dawn on the alder bough; I brought him home in his nest, at even, He sings the song, but it pleases not now; For I did not bring home the river and sky; He sang to my ear--they sang to my eye. 

 The delicate shells lay on the shore; The bubbles of the latest wave Fresh pearls to their enamel gave, And the bellowing of the savage sea Greeted their safe escape to me. I wiped away the weeds and foam-- I fetch'd my sea-born treasures home; But the poor unsightly, noisome things Had left their beauty on the shore, With the sun and the sand, and the wild uproar. 

 The lover watch'd his graceful maid, As 'mid the virgin train she stray'd; Nor knew her beauty's best attire Was woven still by the snow-white choir. At last she came to his hermitage, Like the bird from the woodlands to the cage; The gay enchantment was undone-- A gentle wife, but fairy none. 

 Then I said, "I covet truth; Beauty is unripe childhoods cheat-- I leave it behind with the games of youth. " As I spoke, beneath my feet The ground-pine curled its pretty wreath, Running over the club-moss burrs; I inhaled the violet's breath; Around me stood the oaks and firs; Pine-cones and acorns lay on the ground; Over me soar'd the eternal sky, Full of light and of deity; Again I saw, again I heard, The rolling river, the morning bird; Beauty through my senses stole-- I yielded myself to the perfect whole. 

LIX. WATERLOO. 

CHARLES JAMES LEVER. --1806-1872. 

_From_ CHARLES O'MALLEY. 

"This is the officer that I spoke of, " said an aid-de-camp, as he rodeup to where I was standing, bare-headed and without a sword. "He hasjust made his escape from the French lines, and will be able to giveyour lordship some information. "

The handsome features and gorgeous costume of Lord Uxbridge were knownto me; but I was not aware, till afterwards, that a soldierlike, resolute looking officer beside him, was General Graham. It was thelatter who first addressed me. 

"Are you aware, Sir, " said he, "if Grouchy's force is arrived?"

"They had not: on the contrary, shortly before I escaped, an aid-de-campwas despatched to Gembloux, to hasten his coming. And the troops, forthey must be troops, debouching from the wood yonder--they seem to forma junction with the corps to the right--they are the Prussians. Theyarrived there before noon from St. Lambert, and are part of Bülow'scorps. Count Löbau and his division of ten thousand men were despatched, about an hour since, to hold them in check. "

"This is great news, " said Lord Uxbridge. "Fitzroy must know it atonce. "

So saying he dashed spurs into his horse, and soon disappeared amid thecrowd on the hill top. 

"You had better see the Duke, Sir, " said Graham: "your information istoo important to be delayed. Captain Calvert, let this officer have ahorse; his own is too tired to go much further. "

"And a cap, I beg of you, " added I, in an under tone; "for I havealready found a sabre. "

By a slight circuitous route, we reached the road upon which a mass ofdismounted artillery-carts, baggage-wagons, and tumbrils, were heapedtogether as a barricade against the attack of the French dragoons, whomore than once had penetrated to the very crest of our position. Closeto this, and on a little rising ground, from which a view of the entirefield extended from Hougoumont to the far left, the Duke of Wellingtonstood, surrounded by his staff. His eye was bent upon the valley beforehim, where the advancing columns of Ney's attack still pressed onwards;while the fire of sixty great guns poured death and carnage into hislines. The second Belgian division, routed and broken, had fallen backupon the twenty-seventh regiment, who had merely time to throwthemselves into square, when Milhaud's cuirassiers, armed with aterrible long straight sword, came sweeping down upon them. A line ofimpassable bayonets, a living _chevaux-de-frise_ of the best blood ofBritain, stood firm and motionless before the shock: the French_mitraille_ played mercilessly on the ranks; but the chasms were filledup like magic, and in vain the bold horsemen of Gaul galloped round thebristling files. At length the word "fire!" was heard within the square, and as the bullets at pistol range rattled upon them, the cuirassafforded them no defence against the deadly volley. Men and horsesrolled indiscriminately upon the earth: then would come a charge of ourdashing squadrons, who, riding recklessly upon the foe, were, in theirturn, to be repulsed by numbers, when fresh attacks would pour down uponour unshaken infantry. 

"That column yonder is wavering: why does he not bring up hissupporting squadrons?" inquired the Duke, pointing to a Belgian regimentof light dragoons, who were formed in the same brigade with the seventhhussars. 

"He refuses to oppose his light cavalry to cuirassiers, my lord, " saidan aid-de-camp, who had just returned from the division in question. 

"Tell him to march his men off the ground, " said the Duke, with a quietand impassive tone. 

In less than ten minutes the regiment was seen to defile from the mass, and take the road to Brussels, to increase the panic of that city, bycirculating and strengthening the report, that the English werebeaten, --and Napoleon in full march upon the capital. 

"What's Ney's force? can you guess, Sir?" said Lord Wellington turningto me. 

"About twelve thousand men, my lord. "

"Are the Guard among them?"

"No, Sir; the Guard are in reserve above La Belle Alliance. "

"In what part of the field is Buonaparte?"

"Nearly opposite to where we stand. "

"I told you, gentlemen, Hougoumont never was the great attack. Thebattle must be decided here, " pointing, as he spoke, to the plainbeneath us, where still Ney poured on his devoted columns, where yet theFrench cavalry rode down upon our firm squares. 

As he spoke an aid-de-camp rode up from the valley. 

"The ninety-second requires support, my lord: they cannot maintain theirpositions half an hour longer, without it. "

"Have they given way, Sir?"

"No----"

"Well, then, they must stand where they are. I hear cannon towards theleft; yonder, near Frischermont. "

At this moment the light cavalry swept past the base of the hill onwhich we stood, hotly followed by the French heavy cuirassier brigade. Three of our guns were taken; and the cheering of the French infantry, as they advanced to the charge, presaged their hope of victory. 

"Do it, then, " said the Duke, in reply to some whispered question ofLord Uxbridge; and shortly after the heavy trot of advancing squadronswas heard behind. 

They were the Life Guards and the Blues, who, with the first DragoonGuards and the Enniskilleners, were formed into close column. 

"I know the ground, my Lord, " said I to Lord Uxbridge. 

"Come along, Sir, come along, " said he, as he threw his hussar jacketloosely behind him, to give freedom to his sword-arm. --"Forward, my men, forward; but steady, hold your horses in hand; threes about, andtogether charge. "

"Charge!" he shouted; while, as the word flew from squadron to squadron, each horseman bent upon his saddle, and that mighty mass, as thoughinstinct with but one spirit, dashed like a thunder-bolt upon the columnbeneath them. The French, blown and exhausted, inferior beside in weightboth of man and horse, offered but a short resistance. As the tall cornbends beneath the sweeping hurricane, wave succeeding wave, so did thesteel-clad squadrons of France fall before the nervous arm of Britain'scavalry. Onward they went, carrying death and ruin before them, andnever stayed their course, until the guns were recaptured, and thecuirassiers, repulsed, disordered, and broken, had retired beneath theprotection of their artillery. 

There was, as a brilliant and eloquent writer on the subjectmentions, a terrible sameness in the whole of this battle. Incessantcharges of cavalry upon the squares of our infantry, whose solemanoeuvre consisted in either deploying into line to resist theattack of infantry, or falling back into square when the cavalryadvanced--performing those two evolutions under the devastating fireof artillery, before the unflinching heroism of that veteran infantrywhose glories had been reaped upon the blood-stained fields ofAusterlitz, Marengo, and Wagram--or opposing an unbroken front to thewhirlwind swoop of infuriated cavalry;--such were the enduring anddevoted services demanded from the English troops, and such theyfailed not to render. Once or twice had temper nearly failed them, and the cry ran through the ranks, "Are we never to moveforward?--Only let us at them!" But the word was not yet spoken whichwas to undam the pent-up torrent, and bear down with unrelentingvengeance upon the now exulting columns of the enemy. 

It was six o'clock: the battle had continued with unchanged fortune forthree hours. The French, masters of La Haye Sainte, could never advancefurther into our position. They had gained the orchard of Hougoumont, but the château was still held by the British Guards, although itsblazing roof and crumbling walls made its occupation rather thedesperate stand of unflinching valor than the maintenance of animportant position. The smoke which hung upon the field rolled in slowand heavy masses back upon the French lines, and gradually discovered toour view the entire of the army. We quickly perceived that a change wastaking place in their position. The troops which on their leftstretched far beyond Hougoumont, were now moved nearer to the centre. The attack upon the château seemed less vigorously supported, while theoblique direction of their right wing, which, pivoting upon Planchenoit, opposed a face to the Prussians, --all denoted a change in their order ofbattle. It was now the hour when Napoleon was at last convinced thatnothing but the carnage he could no longer support could destroy theunyielding ranks of British infantry; that although Hougoumont had beenpartially, La Haye Sainte, completely, won; that although upon the rightthe farm-houses Papelotte and La Haye were nearly surrounded by histroops, which with any other army must prove the forerunner of defeat:yet still the victory was beyond his grasp. The bold stratagems, whosesuccess the experience of a life had proved, were here to be foundpowerless. The decisive manoeuvre of carrying one important point ofthe enemy's lines, of turning him upon the flank, or piercing himthrough the centre, were here found impracticable. He might launch hisavalanche of grape-shot, he might pour down his crashing columns ofcavalry, he might send forth the iron storm of his brave infantry; but, though death in every shape heralded their approach, still were othersfound to fill the fallen ranks, and feed with their heart's blood theunslaked thirst for slaughter. Well might the gallant leader of thisgallant host, as he watched the reckless onslaught of the untiringenemy, and looked upon the unflinching few, who, bearing the proud badgeof Britain, alone sustained the fight, well might he exclaim, "Night, or Blücher!"

It was now seven o'clock, when a dark mass was seen to form upon theheights above the French centre, and divide into three giganticcolumns, of which the right occupied the Brussels road. These were thereserves, consisting of the Old and Young Guards, and amounting totwelve thousand--the _élite_ of the French army--reserved by the Emperorfor a great _coup-de-main_. These veterans of a hundred battles had beenstationed, from the beginning of the day, inactive spectators of thefight; their hour was now come, and, with a shout of "_Vivel'Empereur!_" which rose triumphantly over the din and crash of battle, they began their march. Meanwhile, aids-de-camp galloped along thelines, announcing the arrival of Grouchy, to reanimate the droopingspirits of the men; for, at last, a doubt of victory was breaking uponthe minds of those who never before, in the most adverse hour offortune, deemed _his_ star could set that led them on to glory. 

"They are coming: the attack will be made on the centre, my lord, " saidLord Fitzroy Somerset, as he directed his glass upon the column. Scarcely had he spoke when the telescope fell from his hand, as his arm, shattered by a French bullet, fell motionless to his side. 

"I see it, " was the cool reply of the Duke, as he ordered the Guards todeploy into line, and lie down behind the ridge, which now the Frenchartillery had found the range of, and were laboring at with their guns. In front of them the fifty-second, seventy-first, and ninety-fifth wereformed; the artillery, stationed above and partly upon the road, loadedwith grape, and waited but the word to open. 

It was an awful, a dreadful moment: the Prussian cannon thundered on ourleft; but so desperate was the French resistance, they made but littleprogress: the dark columns of the Guard had now commenced the ascent, and the artillery ceased their fire as the bayonets of the grenadiersshowed themselves upon the slope. Then began that tremendous cheer fromright to left of our line which those who heard never can forget. It wasthe impatient, long-restrained burst of unslaked vengeance. With theinstinct which valor teaches, they knew the hour of trial was come; andthat wild cry flew from rank to rank, echoing from the blood-stainedwalls of Hougoumont to the far-off valley of La Papelotte. "They come!they come!" was the cry; and the shout of "_Vive l'Empereur!_" mingledwith the outburst of the British line. 

Under an overwhelming shower of grape, to which succeeded a charge ofcavalry of the Imperial Guard, the head of Ney's column fired its volleyand advanced with the bayonet. The British artillery now opened at halfrange, and although the plunging fire scathed and devastated the darkranks of the Guards, on they came, --Ney himself, on foot, at their head. Twice the leading division of that gallant column turned completelyround, as the withering fire wasted and consumed them; but they wereresolved to win. 

Already they had gained the crest of the hill, and the first line of theBritish were falling back before them. The artillery closes up; theflanking fire from the guns upon the road opens upon them; the head oftheir column breaks like a shell; the Duke seizes the moment, andadvances on foot towards the ridge. 

"Up, Guards, and at them!" he cried. 

The hour of triumph and vengeance had arrived. In a moment the Guardswere on their feet; one volley was poured in; the bayonets were broughtto the charge; they closed upon the enemy: then was seen the mostdreadful struggle that the history of all war can present. Furious withlong restrained passion, the guards rushed upon the leading divisions;the seventy-first, and ninety-fifth, and twenty-sixth overlapped them onthe flanks. Their generals fell thickly on every side; Michel, Jamier, and Mallet are killed: Friant lies wounded upon the ground; Ney, hisdress pierced and ragged with balls, shouts still to advance; but theleading files waver; they fall back; the supporting divisions thicken;confusion, panic succeeds; the British press down; the cavalry comegalloping up to their assistance; and, at last, pell-mell, overwhelmedand beaten, the French fall back upon the Old Guard. This was thedecisive moment of the day;--the Duke closed his glass, as he said:

"The field is won. Order the whole line to advance. "

On they came, four deep, and poured like a torrent from the height. 

"Let the Life Guards charge them, " said the Duke; but every aid-de-campon his staff was wounded, and I myself brought the order to LordUxbridge. 

Lord Uxbridge had already anticipated his orders, and bore down withfour regiments of heavy cavalry upon the French centre. The Prussianartillery thundered upon their flank, and at their rear. The Britishbayonet was in their front; while a panic fear spread through theirranks, and the cry "_Sauve qui peut!_" resounded on all sides. In vainNey, the bravest of the brave; in vain Soult, Bertrand, Gourgaud, andLabedoyère, burst from the broken disorganized mass, and called on themto stand fast. A battalion of the Old Guard, with Cambronne at theirhead, alone obeyed the summons: forming into square, they stood betweenthe pursuers and their prey, offering themselves a sacrifice to thetarnished honor of their arms: to the order to surrender, they answeredwith a cry of defiance; and, as our cavalry, flushed and elated withvictory, rode round their bristling ranks, no quailing look, no cravenspirit was there. The Emperor himself endeavored to repair the disaster;he rode with lightening speed hither and thither, commanding, ordering, nay imploring too; but already the night was falling, the confusionbecame each moment more inextricable, and the effort was a fruitlessone. A regiment of the Guards, and two batteries were in reserve behindPlanchenoit; he threw them rapidly into position; but the overwhelmingimpulse of flight drove the mass upon them, and they were carried awayupon the torrent of the beaten army. No sooner did the Emperor see thishis last hope desert him, than he dismounted from his horse, and, drawing his sword, threw himself into a square, which the first regimentof chasseurs of the Old Guard had formed with a remnant of thebattalion; Jerome followed him, as he called out:

"You are right, brother: here should perish all who bear the name ofBuonaparte. "

The same moment the Prussian light artillery rend the ranks asunder, andthe cavalry charge down upon the scattered fragments. A few of hisstaff, who never left him, place the Emperor upon a horse, --and fly. 

 * * * * *

 _Wellington, Thy great work is but begun! With quick seed his end is rife Whose long tale of conquering strife Shows no triumph like his life Lost and won. _

 DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI. --1828-1882. _On Wellington's Funeral, Nov. 18th, 1852. _

LX. THE DIVER. 

EDWARD BULWER, LORD LYTTON. --1805-1873. 

_Translated from the German of Schiller_. 

 "O where is the knight or the squire so bold As to dive to the howling Charybdis below?-- I cast in the whirlpool a goblet of gold, And o'er it already the dark waters flow; Whoever to me may the goblet bring, Shall have for his guerdon that gift of his king. "

 He spoke, and the cup from the terrible steep, That, rugged and hoary, hung over the verge Of the endless and measureless world of the deep, Swirl'd into the maelstrom that madden'd the surge. "And where is the diver so stout to go-- I ask ye again--to the deep below?"

 And the knights and the squires that gather'd around, Stood silent--and fix'd on the ocean their eyes; They look'd on the dismal and savage profound, And the peril chill'd back every thought of the prize. And thrice spoke the monarch: "The cup to win, Is there never a wight who will venture in?"

 And all as before heard in silence the king, Till a youth with an aspect unfearing but gentle, 'Mid the tremulous squires stepp'd out from the ring, Unbuckling his girdle, and doffing his mantle; And the murmuring crowd, as they parted asunder, On the stately boy cast their looks of wonder. 

 As he strode to the marge of the summit, and gave One glance on the gulf of that merciless main, Lo! the wave that for ever devours the wave, Casts roaringly up the Charybdis again: And, as with the swell of the far thunder-boom, Rushes foamingly forth from the heart of the gloom. 

 And it bubbles and seethes, and it hisses and roars, As when fire is with water commix'd and contending, And the spray of its wrath to the welkin up-soars, And flood upon flood hurries on, never ending; And it never _will_ rest, nor from travail be free, Like a sea that is laboring the birth of a sea. 

 Yet, at length, comes a lull o'er the mighty commotion, And dark through the whiteness, and still through the swell, The whirlpool cleaves downward and downward in ocean A yawning abyss, like the pathway to hell; The stiller and darker the farther it goes, Suck'd into that smoothness the breakers repose. 

 The youth gave his trust to his Maker! Before That path through the riven abyss closed again, Hark! a shriek from the gazers that circle the shore, -- And, behold! he is whirl'd in the grasp of the main! And o'er him the breakers mysteriously roll'd, And the giant-mouth closed on the swimmer so bold. 

 All was still on the height, save the murmur that went From the grave of the deep, sounding hollow and fell, Or save when the tremulous, sighing lament Thrill'd from lip unto lip, "Gallant youth, fare thee well!" More hollow and more wails the deep on the ear, -- More dread and more dread grows suspense in its fear. 

 --If thou shouldst in those waters thy diadem fling, And cry, "Who may find it shall win it and wear"; God wot, though the prize were the crown of a king, A crown at such hazard were valued too dear. For never shall lips of the living reveal What the deeps that howl yonder in terror conceal. 

 Oh, many a bark, to that breast grappled fast, Has gone down to the fearful and fathomless grave; Again, crash'd together the keel and the mast, To be seen toss'd aloft in the glee of the wave!-- Like the growth of a storm ever louder and clearer, Grows the roar of the gulf rising nearer and nearer. 

 And it bubbles and seethes, and it hisses and roars, As when fire is with water commix'd and contending; And the spray of its wrath to the welkin up-soars, And flood upon flood hurries on, never ending, And as with the swell of the far thunder-boom, Rushes roaringly forth from the heart of the gloom. 

 And, lo! from the heart of that far-floating gloom, Like the wing of the cygnet--what gleams on the sea? Lo! an arm and a neck glancing up from the tomb! Steering stalwart and shoreward: O joy, it is he! The left hand is lifted in triumph; behold, It waves as a trophy the goblet of gold!

 And he breathèd deep, and he breathèd long, And he greeted the heavenly light of the day. They gaze on each other, --they shout as they throng, "He lives--lo, the ocean has render'd its prey! And safe from the whirlpool, and free from the grave, Comes back to the daylight the soul of the brave!"

 And he comes, with the crowd in their clamor and glee; And the goblet his daring has won from the water He lifts to the king as he sinks on his knee And the king from her maidens has beckon'd his daughter. She pours to the boy the bright wine which they bring, And thus spoke the diver; "Long life to the King!

 "Happy they whom the rose-hues of daylight rejoice, The air and the sky that to mortals are given! May the horror below nevermore find a voice, -- Nor man stretch too far the wide mercy of Heaven! Nevermore, --nevermore may he lift from the sight The veil which is woven with terror and night!

 "Quick brightening like lightning the ocean rush'd o'er me, Wild floating, borne down fathom-deep from the day; Till a torrent rush'd out on the torrents that bore me, And doubled the tempest that whirl'd me away. Vain, vain was my struggle, --the circle had won me, Round and round in its dance the mad element spun me. 

 "From the deep then I call'd upon God, and He heard me; In the dread of my need, He vouchsafed to mine eye A rock jutting out from the grave that interr'd me; I sprung there, I clung there, --and death pass'd me by. And, lo! where the goblet gleam'd through the abyss, By a coral reef saved from the far Fathomless. 

 "Below, at the foot of that precipice drear, Spread the gloomy and purple and pathless Obscure! A silence of horror that slept on the ear, That the eye more appall'd might the horror endure; Salamander, snake, dragon--vast reptiles that dwell In the deep--coil'd about the grim jaws of their hell. 

 "Dark crawl'd, glided dark, the unspeakable swarms, Clump'd together in masses, misshapen and vast; Here clung and here bristled the fashionless forms; Here the dark-moving bulk of the hammer-fish pass'd; And, with teeth grinning white, and a menacing motion, Went the terrible shark, --the hyena of ocean. 

 "There I hung, and the awe gather'd icily o'er me, So far from the earth, where man's help there was none! The one human thing, with the goblins before me-- Alone--in a loneness so ghastly--ALONE! Deep under the reach of the sweet living breath, And begirt with the broods of the desert of Death. 

 "Methought, as I gazed through the darkness, that now IT saw--a dread hundred-limb'd creature--its prey! And darted, devouring; I sprang from the bough Of the coral, and swept on the horrible way; And the whirl of the mighty wave seized me once more, It seized me to save me, and dash to the shore. "

 On the youth gazed the monarch, and marvell'd: quoth he, "Bold diver, the goblet I promised is thine; And this ring I will give, a fresh guerdon to thee-- Never jewels more precious shone up from the mine-- If thou'lt bring me fresh tidings, and venture again, To say what lies hid in the _innermost_ main. "

 Then out spake the daughter in tender emotion: "Ah! father, my father, what more can there rest? Enough of this sport with the pitiless ocean: He has serv'd thee as none would, thyself hast confest. If nothing can slake thy wild thirst of desire, Let thy knights put to shame the exploit of the squire!"

 The king seized the goblet, he swung it on high, And whirling, it fell in the roar of the tide; "But bring back that goblet again to my eye, And I'll hold thee the dearest that rides by my side; And thine arms shall embrace as thy bride, I decree, The maiden whose pity now pleadeth for thee. "

 And Heaven, as he listen'd, spoke out from the space, And the hope that makes heroes shot flame from his eyes; He gazed on the blush in that beautiful face-- It pales--at the feet of her father she lies! How priceless the guerdon!--a moment--a breath-- And headlong he plunges to life and to death!

 They hear the loud surges sweep back in their swell, Their coming the thunder-sound heralds along! Fond eyes yet are tracking the spot where he fell. They come, the wild waters, in tumult and throng, Roaring up to the cliff, --roaring back as before, But no wave ever brings the lost youth to the shore!

LXI. THE PLAGUE OF LOCUSTS. 

CARDINAL NEWMAN. --1801-

_From_ CALLISTA. 

Juba's finger was directed to a spot where, amid the thick foliage, thegleam of a pool or of a marsh was visible. The various waters roundabout, issuing from the gravel, or drained from the nightly damps, hadrun into a hollow, filled with the decaying vegetation of former years. Its banks were bordered with a deep, broad layer of mud, a transitionsubstance between the rich vegetable matter which it once had been, andthe multitudinous world of insect life which it was becoming. A cloud ormist at this time was hanging over it, high in air. A harsh and shrillsound, a whizzing or a chirping, proceeded from that cloud to the ear ofthe attentive listener. What these indications portended was plain. .. . 

The plague of locusts, one of the most awful visitations to which thecountries included in the Roman empire were exposed, extended from theAtlantic to Ethiopia, from Arabia to India, and from the Nile and RedSea to Greece and the north of Asia Minor. Instances are recorded inhistory of clouds of the devastating insect crossing the Black Sea toPoland, and the Mediterranean to Lombardy. It is as numerous in itsspecies as it is wide in its range of territory. Brood follows brood, with a sort of family likeness, yet with distinct attributes. It wakensinto existence and activity as early as the month of March; butinstances are not wanting, as in our present history, of its appearanceas late as June. Even one flight comprises myriads upon myriads passingimagination, to which the drops of rain or the sands of the sea are theonly fit comparison; and hence it is almost a proverbial mode ofexpression in the East, by way of describing a vast invading army, toliken it to the locusts. So dense are they, when upon the wing, that itis no exaggeration to say that they hide the sun, from whichcircumstance indeed their name in Arabic is derived. And so ubiquitousare they when they have alighted on the earth, that they simply cover orclothe its surface. 

This last characteristic is stated in the sacred account of the plaguesof Egypt, where their faculty of devastation is also mentioned. Thecorrupting fly and the bruising and prostrating hail preceded them inthat series of visitations, but _they_ came to do the work of ruin morethoroughly. For not only the crops and fruits, but the foliage of theforest itself, nay, the small twigs and the bark of the trees are thevictims of their curious and energetic rapacity. They have been knowneven to gnaw the door-posts of the houses. Nor do they execute theirtask in so slovenly a way, that, as they have succeeded other plagues, so they may have successors themselves. They take pains to spoil whatthey leave. Like the Harpies, they smear every thing that they touchwith a miserable slime, which has the effect of a virus in corroding, oras some say, in scorching and burning. And then, perhaps, as if all thiswere little, when they can do nothing else, they die; as if out of sheermalevolence to man, for the poisonous elements of their nature are thenlet loose and dispersed abroad, and create a pestilence; and they manageto destroy many more by their death than in their life. 

Such are the locusts. And now they are rushing upon a considerable tractof that beautiful region of which we have spoken with such admiration. The swarm to which Juba pointed grew and grew till it became a compactbody, as much as a furlong square; yet it was but the vanguard of aseries of similar hosts, formed one after another out of the hot mouldor sand, rising into the air like clouds, enlarging into a dusky canopy, and then discharged against the fruitful plain. At length the hugeinnumerous mass was put into motion, and began its career, darkening theface of day. As became an instrument of divine power, it seemed to haveno volition of its own; it was set off, it drifted, with the wind, andthus made northwards, straight for Sicca. Thus they advanced, host afterhost, for a time wafted on the air, and gradually declining to theearth, while fresh broods were carried over the first, and neared theearth, after a longer flight, in their turn. For twelve miles did theyextend from front to rear, and their whizzing and hissing could be heardfor six miles on every side of them. The bright sun, though hidden bythem, illumined their bodies, and was reflected from their quiveringwings; and as they heavily fell earthward, they seemed like theinnumerable flakes of a yellow-colored snow. And like snow did theydescend, a living carpet, or rather pall, upon fields, crops, gardens, copses, groves, orchards, vineyards, olive woods, orangeries, palmplantations, and the deep forests, sparing nothing within their reach, and where there was nothing to devour, lying helpless in drifts, orcrawling forward obstinately, as they best might, with the hope of prey. They could spare their hundred thousand soldiers twice or thrice over, and not miss them; their masses filled the bottoms of the ravines andhollow ways, impeding the traveller as he rode forward on his journeyand trampled by thousands under his horse-hoofs. In vain was all thisoverthrow and waste by the roadside, in vain their loss in river, pool, and watercourse. The poor peasants hastily dug pits and trenches astheir enemy came on; in vain they filled them from the wells or withlighted stubble. Heavily and thickly did the locusts fall; they werelavish of their lives; they choked the flame and the water, whichdestroyed them the while, and the vast living hostile armament stillmoved on. 

They moved right on like soldiers in their ranks, stopping at nothing, and straggling for nothing; they carried a broad furrow or wheal allacross the country, black and loathsome, while it was as green andsmiling on each side of them and in front, as it had been before theycame. Before them, in the language of prophets, was a paradise, andbehind them a desert. They are daunted by nothing they surmount wallsand hedges, and enter enclosed gardens or inhabited houses. A rare andexperimental vineyard has been planted in a sheltered grove. The highwinds of Africa will not commonly allow the light trellice or the slimpole; but here the lofty poplar of Campania has been possible, on whichthe vine plant mounts so many yards into the air, that the poorgrape-gatherers bargain for a funeral pile and a tomb as one of theconditions of their engagement. The locusts have done what the winds andlightning could not do, and the whole promise of the vintage, leaves andall, is gone, and the slender stems are left bare. There is anotheryard, less uncommon, but still tended with more than common care; eachplant is kept within due bounds by a circular trench round it, and byupright canes on which it is to trail; in an hour the solicitude andlong toil of the vine-dresser are lost, and his pride humbled. There isa smiling farm; another sort of vine, of remarkable character, is foundagainst the farmhouse. This vine springs from one root, and has clothedand matted with its many branches the four walls. The whole of it iscovered thick with long clusters, which another month will ripen. Onevery grape and leaf there is a locust. Into the dry caves and pits, carefully strewed with straw, the harvest-men have (safely, as theythought just now) been lodging the far-famed African wheat. One grain orroot shoots up into ten, twenty, fifty, eighty, nay, three or fourhundred stalks: sometimes the stalks have two ears apiece, and theseshoot into a number of lesser ones. These stores are intended for theRoman populace, but the locusts have been beforehand with them. Thesmall patches of ground belonging to the poor peasants up and down thecountry, for raising the turnips, garlic, barley, water-melons, on whichthey live, are the prey of these glutton invaders as much as thechoicest vines and olives. Nor have they any reverence for the villa ofthe civic decurion or the Roman official. The neatly arranged kitchengarden, with its cherries, plums, peaches, and apricots, is a waste; asthe slaves sit round, in the kitchen in the first court, at their coarseevening meal, the room is filled with the invading force, and news comesto them that the enemy has fallen upon the apples and pears in thebasement, and is at the same time plundering and sacking the preservesof quince and pomegranate, and revelling in the jars of precious oil ofCyprus and Mendes in the store-rooms. 

They come up to the walls of Sicca, and are flung against them into theditch. Not a moment's hesitation or delay; they recover their footing, they climb up the wood or stucco, they surmount the parapet, or theyhave entered in at the windows, filling the apartments, and the mostprivate and luxurious chambers, not one or two, like stragglers atforage or rioters after a victory, but in order of battle, and with thearray of an army. Choice plants or flowers about the _impluvia_ and_xysti_, for ornament or refreshment, myrtles, oranges, pomegranates, the rose and the carnation, have disappeared. They dim the brightmarbles of the walls and the gilding of the ceilings. They enter thetriclinium in the midst of the banquet; they crawl over the viands andspoil what they do not devour. Unrelaxed by success and by enjoyment, onward they go; a secret mysterious instinct keeps them together, as ifthey had a king over them. They move along the floor in so strange anorder that they seem to be a tessellated pavement themselves, and to bethe artificial embellishment of the place; so true are their lines, andso perfect is the pattern they describe. Onward they go, to the market, to the temple sacrifices, to the bakers' stores, to the cookshops, tothe confectioners, to the druggists; nothing comes amiss to them;wherever man has aught to eat or drink, there are they, reckless ofdeath, strong of appetite, certain of conquest. .. . 

Another and a still worse calamity. The invaders, as we have alreadyhinted, could be more terrible still in their overthrow than in theirravages. The inhabitants of the country had attempted, where they could, to destroy them by fire and water. It would seem as if the malignantanimals had resolved that the sufferers should have the benefit of thispolicy to the full; for they had not got more than twenty miles beyondSicca when they suddenly sickened and died. When they thus had done allthe mischief they could by their living, when they thus had made theirfoul maws the grave of every living thing, next they died themselves, and made the desolated land their own grave. They took from it itshundred forms and varieties of beautiful life, and left it their ownfetid and poisonous carcases in payment. It was a sudden catastrophe;they seemed making for the Mediterranean, as if, like other greatconquerors, they had other worlds to subdue beyond it; but, whether theywere overgorged, or struck by some atmospheric change, or that theirtime was come and they paid the debt of nature, so it was that suddenlythey fell, and their glory came to nought, and all was vanity to them asto others, and "their stench rose up, and their corruption rose up, because they had done proudly. "

The hideous swarms lay dead in the moist steaming underwoods, in thegreen swamps, in the sheltered valleys, in the ditches and furrows ofthe fields, amid the monuments of their own prowess, the ruined cropsand the dishonored vineyards. A poisonous element, issuing from theirremains, mingled with the atmosphere, and corrupted it. The dismayedpeasant found that a plague had begun; a new visitation, not confined tothe territory which the enemy had made its own, but extending far andwide, as the atmosphere extends, in all directions. Their daily toil, nolonger claimed by the fruits of the earth, which have ceased to exist, is now devoted to the object of ridding themselves of the deadly legacywhich they have received in their stead. In vain; it is their last toil;they are digging pits, they are raising piles, for their own corpses, aswell as for the bodies of their enemies. Invader and victim lie in thesame grave, burn in the same heap; they sicken while they work, and thepestilence spreads. 

LXII. THE CANE-BOTTOM'D CHAIR. 

WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. --1811-1863. 

 In tatter'd old slippers that toast at the bars, And a ragged old jacket perfumed with cigars, Away from the world and its toils and its cares, I've a snug little kingdom up four pair of stairs. 

 To mount to this realm is a toil, to be sure, But the fire there is bright and the air rather pure; And the view I behold on a sunshiny day Is grand through the chimney-pots over the way. 

 This snug little chamber is cramm'd in all nooks With worthless old knicknacks and silly old books, And foolish old odds and foolish old ends, Crack'd bargains from brokers, cheap keepsakes from friends. 

 Old armor, prints, pictures, pipes, china, (all crack'd, ) Old rickety tables, and chairs broken-back'd; A twopenny treasury, wondrous to see; What matter? 'tis pleasant to you, friend, and me. 

 No better divan need the Sultan require, Than the creaking old sofa that basks by the fire; And 'tis wonderful, surely, what music you get From the rickety, ramshackle, wheezy spinet. 

 That praying-rug came from a Turcoman's camp; By Tiber once twinkled that brazen old lamp; A Mameluke fierce yonder dagger has drawn: 'Tis a murderous knife to toast muffins upon. 

 Long, long through the hours, and the night, and the chimes, Here we talk of old books, and old friends, and old times; As we sit in a fog made of rich Latakie This chamber is pleasant to you, friend, and me. 

 But of all the cheap treasures that garnish my nest, There's one that I love and I cherish the best; For the finest of couches that's padded with hair I never would change thee, my cane-bottom'd chair. 

 'Tis a bandy-legg'd, high-shoulder'd, worm-eaten seat, With a creaking old back, and twisted old feet; But since the fair morning when Fanny sat there, I bless thee, and love thee, old cane-bottom'd chair. 

 If chairs have but feeling, in holding such charms, A thrill must have pass'd through your wither'd old arms! I look'd, and I long'd, and I wish'd in despair; I wish'd myself turn'd to a cane-bottom'd chair. 

 It was but a moment she sat in this place, She'd a scarf on her neck, and a smile on her face! A smile on her face, and a rose in her hair, And she sat there, and bloom'd in my cane-bottom'd chair. 

 And so I have valued my chair ever since, Like the shrine of a saint, or the throne of a prince; Saint Fanny, my patroness sweet I declare, The queen of my heart and my cane-bottom'd chair. 

 When the candles burn low, and the company's gone, In the silence of night as I sit here alone-- I sit here alone, but we yet are a pair-- My Fanny I see in my cane-bottom'd chair. 

 She comes from the past and revisits my room; She looks as she then did, all beauty and bloom; So smiling and tender, so fresh and so fair, And yonder she sits in my cane-bottom'd chair. 

LXIII. THE RECONCILIATION. [N]

THACKERAY. 

There was scarce a score of persons in the Cathedral beside the Dean andsome of his clergy, and the choristers, young and old, that performedthe beautiful evening prayer. But Mr. Tusher was one of the officiants, and read from the eagle in an authoritative voice, and a great blackperiwig; and in the stalls, still in her black widow's hood, satEsmond's dear mistress, her son by her side, very much grown, and indeeda noble-looking youth, with his mother's eyes, and his father's curlingbrown hair, that fell over his _point de Venise_--a pretty picture suchas Vandyke might have painted. Mons. Rigaud's portrait of my LordViscount, done at Paris afterwards, gives but a French version of hismanly, frank English face. When he looked up there were two sapphirebeams out of his eyes such as no painter's palette has the color tomatch, I think. On this day there was not much chance of seeing thatparticular beauty of my young lord's countenance; for the truth is, hekept his eyes shut for the most part, and, the anthem being rather long, was asleep. 

But the music ceasing, my lord woke up, looking about him, and his eyeslighting on Mr. Esmond, who was sitting opposite him, gazing with nosmall tenderness and melancholy upon two persons who had so much of hisheart for so many years, Lord Castlewood, with a start; pulled at hismother's sleeve (her face had scarce been lifted from her book), andsaid, "Look, mother!" so loud, that Esmond could hear on the other sideof the church, and the old Dean on his throned stall. Lady Castlewoodlooked for an instant as her son bade her, and held up a warning fingerto Frank; Esmond felt his whole face flush, and his heart throbbing, asthat dear lady beheld him once more. The rest of the prayers werespeedily over; Mr. Esmond did not hear them; nor did his mistress, verylikely, whose hood went more closely over her face, and who never liftedher head again until the service was over, the blessing given, and Mr. Dean, and his procession of ecclesiastics, out of the inner chapel. 

Young Castlewood came clambering over the stalls before the clergy werefairly gone, and running up to Esmond, eagerly embraced him. "My dear, dearest old Harry!" he said, "are you come back? Have you been to thewars? You'll take me with you when you go again? Why didn't you write tous? Come to mother. "

Mr. Esmond could hardly say more than a "God bless you, my boy, " for hisheart was very full and grateful at all this tenderness on the lad'spart; and he was as much moved at seeing Frank as he was fearful aboutthat other interview which was now to take place: for he knew not if thewidow would reject him as she had done so cruelly a year ago. 

"It was kind of you to come back to us, Henry, " Lady Esmond said. "Ithought you might come. "

"We read of the fleet coming to Portsmouth. Why did you not come fromPortsmouth?" Frank asked, or my Lord Viscount, as he now must be called. 

Esmond had thought of that too. He would have given one of his eyes sothat he might see his dear friends again once more; but believing thathis mistress had forbidden him her house, he had obeyed her, andremained at a distance. 

"You had but to ask, and you knew I would be here, " he said. 

She gave him her hand, her little fair hand: there was only her marriagering on it. The quarrel was all over. The year of grief and estrangementwas passed. They never had been separated. His mistress had never beenout of his mind all that time. No, not once. No, not in the prison; norin the camp; nor on shore before the enemy; nor at sea under the starsof solemn midnight; nor as he watched the glorious rising of the dawn:not even at the table, where he sat carousing with friends, or at thetheatre yonder, where he tried to fancy that other eyes were brighterthan hers. Brighter eyes there might be, and faces more beautiful, butnone so dear--no voice so sweet as that of his beloved mistress, who hadbeen sister, mother, goddess to him during his youth--goddess now nomore, for he knew of her weaknesses; and by thought, by suffering, andthat experience it brings, was older now than she; but more fondlycherished as woman perhaps than ever she had been adored as divinity. What is it? Where lies it? the secret which makes one little hand thedearest of all? Who ever can unriddle that mystery? Here she was, herson by his side, his dear boy. Here she was, weeping and happy. She tookhis hand in both hers; he felt her tears. It was a rapture ofreconciliation. .. . 

"And Harry's coming home to supper. Huzzay! huzzay!" cries my lord. "Mother, I shall run home and bid Beatrix put her ribbons on. Beatrix isa maid of honor, Harry. Such a fine set-up minx!"

"Your heart was never in the Church, Harry, " the widow said, in hersweet low tone, as they walked away together. (Now, it seemed they hadnever been parted, and again, as if they had been ages asunder. ) "Ialways thought you had no vocation that way; and that 'twas a pity toshut you out from the world. You would but have pined and chafed atCastlewood: and 'tis better you should make a name for yourself. I oftensaid so to my dear lord. How he loved you! 'Twas my lord that made youstay with us. "

"I asked no better than to stay near you always, " said Mr. Esmond. 

"But to go was best, Harry. When the world cannot give peace, you willknow where to find it; but one of your strong imagination and eagerdesires must try the world first before he tires of it. 'Twas not to bethought of, or if it once was, it was only by my selfishness, that youshould remain as chaplain to a country gentleman and tutor to a littleboy. You are of the blood of the Esmonds, kinsman; and that was alwayswild in youth. Look at Francis. He is but fifteen, and I scarce can keephim in my nest. His talk is all of war and pleasure, and he longs toserve in the next campaign. Perhaps he and the young Lord Churchillshall go the next. Lord Marlborough has been good to us. You know howkind they were in my misfortune. And so was your--your father's widow. No one knows how good the world is, till grief comes to try us. 'Tisthrough my Lady Marlborough's goodness that Beatrix hath her place atCourt; and Frank is under my Lord Chamberlain. And the dowager lady, your father's widow, has promised to provide for you--has she not?"

Esmond said, "Yes. As far as present favor went, Lady Castlewood wasvery good to him. And should her mind change, " he added gaily, "asladies' minds will, I am strong enough to bear my own burden, and makemy way somehow. Not by the sword very likely. Thousands have a bettergenius for that than I, but there are many ways in which a young man ofgood parts and education can get on in the world; and I am pretty sure, one way or other, of promotion!" Indeed, he had found patrons alreadyin the army, and amongst persons very able to serve him, too; and toldhis mistress of the flattering aspect of fortune. They walked as thoughthey had never been parted, slowly, with the grey twilight closinground them. 

"And now we are drawing near to home, " she continued, "I knew you wouldcome, Harry, if--if it was but to forgive me for having spoken unjustlyto you after that horrid--horrid misfortune. I was half frantic withgrief then when I saw you. And I know now--they have told me. Thatwretch, whose name I can never mention, even has said it: how you triedto avert the quarrel, and would have taken it on yourself, my poorchild: but it was God's will that I should be punished, and that my dearlord should fall. "

"He gave me his blessing on his death-bed, " Esmond said. "Thank God forthat legacy!"

"Amen, amen! dear Henry, " said the lady, pressing his arm. "I knew it. Mr. Atterbury, of St. Bride's, who was called to him, told me so. And Ithanked God, too, and in my prayers ever since remembered it. "

"You had spared me many a bitter night, had you told me sooner, " Mr. Esmond said. 

"I know it, I know it, " she answered, in a tone of such sweet humility, as made Esmond repent that he should ever have dared to reproach her. "Iknow how wicked my heart has been; and I have suffered too, my dear. But I knew you would come back--I own that. And to-day, Henry, in theanthem, when they sang it, 'When the Lord turned the captivity of Zion, we were like them that dream, ' I thought yes, like them that dream--themthat dream. And then it went, 'They that sow in tears shall reap in joy;and he that goeth forth and weepeth, shall doubtless come again withrejoicing, bringing his sheaves with him;' I looked up from the book andsaw you. I was not surprised when I saw you. I knew you would come, mydear, and saw the gold sunshine round your head. "

She smiled an almost wild smile as she looked up at him. The moon was upby this time, glittering keen in the frosty sky. He could see, for thefirst time now clearly, her sweet careworn face. 

"Do you know what day it is?" she continued. "It is the 29th day ofDecember--it is your birthday! But last year we did not drink it--no, no. My lord was cold, and my Harry was likely to die: and my brainwas in a fever; and we had no wine. But now--now you are come again, bringing your sheaves with you, my dear. " She burst into a wild floodof weeping as she spoke; she laughed and sobbed on the young man'sheart, crying out wildly, "bringing your sheaves with you--your sheaveswith you!"

As he had sometimes felt, gazing up from the deck at midnight into theboundless starlit depths overhead, in a rapture of devout wonder atthat endless brightness and beauty--in some such a way now, the depthof this pure devotion quite smote upon him, and filled his heart withthanksgiving. Gracious God, who was he, weak and friendless creature, that such a love should be poured out upon him? Not in vain--not invain has he lived--hard and thankless should he be to think so--thathas such a treasure given him. What is ambition compared to that, butselfish vanity? To be rich, to be famous? What do these profit a yearhence, when other names sound louder than yours, when you lie hiddenaway under the ground, along with idle titles engraven on your coffin?But only true love lives after you--follows your memory with secretblessing--or precedes you, and intercedes for you. _Non omnismoriar_--if dying, I yet live in a tender heart or two; nor am lostand hopeless living, if a sainted departed soul still loves and praysfor me. 

FOOTNOTES:

[N] _From "The History of Henry Esmond, Esq. , a Colonel in theService of Her Majesty Queen Anne. Written by himself. "_

The late Lord Castlewood had been killed in a duel, and young Esmond, who had lived in his house as a dependant (reputed to have beenillegitimately related to a former Viscount of Castlewood), devotedlyattending him at his death-bed, received from the dying manconfession and proof that he, the supposed obscure orphan, was thetrue inheritor, and in justice ought to have been the possessor, ofthe Castlewood titles and estates. But Esmond, for the love he hadborne his patron, and from devotion to Lady Castlewood, who had muchbefriended him, immediately destroyed the proofs which were given himof his honorable parentage, and ever afterwards kept his claim asecret. After the duel, while Esmond was in prison, Lady Castlewoodvisited him, and in the wildness of her grief for her murderedhusband, reproached her loyal kinsman for not having saved her lord'slife, or avenged his death. In the estrangement which thesereproaches occasioned, Esmond sought his fortune abroad in war; butsubsequently, desiring to learn of the welfare of his mistress andher family, whose happiness he prized more than his own, he returnedto England, and went to Winchester, near which was Walcote, LadyCastlewood's home. The family were attending service in thecathedral, and there the reconciliation took place. --Esmond hadformerly been promised the living of Walcote, but the vacancyoccurring while the estrangement continued. Lady Castlewood had givenit to one Mr. Tusher. 

LXIV. THE ISLAND OF THE SCOTS. 

(DECEMBER, 1697. )

WILLIAM EDMONDSTOUNE AYTOUN. --1813-1865. 

 The Rhine is running deep and red, the island lies before, -- "Now is there one of all the host will dare to venture o'er? For not alone the river's sweep might make a brave man quail; The foe are on the further side, their shot comes fast as hail. God help us, if the middle isle we may not hope to win! Now is there any of the host will dare to venture in?"

 "The ford is deep, the banks are steep, the island-shore lies wide; Nor man nor horse could stem its force, or reach the further side. See there! amidst the willow-boughs the serried bayonets gleam; They've flung their bridge, --they've won the isle; the foe have cross'd the stream! Their volley flashes sharp and strong, --by all the saints! I trow There never yet was soldier born could force that passage now!"

 So spoke the bold French Mareschal with him who led the van, Whilst rough and red before their view the turbid river ran. Nor bridge nor boat had they to cross the wild and swollen Rhine, And thundering on the other bank far stretch'd the German line. Hard by there stood a swarthy man was leaning on his sword, And a sadden'd smile lit up his face as he heard the Captain's word. "I've seen a wilder stream ere now than that which rushes there; I've stemm'd a heavier torrent yet and never thought to dare. If German steel be sharp and keen, is ours not strong and true? There may be danger in the deed, but there is honor too. "

 The old lord in his saddle turn'd, and hastily he said, "Hath bold Duguesclin's fiery heart awaken'd from the dead? Thou art the leader of the Scots, --now well and sure I know, That gentle blood in dangerous hour ne'er yet ran cold nor slow, And I have seen ye in the fight do all that mortal may: If honor is the boon ye seek, it may be won this day, -- The prize is in the middle isle, there lies the adventurous way, And armies twain are on the plain, the daring deed to see, -- Now ask thy gallant company if they will follow thee!"

 Right gladsome look'd the Captain then, and nothing did he say, But he turn'd him to his little band, --O, few, I ween, were they! The relics of the bravest force that ever fought in fray. No one of all that company but bore a gentle name, Not one whose fathers had not stood in Scotland's fields of fame. All they had march'd with great Dundee to where he fought and fell, And in the deadly battle-strife had venged their leader well: And they had bent the knee to earth when every eye was dim, As o'er their hero's buried corpse they sang the funeral hymn; And they had trod the Pass once more, and stoop'd on either side To pluck the heather from the spot where he had dropp'd and died; And they had bound it next their hearts, and ta'en a last farewell Of Scottish earth and Scottish sky, where Scotland's glory fell. Then went they forth to foreign lands like bent and broken men, Who leave their dearest hope behind, and may not turn again. 

 "The stream, " he said, "is broad and deep, and stubborn is the foe, -- Yon island-strength is guarded well, --say, brothers, will ye go? From home and kin for many a year our steps have wander'd wide, And never may our bones be laid our fathers' graves beside. No children have we to lament, no wives to wail our fall; The traitor's and the spoiler's hand have reft our hearths of all. But we have hearts, and we have arms, as strong to will and dare As when our ancient banners flew within the northern air. Come, brothers! let me name a spell shall rouse your souls again, And send the old blood bounding free through pulse and heart and vein. Call back the days of bygone years, --be young and strong once more; Think yonder stream, so stark and red, is one we've cross'd before. Rise, hill and glen! rise, crag and wood! rise up on either hand, -- Again upon the Garry's banks, on Scottish soil we stand! Again I see the tartans wave, again the trumpets ring; Again I hear our leader's call: 'Upon them for the King!' Stay'd we behind that glorious day for roaring flood or linn? The soul of Græme is with us still, --now, brothers, will ye in?"

 No stay, --no pause. With one accord, they grasp'd each other's hand, Then plunged into the angry flood, that bold and dauntless band. High flew the spray above their heads, yet onward still they bore, Midst cheer, and shout, and answering yell, and shot, and cannon-roar, -- "Now, by the Holy Cross! I swear, since earth and sea began, Was never such a daring deed essay'd by mortal man!"

 Thick blew the smoke across the stream, and faster flash'd the flame: The water plash'd in hissing jets as ball and bullet came. Yet onwards push'd the Cavaliers all stern and undismay'd, With thousand armèd foes before, and none behind to aid. Once, as they near'd the middle stream, so strong the torrent swept, That scarce that long and living wall their dangerous footing kept. Then rose a warning cry behind, a joyous shout before: "The current's strong, --the way is long, --they'll never reach the shore! See, see! they stagger in the midst, they waver in their line! Fire on the madmen! break their ranks, and whelm them in the Rhine!"

 Have you seen the tall trees swaying when the blast is sounding shrill, And the whirlwind reels in fury down the gorges of the hill? How they toss their mighty branches struggling with the tempest's shock; How they keep their place of vantage, cleaving firmly to the rock? Even so the Scottish warriors held their own against the river; Though the water flash'd around them, not an eye was seen to quiver; Though the shot flew sharp and deadly, not a man relax'd his hold; For their hearts were big and thrilling with the mighty thoughts of old. One word was spoke among them, and through the ranks it spread, -- "Remember our dead Claverhouse!" was all the Captain said. Then, sternly bending forward, they wrestled on a while, Until they clear'd the heavy stream, then rush'd towards the isle. 

 The German heart is stout and true, the German arm is strong; The German foot goes seldom back where armèd foemen throng. But never had they faced in field so stern a charge before, And never had they felt the sweep of Scotland's broad claymore. Not fiercer pours the avalanche adown the steep incline, That rises o'er the parent-springs of rough and rapid Rhine, -- Scarce swifter shoots the bolt from heaven than came the Scottish band Right up against the guarded trench, and o'er it sword in hand. In vain their leaders forward press, --they meet the deadly brand!

 O lonely island of the Rhine, --where seed was never sown, What harvest lay upon thy sands, by those strong reapers thrown? What saw the winter moon that night, as, struggling through the rain, She pour'd a wan and fitful light on marsh, and stream, and plain? A dreary spot with corpses strewn, and bayonets glistening round; A broken bridge, a stranded boat, a bare and batter'd mound; And one huge watch-fire's kindled pile, that sent its quivering glare To tell the leaders of the host the conquering Scots were there!

 And did they twine the laurel-wreath, for those who fought so well? And did they honor those who liv'd, and weep for those who fell? What meed of thanks was given to them let agèd annals tell. Why should they bring the laurel-wreath, --why crown the cup with wine? It was not Frenchmen's blood that flow'd so freely on the Rhine, -- A stranger band of beggar'd men had done the venturous deed: The glory was to France alone, the danger was their meed. And what cared they for idle thanks from foreign prince and peer? What virtue had such honey'd words the exiled heart to cheer? What matter'd it that men should vaunt and loud and fondly swear, That higher feat of chivalry was never wrought elsewhere? They bore within their breasts the grief that fame can never heal, -- The deep, unutterable woe which none save exiles feel. Their hearts were yearning for the land they ne'er might see again, -- For Scotland's high and heather'd hills, for mountain, loch and glen-- For those who haply lay at rest beyond the distant sea, Beneath the green and daisied turf where they would gladly be!

 Long years went by. The lonely isle in Rhine's tempestuous flood Has ta'en another name from those who bought it with their blood:

 And, though the legend does not live, --for legends lightly die-- The peasant, as he sees the stream in winter rolling by, And foaming o'er its channel-bed between him and the spot Won by the warriors of the sword, stills calls that deep and dangerous ford The Passage of the Scot. 

 * * * * *

 _Sacrifice and Self-Devotion hallow earth and fill the skies. _

 LORD HOUGHTON. --1809-1885. 

LXV. THE GAMBLING PARTY. 

EARL OF BEACONSFIELD. --1805-1881. 

_From_ THE YOUNG DUKE. 

The young Duke had accepted the invitation of the Baron de Berghem forto-morrow, and accordingly, himself, Lords Castlefort and Dice, andTemple Grace assembled in Brunswick Terrace at the usual hour. Thedinner was studiously plain, and very little wine was drunk; yeteverything was perfect. Tom Cogit stepped in to carve in his usualsilent manner. He always came in and went out of a room without anyoneobserving him. He winked familiarly to Temple Grace, but scarcelypresumed to bow to the Duke. He was very busy about the wine, anddressed the wild fowl in a manner quite unparalleled. He took particularcare to send a most perfect portion to the young Duke, and he did this, as he paid all attentions to influential strangers, with the most markedconsciousness of the sufferance which permitted his presence: neveraddressing his Grace, but audibly whispering to the servant, "Take thisto the Duke"; or asking the attendant, "whether his Grace would try theHermitage?"

After dinner, with the exception of Cogit, who was busied in compoundingsome wonderful liquid for the future refreshment, they sat down to_écarté_. Without having exchanged a word upon the subject, there seemeda general understanding among all the parties that to-night was to be apitched battle, and they began at once, briskly. Yet, in spite of theiruniversal determination, midnight arrived without anything decisive. Another hour passed over, and then Tom Cogit kept touching the Baron'selbow and whispering in a voice which everybody could understand. Allthis meant that supper was ready. It was brought into the room. 

Gaming has one advantage, it gives you an appetite; that is to say, solong as you have a chance remaining. The Duke had thousands; for atpresent his resources were unimpared, and he was exhausted by theconstant attention and anxiety of five hours. He passed over thedelicacies and went to the side-table, and began cutting himself somecold roast beef. Tom Cogit ran up, not to his Grace, but to the Baron, to announce the shocking fact that the Duke of St. James was enduringgreat trouble; and then the Baron asked his Grace to permit Mr. Cogit toserve him. Our hero devoured: we use the word advisedly, as fools say inthe House of Commons: he devoured the roast beef, and rejecting theHermitage with disgust, asked for porter. 

They set to again fresh as eagles. At six o'clock accounts were socomplicated that they stopped to make up their books. Each played withhis memoranda and pencil at his side. Nothing fatal had yet happened. The Duke owed Lord Dice about five thousand pounds, and Temple Graceowed him as many hundreds. Lord Castlefort also was his debtor to thetune of seven hundred and fifty, and the Baron was in his books, butslightly. Every half-hour they had a new pack of cards, and threw theused one on the floor. All this time Tom Cogit did nothing but snuff thecandles, stir the fire, bring them a new pack, and occasionally make atumbler for them. At eight o'clock the Duke's situation was worsened. The run was greatly against him, and perhaps his losses were doubled. Hepulled up again the next hour or two; but nevertheless, at ten o'clock, owed every one something. No one offered to give over; and everyone, perhaps, felt that his object was not obtained. They made their toiletsand went down-stairs to breakfast. In the meantime the shutters wereopened, the room aired, and in less than an hour they were at it again. 

They played till dinner-time without intermission; and though the Dukemade some desperate efforts, and some successful ones, his losses were, nevertheless, trebled. Yet he ate an excellent dinner and was not at alldepressed; because the more he lost, the more his courage and hisresources seemed to expand. At first he had limited himself to tenthousand; after breakfast it was to have been twenty thousand; thenthirty thousand was the ultimatum; and now he dismissed all thoughts oflimits from his mind, and was determined to risk or gain everything. 

At midnight, he had lost forty-eight thousand pounds. Affairs now beganto be serious. His supper was not so hearty. While the rest were eating, he walked about the room, and began to limit his ambition to recovery, and not to gain. When you play to win back, the fun is over: there isnothing to recompense you for your bodily tortures and your degradedfeelings; and the very best result that can happen, while it has nocharms, seems to your cowed mind impossible. 

On they played, and the Duke lost more. His mind was jaded. Hefloundered, he made desperate efforts, but plunged deeper in theslough. Feeling that, to regain his ground, each card must tell, heacted on each as if it must win, and the consequences of thisinsanity (for a gamester at such a crisis is really insane) were, that his losses were prodigious. 

Another morning came, and there they sat, ankle-deep in cards. Noattempt at breakfast now, no affectation of making a toilet or airingthe room. The atmosphere was hot, to be sure, but it well became sucha Hell. There they sat, in total, in positive forgetfulness ofeverything but the hot game they were hunting down. There was not aman in the room, except Tom Cogit, who could have told you the name ofthe town in which they were living. There they sat, almost breathless, watching every turn with the fell look in their cannibal eyes whichshowed their total inability to sympathize with their fellow-beings. All forms of society had been long forgotten. There was no snuff-boxhanded about now, for courtesy, admiration, or a pinch; no affectationof occasionally making a remark upon any other topic but theall-engrossing one. Lord Castlefort rested with his arms on the table:a false tooth had got unhinged. His Lordship, who, at any other time, would have been most annoyed, coolly put it in his pocket. His cheekshad fallen, and he looked twenty years older. Lord Dice had torn offhis cravat, and his hair hung down over his callous, bloodless cheeks, straight as silk. Temple Grace looked as if he were blighted bylightning; and his deep blue eyes gleamed like a hyena's. The Baronwas least changed. Tom Cogit, who smelt that the crisis was at hand, was as quiet as a bribed rat. 

On they played till six o'clock in the evening, and then they agreed todesist till after dinner. Lord Dice threw himself on a sofa. LordCastlefort breathed with difficulty. The rest walked about. While theywere resting on their oars, the young Duke roughly made up his accounts. He found that he was minus about one hundred thousand pounds. 

Immense as this loss was, he was more struck, more appalled, let ussay, at the strangeness of the surrounding scene, than even by his ownruin. As he looked upon his fellow gamesters, he seemed, for the firsttime in his life, to gaze upon some of those hideous demons of whom hehad read. He looked in the mirror at himself. A blight seemed to havefallen over his beauty, and his presence seemed accursed. He hadpursued a dissipated, even more than a dissipated career. Many werethe nights that had been spent by him not on his couch; great had beenthe exhaustion that he had often experienced; haggard had sometimeseven been the lustre of his youth. But when had been marked upon hisbrow this harrowing care? when had his features before been stampedwith this anxiety, this anguish, this baffled desire, this strangeunearthly scowl, which made him even tremble? What! was it possible?it could not be, that in time he was to be like those awful, thoseunearthly, those unhallowed things that were around him. He felt as ifhe had fallen from his state, as if he had dishonored his ancestry, asif he had betrayed his trust. He felt a criminal. In the darkness ofhis meditations a flash burst from his lurid mind, a celestial lightappeared to dissipate this thickening gloom, and his soul felt as ifit were bathed with the softening radiancy. He thought of May Dacre, he thought of everything that was pure, and holy, and beautiful, andluminous, and calm. It was the innate virtue of the man that made thisappeal to his corrupted nature. His losses seemed nothing; his dukedomwould be too slight a ransom for freedom from these ghouls, and forthe breath of the sweet air. 

He advanced to the Baron, and expressed his desire to play no more. There was an immediate stir. All jumped up, and now the deed was done. Cant, in spite of their exhaustion, assumed her reign. They begged himto have his revenge, were quite annoyed at the result, had no doubt hewould recover if he proceeded. Without noticing their remarks, he seatedhimself at the table, and wrote cheques for their respective amounts, Tom Cogit jumping up and bringing him the inkstand. Lord Castlefort, inthe most affectionate manner, pocketed the draft; at the same timerecommending the Duke not to be in a hurry, but to send it when he wascool. Lord Dice received his with a bow, Temple Grace with a sigh, theBaron with an avowal of his readiness always to give him his revenge. 

The Duke, though sick at heart, would not leave the room with anyevidence of a broken spirit; and when Lord Castlefort again repeated, "Pay us when we meet again, " he said, "I think it very improbable thatwe shall meet again, my Lord. I wished to know what gaming was. I hadheard a great deal about it. It is not so very disgusting; but I am ayoung man, and cannot play tricks with my complexion. "

He reached his house. He gave orders for himself not to be disturbed, and he went to bed; but in vain he tried to sleep. What rack exceeds thetorture of an excited brain and an exhausted body? His hands and feetwere like ice, his brow like fire; his ears rung with supernaturalroaring; a nausea had seized upon him, and death he would have welcomed. In vain, in vain he courted repose; in vain, in vain he had recourse toevery expedient to wile himself to slumber. Each minute he started fromhis pillow with some phrase which reminded him of his late fearfulsociety. Hour after hour moved on with its leaden pace; each hour heheard strike, and each hour seemed an age. Each hour was only a signalto cast off some covering, or shift his position. It was, at length, morning. With a feeling that he should go mad if he remained any longerin bed, he rose, and paced his chamber. The air refreshed him. He threwhimself on the floor; the cold crept over his senses, and he slept. 

LXVI. THE PICKWICKIANS DISPORT THEMSELVES ON ICE. [O]

CHARLES DICKENS. --1812-1870. 

_From_ THE POSTHUMOUS PAPERS OF THE PICKWICK CLUB. 

"Now, " said Wardle, after a substantial lunch had been done amplejustice to; "what say you to an hour on the ice? We shall have plentyof time. "

"Capital!" said Mr. Benjamin Allen. 

"Prime!" ejaculated Mr. Bob Sawyer. 

"You skate, of course, Winkle?" said Wardle. 

"Ye-yes; oh, yes, " replied Mr. Winkle. "I--I--am _rather_ out ofpractice. "

"Oh, _do_ skate, Mr. Winkle, " said Arabella. "I like to see it so much. "

"Oh, it is _so_ graceful, " said another young lady. 

A third young lady said it was elegant, and a fourth expressed heropinion that it was "swan-like. "

"I should be very happy, I'm sure, " said Mr. Winkle, reddening; "but Ihave no skates. "

This objection was at once over-ruled. Trundle had a couple of pair, andthe fat boy announced that there were half a dozen more down stairs:whereat Mr. Winkle expressed exquisite delight, and looked exquisitelyuncomfortable. 

Old Wardle led the way to a pretty large sheet of ice; and the fat boyand Mr. Weller, having shovelled and swept away the snow which hadfallen on it during the night, Mr. Bob Sawyer adjusted his skates with adexterity which to Mr. Winkle was perfectly marvellous, and describedcircles with his left leg, and cut figures of eight, and inscribed uponthe ice, without once stopping for breath, a great many other pleasantand astonishing devices, to the excessive satisfaction of Mr. Pickwick, Mr. Tupman, and the ladies: which reached a pitch of positiveenthusiasm, when old Wardle and Benjamin Allen, assisted by theaforesaid Bob Sawyer, performed some mystic evolutions, which theycalled a reel. 

All this time, Mr. Winkle, with his face and hands blue with the cold, had been forcing a gimlet into the soles of his feet, and putting hisskates on, with the points behind, and getting the straps into a verycomplicated and entangled state, with the assistance of Mr. Snodgrass, who knew rather less about skates than a Hindoo. At length, however, with the assistance of Mr. Weller, the unfortunate skates were firmlyscrewed and buckled on, and Mr. Winkle was raised to his feet. 

"Now, then, sir, " said Sam, in an encouraging tone; "off vith you, andshow 'em how to do it. "

"Stop, Sam, stop!" said Mr. Winkle, trembling violently, and clutchinghold of Sam's arms with the grasp of a drowning man. "How slippery itis, Sam!"

"Not an uncommon thing upon ice, sir, " replied Mr. Weller. "Hold up, sir!"

This last observation of Mr. Weller's bore reference to a demonstrationMr. Winkle made at the instant, of a frantic desire to throw his feet inthe air, and dash the back of his head on the ice. 

"These--these--are very awkward skates; ain't they, Sam?" inquired Mr. Winkle, staggering. 

"I'm afeerd there's a orkard gen'l'm'n in 'em, sir, " replied Sam. 

"Now, Winkle, " cried Mr. Pickwick, quite unconscious that there wasanything the matter. "Come; the ladies are all anxiety. "

"Yes, yes, " replied Mr. Winkle, with a ghastly smile. "I'm coming. "

"Just a goin' to begin, " said Sam, endeavoring to disengage himself. "Now, sir, start off!"

"Stop an instant, Sam, " gasped Mr. Winkle, clinging most affectionatelyto Mr. Weller. "I find I've got a couple of coats at home that I don'twant, Sam. You may have them, Sam. "

"Thank'ee, sir, " replied Mr. Weller. 

"Never mind touching your hat, Sam, " said Mr. Winkle, hastily. "Youneedn't take your hand away to do that. I meant to have given you fiveshillings this morning for a Christmas-box, Sam. I'll give it you thisafternoon, Sam. "

"You're wery good, sir, " replied Mr. Weller. 

"Just hold me at first, Sam; will you?" said Mr. Winkle. "There--that'sright. I shall soon get in the way of it, Sam. Not too fast, Sam; nottoo fast. "

Mr. Winkle stooping forward, with his body half doubled up, was beingassisted over the ice by Mr. Weller, in a very singular and un-swan-likemanner, when Mr. Pickwick most innocently shouted from the oppositebank:

"Sam!"

"Sir?"

"Here. I want you. "

"Let go, sir, " said Sam. "Don't you hear the governor a callin'? Letgo, sir. "

With a violent effort, Mr. Weller disengaged himself from the grasp ofthe agonized Pickwickian, and, in so doing, administered a considerableimpetus to the unhappy Mr. Winkle. With an accuracy which no degree ofdexterity or practice could have insured, that unfortunate gentlemanbore swiftly down into the centre of the reel, at the very moment whenMr. Bob Sawyer was performing a flourish of unparalleled beauty. Mr. Winkle struck wildly against him, and with a loud crash they both fellheavily down. Mr. Pickwick ran to the spot. Bob Sawyer had risen to hisfeet, but Mr. Winkle was far too wise to do anything of the kind, inskates. He was seated on the ice, making spasmodic efforts to smile;but anguish was depicted on every lineament of his countenance. 

"Are you hurt?" inquired Mr. Benjamin Allen, with great anxiety. 

"Not much, " said Mr. Winkle, rubbing his back very hard. 

"I wish you'd let me bleed you, " said Mr. Benjamin, with greateagerness. 

"No, thank you, " replied Mr. Winkle hurriedly. 

"I really think you had better, " said Allen. 

"Thank you, " replied Mr. Winkle; "I'd rather not. "

"What do _you_ think, Mr. Pickwick?" inquired Bob Sawyer. 

Mr. Pickwick was excited and indignant. He beckoned to Mr. Weller, andsaid in a stern voice, "Take his skates off. "

"No; but really I had scarcely begun, " remonstrated Mr. Winkle. 

"Take his skates off, " repeated Mr. Pickwick firmly. 

The command was not to be resisted. Mr. Winkle allowed Sam to obey it insilence. 

"Lift him up, " said Mr. Pickwick. Sam assisted him to rise. 

Mr. Pickwick retired a few paces apart from the bystanders; andbeckoning his friend to approach, fixed a searching look upon him, and uttered in a low, but distinct and emphatic tone, theseremarkable words:

"You're a humbug, sir. "

"A what?" said Mr. Winkle, starting. 

"A humbug, sir. I will speak plainer, if you wish it. An impostor, sir. "

With these words, Mr. Pickwick turned slowly on his heel, and rejoinedhis friends. 

While Mr. Pickwick was delivering himself of the sentiment justrecorded, Mr. Weller and the fat boy, having by their joint endeavorscut out a slide, were exercising themselves thereupon, in a verymasterly and brilliant manner. Sam Weller, in particular, was displayingthat beautiful feat of fancy-sliding which is currently denominated"knocking at the cobbler's door, " and which is achieved by skimming overthe ice on one foot, and occasionally giving a postman's knock upon itwith the other. It was a good long slide, and there was something in themotion which Mr. Pickwick, who was very cold with standing still, couldnot help envying. 

"It looks a nice warm exercise that, doesn't it?" he inquired of Wardle, when that gentleman was thoroughly out of breath, by reason of theindefatigable manner in which he had converted his legs into a pair ofcompasses, and drawn complicated problems on the ice. 

"Ah, it does indeed, " replied Wardle. "Do you slide?"

"I used to do so on the gutters, when I was a boy, " repliedMr. Pickwick. 

"Try it now, " said Wardle. 

"Oh do, please, Mr. Pickwick!" cried all the ladies. 

"I should be very happy to afford you any amusement, " replied Mr. Pickwick, "but I haven't done such a thing these thirty years. "

"Pooh! pooh! Nonsense!" said Wardle, dragging off his skates with theimpetuosity which characterized all his proceedings. "Here; I'll keepyou company; come along!" And away went the good tempered old fellowdown the slide, with a rapidity which came very close upon Mr. Weller, and beat the fat boy all to nothing. 

Mr. Pickwick paused, considered, pulled off his gloves and put them inhis hat: took two or three short runs, baulked himself as often, and atlast took another run, and went slowly and gravely down the slide, withhis feet about a yard and a quarter apart, amidst the gratified shoutsof all the spectators. 

"Keep the pot a bilin', sir!" said Sam; and down went Wardle again, andthen Mr. Pickwick, and then Sam, and then Mr. Winkle, and then Mr. BobSawyer, and then the fat boy, and then Mr. Snodgrass, following closelyupon each other's heels, and running after each other with as mucheagerness as if all their future prospects in life depended on theirexpedition. 

It was the most intensely interesting thing, to observe the manner inwhich Mr. Pickwick performed his share in the ceremony; to watch thetorture of anxiety with which he viewed the person behind, gaining uponhim at the imminent hazard of tripping him up; to see him graduallyexpend the painful force he had put on at first, and turn slowly roundon the slide, with his face towards the point from which he had started;to contemplate the playful smile which mantled on his face when he hadaccomplished the distance, and the eagerness with which he turned roundwhen he had done so, and ran after his predecessor: his black gaiterstripping pleasantly through the snow, and his eyes beaming cheerfulnessand gladness through his spectacles. And when he was knocked down (whichhappened upon the average every third round), it was the mostinvigorating sight that can possibly be imagined, to behold him gatherup his hat, gloves, and handkerchief, with a glowing countenance, andresume his station in the rank, with an ardor and enthusiasm thatnothing could abate. 

The sport was at its height, the sliding was at the quickest, thelaughter was at the loudest, when a sharp smart crack was heard. Therewas a quick rush towards the bank, a wild scream from the ladies, and ashout from Mr. Tupman. A large mass of ice disappeared; the waterbubbled up over it; Mr. Pickwick's hat, gloves, and handkerchief werefloating on the surface; and this was all of Mr. Pickwick that anybodycould see. 

Dismay and anguish were depicted on every countenance, the males turnedpale, and the females fainted, Mr. Snodgrass and Mr. Winkle graspedeach other by the hand, and gazed at the spot where their leader hadgone down, with frenzied eagerness: while Mr. Tupman, by way ofrendering the promptest assistance, and at the same time conveying toany persons who might be within hearing, the clearest possible notion ofthe catastrophe, ran off across the country at his utmost speed, screaming "Fire!" with all his might. 

It was at this moment, when old Wardle and Sam Weller were approachingthe hole with cautious steps, and Mr. Benjamin Allen was holding ahurried consultation with Mr. Bob Sawyer on the advisability of bleedingthe company generally, as an improving little bit of professionalpractice--it was at this very moment, that a face, head, and shoulders, emerged from beneath the water, and disclosed the features andspectacles of Mr. Pickwick. 

"Keep yourself up for an instant--for only one instant!" bawled Mr. Snodgrass. 

"Yes, do; let me implore you--for my sake!" roared Mr. Winkle, deeplyaffected. The adjuration was rather unnecessary; the probability being, that if Mr. Pickwick had declined to keep himself up for anybody else'ssake, it would have occurred to him that he might as well do so, forhis own. 

"Do you feel the bottom there, old fellow?" said Wardle. 

"Yes, certainly, " replied Mr. Pickwick, wringing the water from his headand face, and gasping for breath. "I fell upon my back. I couldn't geton my feet at first. "

The clay upon so much of Mr. Pickwick's coat as was yet visible, boretestimony to the accuracy of this statement; and as the fears of thespectators were still further relieved by the fat boy's suddenlyrecollecting that the water was nowhere more than five feet deep, prodigies of valor were performed to get him out. After a vast quantityof splashing, and cracking, and struggling, Mr. Pickwick was at lengthfairly extricated from his unpleasant position, and once more stood ondry land. 

"Oh, he'll catch his death of cold, " said Emily. 

"Dear old thing!" said Arabella. "Let me wrap this shawl round you, Mr. Pickwick. "

"Ah, that's the best thing you can do, " said Wardle; "and when you'vegot it on, run home as fast as your legs can carry you, and jump intobed directly. "

A dozen shawls were offered on the instant. Three or four of thethickest having been selected, Mr. Pickwick was wrapped up, andstarted off, under the guidance of Mr. Weller: presenting thesingular phenomenon of an elderly gentleman, dripping wet, andwithout a hat, with his arms bound down to his sides, skimmingover the ground, without any clearly defined purpose, at therate of six good English miles an hour. 

But Mr. Pickwick cared not for appearances in such an extreme case, andurged on by Sam Weller, he kept at the very top of his speed until hereached the door of Manor Farm, where Mr. Tupman had arrived some fiveminutes before, and had frightened the old lady into palpitations of theheart by impressing her with the unalterable conviction that the kitchenchimney was on fire--a calamity which always presented itself in glowingcolors to the old lady's mind, when anybody about her evinced thesmallest agitation. 

Mr. Pickwick paused not an instant until he was snug in bed. Sam Wellerlighted a blazing fire in his room, and took up his dinner, andafterwards a great rejoicing was held in honor of his safety. 

FOOTNOTES:

[O] MR. PICKWICK, a benevolent, simple-minded old gentleman, is thefounder of the Pickwick Club. He and three other members, Mr. Winkle, Mr. Snodgrass, and Mr. Tupman, form the Corresponding Society of theclub, and they travel over England together, meeting with manylaughable adventures. They are accompanied by Samuel Weller, Mr. Pickwick's servant, an inimitable compound of cool impudence, quainthumor, and fidelity. The Pickwickians have accepted the invitation ofMr. Wardle, of Manor Farm, Dingley Dell, to be present at themarriage of his daughter, Isabella, to Mr. Trundle. Among the guestsare also Mr. Bob Sawyer and Mr. Benjamin Allen, two medical students, and Mr. Allen's sister, Arabella. Other members of Mr. Wardle'shousehold are Mr. Wardle's mother, the "old lady" of Manor Farm, hisdaughter, Emily, and Joe, a servant lad, known as the "fat boy. " Thewedding takes place on the twenty-third of December, and then followthe Christmas festivities, of which the skating forms a part. 

LXVII. THE HANGING OF THE CRANE. 

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. --1807-1882. 

I. 

 The lights are out, and gone are all the guests That thronging came with merriment and jests To celebrate the Hanging of the Crane In the new house, --into the night are gone; But still the fire upon the hearth burns on, And I alone remain. 

 O fortunate, O happy day, When a new household finds its place Among the myriad homes of earth, Like a new star just sprung to birth, And roll'd on its harmonious way Into the boundless realms of space! So said the guests in speech and song, As in the chimney, burning bright, We hung the iron crane to-night, And merry was the feast and long. 

II. 

 And now I sit and muse on what may be, And in my vision see, or seem to see, Through floating vapors interfused with light, Shapes indeterminate, that gleam and fade, As shadows passing into deeper shade Sink and elude the sight. 

 For two alone, there in the hall, Is spread the table round and small; Upon the polish'd silver shine The evening lamps, but, more divine, The light of love shines over all; Of love, that says not mine and thine, But ours, for ours is thine and mine. 

 They want no guests, to come between Their tender glances like a screen, And tell them tales of land and sea, And whatsoever may betide The great, forgotten world outside; They want no guests; they needs must be Each other's own best company. 

III. 

 The picture fades; as at a village fair A showman's views, dissolving into air, Again appear transfigured on the screen, So in my fancy this; and now once more, In part transfigured, through the open door Appears the selfsame scene. 

 Seated, I see the two again, But not alone; they entertain A little angel unaware, With face as round as is the moon; A royal guest with flaxen hair, Who, throned upon his lofty chair, Drums on the table with his spoon, Then drops it careless on the floor, To grasp at things unseen before. 

 Are these celestial manners? these The ways that win, the arts that please? Ah yes; consider well the guest, And whatsoe'er he does seems best; He ruleth by the right divine Of helplessness, so lately born In purple chambers of the morn, As sovereign over thee and thine. He speaketh not; and yet there lies A conversation in his eyes; The golden silence of the Greek, The gravest wisdom of the wise, Not spoken in language, but in looks More legible than printed books, As if he could but would not speak. And now, O monarch absolute, Thy power is put to proof; for, lo! Resistless, fathomless, and slow, The nurse comes rustling like the sea, And pushes back thy chair and thee, And so good night to King Canute. 

IV. 

 As one who walking in a forest sees A lovely landscape through the parted trees, Then sees it not, for boughs that intervene; Or, as we see the moon sometimes reveal'd Through drifting clouds, and then again conceal'd, So I behold the scene. 

 There are two guests at table now; The king, deposed and older grown, No longer occupies the throne, -- The crown is on his sister's brow; A Princess from the Fairy Isles, The very pattern girl of girls, All cover'd and embower'd in curls, Rose-tinted from the Isle of Flowers, And sailing with soft, silken sails From far-off Dreamland into ours. Above their bowls with rims of blue Four azure eyes of deeper hue Are looking, dreamy with delight; Limpid as planets that emerge Above the ocean's rounded verge, Soft-shining through the summer night. Steadfast they gaze, yet nothing see Beyond the horizon of their bowls; Nor care they for the world that rolls With all its freight of troubled souls Into the days that are to be. 

V. 

 Again the tossing boughs shut out the scene, Again the drifting vapors intervene, And the moon's pallid disk is hidden quite: And now I see the table wider grown, As round a pebble into water thrown Dilates a ring of light. 

 I see the table wider grown, I see it garlanded with guests, As if fair Ariadne's Crown Out of the sky had fallen down; Maidens within whose tender breasts A thousand restless hopes and fears, Forth reaching to the coming years, Flutter awhile, then quiet lie, Like timid birds that fain would fly, But do not dare to leave their nests;-- And youths, who in their strength elate Challenge the van and front of fate, Eager as champions to be In the divine knight-errantry Of youth, that travels sea and land Seeking adventures, or pursues, Through cities, and through solitudes Frequented by the lyric Muse, The phantom with the beckoning hand, That still allures and still eludes. O sweet illusions of the brain! O sudden thrills of fire and frost! The world is bright while ye remain, And dark and dead when ye are lost!

VI. 

 The meadow-brook, that seemeth to stand still, Quickens its current as it nears the mill; And so the stream of Time that lingereth In level places, and so dull appears, Runs with a swifter current as it nears The gloomy mills of Death. 

 And now, like the magician's scroll, That in the owner's keeping shrinks With every wish he speaks or thinks, Till the last wish consumes the whole, The table dwindles, and again I see the two alone remain. The crown of stars is broken in parts; Its jewels, brighter than the day, Have one by one been stolen away To shine in other homes and hearts. One is a wanderer now afar In Ceylon or in Zanzibar, Or sunny regions of Cathay; And one is in the boisterous camp Mid clink of arms and horses' tramp, And battle's terrible array. I see the patient mother read, With aching heart, of wrecks that float Disabled on those seas remote, Or of some great heroic deed On battle-fields, where thousands bleed To lift one hero into fame. Anxious she bends her graceful head Above these chronicles of pain, And trembles with a secret dread Lest there among the drown'd or slain She find the one belovèd name. 

VII. 

 After a day of cloud and wind and rain Sometimes the setting sun breaks out again, And, touching all the darksome woods with light. Smiles on the fields, until they laugh and sing, Then like a ruby from the horizon's ring Drops down into the night. 

 What see I now? The night is fair, The storm of grief, the clouds of care, The wind, the rain, have pass'd away; The lamps are lit, the fires burn bright, The house is full of life and light: It is the Golden Wedding day. The guests come thronging in once more, Quick footsteps sound along the floor, The trooping children crowd the stair, And in and out and everywhere Flashes along the corridor The sunshine of their golden hair. 

 On the round table in the hall Another Ariadne's Crown Out of the sky hath fallen down; More than one Monarch of the Moon Is drumming with his silver spoon; The light of love shines over all. 

 O fortunate, O happy day! The people sing, the people say. The ancient bridegroom and the bride, Smiling contented and serene, Upon the blithe, bewildering scene, Behold, well pleas'd, on every side Their forms and features multiplied, As the reflection of a light Between two burnish'd mirrors gleams, Or lamps upon a bridge at night Stretch on and on before the sight, Till the long vista endless seems. 

LXVIII. EARTHWORMS. 

CHARLES DARWIN--1809-1882. 

_From_ THE FORMATION OF VEGETABLE MOULD THROUGH THE ACTION OF WORMS. 

Worms have played a more important part in the history of the world thanmost persons would at first suppose. In almost all humid countries theyare extraordinarily numerous, and for their size possess great muscularpower. In many parts of England a weight of more than ten tons of dryearth annually passes through their bodies and is brought to the surfaceon each acre of land; so that the whole superficial bed of vegetablemould passes through their bodies in the course of every few years. Fromthe collapsing of the old burrows the mould is in constant though slowmovement, and the particles composing it are thus rubbed together. Bythese means fresh surfaces are continually exposed to the action of thecarbonic acid in the soil, and of the humus-acids which appear to bestill more efficient in the decomposition of rocks. The generation ofthe humus-acids is probably hastened during the digestion of the manyhalf-decayed leaves which worms consume. Thus the particles of earth, forming the superficial mould, are subjected to conditions eminentlyfavorable for their decomposition and disintegration. Moreover, theparticles of the softer rocks suffer some amount of mechanicaltrituration in the muscular gizzards of worms, in which small stonesserve as mill-stones. .. . 

Archæologists ought to be grateful to worms, as they protect andpreserve for an indefinitely long period every object, not liable todecay, which is dropped on the surface of the land, by burying itbeneath their castings. Thus, also, many elegant and curious tesselatedpavements and other ancient remains have been preserved; though no doubtthe worms have in these cases been largely aided by earth washed andblown from the adjoining land, especially when cultivated. The oldtesselated pavements have, however, often suffered by having subsidedunequally from being unequally undermined by the worms. Even old massivewalls may be undermined and subside; and no building is in this respectsafe, unless the foundations lie six or seven feet beneath the surface, at a depth at which worms cannot work. It is probable that manymonoliths and some old walls have fallen down from having beenundermined by worms. 

Worms prepare the ground in an excellent manner for the growth offibrous-rooted plants and for seedlings of all kinds. They periodicallyexpose the mould to the air, and sift it so that no stones larger thanthe particles which they can swallow are left in it. They mingle thewhole intimately together, like a gardener who prepares fine soil forhis choicest plants. In this state it is well fitted to retain moistureand to absorb all soluble substances, as well as for the process ofnitrification. The bones of dead animals, the harder parts of insects, the shells of land-molluscs, leaves, twigs, etc. , are before long allburied beneath the accumulated castings of worms, and are thus broughtin a more or less decayed state within reach of the roots of plants. Worms likewise drag an infinite number of dead leaves and other parts ofplants into their burrows, partly for the sake of plugging them up andpartly as food. 

The leaves which are dragged into the burrows as food, after beingtorn into the finest shreds, partially digested, and saturated withthe intestinal secretions, are commingled with much earth. Thisearth forms the dark-colored, rich humus which almost everywherecovers the surface of the land with a fairly well-defined layer ormantle. Von Hensen placed two worms in a vessel eighteen inches indiameter, which was filled with sand, on which fallen leaves werestrewed; and these were soon dragged into their burrows to a depthof three inches. After about six weeks an almost uniform layer ofsand, a centimetre (. 4 inch) in thickness, was converted into humusby having passed through the alimentary canals of these two worms. It is believed by some persons that worm-burrows, which oftenpenetrate the ground almost perpendicularly to a depth of five orsix feet, materially aid in its drainage; notwithstanding that theviscid castings piled over the mouths of the burrows prevent orcheck the rain-water directly entering them. They allow the air topenetrate deeply into the ground. They also greatly facilitate thedownward passage of roots of moderate size; and these will benourished by the humus with which the burrows are lined. Many seedsowe their germination to having been covered by castings; and othersburied to a considerable depth beneath accumulated castings liedormant, until at some future time they are accidentally uncoveredand germinate. 

Worms are poorly provided with sense-organs, for they cannot be said tosee, although they can just distinguish between light and darkness; theyare completely deaf, and have only a feeble power of smell; the sense oftouch alone is well developed. They can therefore learn little about theoutside world, and it is surprising that they should exhibit some skillin lining their burrows with their castings and with leaves, and in thecase of some species in piling up their castings into tower-likeconstructions. But it is far more surprising that they should apparentlyexhibit some degree of intelligence instead of a mere blind instinctiveimpulse, in their manner of plugging up the mouths of their burrows. They act in nearly the same manner as would a man, who had to close acylindrical tube with different kinds of leaves, petioles, triangles ofpaper, etc. , for they commonly seize such objects by their pointed ends. But with thin objects a certain number are drawn in by their broaderends. They do not act in the same unvarying manner in all cases, as domost of the lower animals; for instance, they do not drag in leaves bytheir foot-stalks, unless the basal part of the blade is as narrow asthe apex, or narrower than it. 

When we behold a wide, turf-covered expanse, we should remember that itssmoothness, on which so much of its beauty depends, is mainly due to allthe inequalities having been slowly levelled by worms. It is amarvellous reflection that the whole of the superficial mould over anysuch expanse has passed, and will again pass, every few years, throughthe bodies of worms. The plough is one of the most ancient and mostvaluable of man's inventions; but long before he existed the land was infact regularly ploughed, and still continues to be thus ploughed byearth-worms. It may be doubted whether there are many other animalswhich have played so important a part in the history of the world, ashave these lowly organized creatures. 

LXIX. "AS SHIPS, BECALMED AT EVE. "

ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH. --1819-1861. 

 As ships, becalm'd at eve, that lay With canvas drooping, side by side, Two towers of sail at dawn of day Are scarce long leagues apart descried;

 When fell the night, upsprung the breeze, And all the darkling hours they plied, Nor dreamt but each the self-same seas By each was cleaving, side by side:

 E'en so--but why the tale reveal Of those, whom year by year unchanged, Brief absence join'd anew to feel, Astounded, soul from soul estranged?

 At dead of night their sails were fill'd, And onward each rejoicing steer'd-- Ah, neither blame, for neither will'd, Or wist, what first with dawn appear'd!

 To veer, how vain! On, onward strain, Brave barks! In light, in darkness too, Through winds and tides one compass guides-- To that, and your own selves, be true. 

 But O blithe breeze! and O great seas, Though ne'er, that earliest parting past, On your wide plain they join again, Together lead them home at last. 

 One port, methought, alike they sought, One purpose hold where'er they fare, -- O bounding breeze, O rushing seas! At last, at last, unite them there. 

LXX. DUTY. 

ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH. 

 Duty--that's to say, complying With whate'er's expected here; On your unknown cousin's dying, Straight be ready with the tear; Upon etiquette relying, Unto usage nought denying, Lend your waist to be embraced, Blush not even, never fear; Claims of kith and kin connection, Claims of manners honor still, Ready money of affection Pay, whoever drew the bill. With the form conforming duly, Senseless what it meaneth truly, Go to church--the world require you, To balls--the world require you too, And marry--papa and mamma desire you, And your sisters and schoolfellows do. 

 Duty--'tis to take on trust What things are good, and right, and just; And whether indeed they be or be not, Try not, test not, feel not, see not: 'Tis walk and dance, sit down and rise By leading, opening ne'er your eyes; Stunt sturdy limbs that Nature gave, And be drawn in a Bath chair along to the grave. 

 'Tis the stern and prompt suppressing, As an obvious deadly sin, All the questing and the guessing Of the soul's own soul within: 'Tis the coward acquiescence In a destiny's behest, To a shade by terror made, Sacrificing, aye, the essence Of all that's truest, noblest, best: 'Tis the blind non-recognition Or of goodness, truth, or beauty, Save by precept and submission; Moral blank, and moral void, Life at very birth destroy'd. Atrophy, exinanition! Duty! Yea, by duty's prime condition Pure nonentity of duty!

LXXI. SONNETS. 

CHARLES HEAVYSEGE. --1816-1876. 

I. 

 The day was lingering in the pale north-west, And night was hanging o'er my head, -- Night where a myriad stars were spread; While down in the east, where the light was least, Seem'd the home of the quiet dead. And, as I gazed on the field sublime, To watch the bright, pulsating stars, Adown the deep where the angels sleep Came drawn the golden chime Of those great spheres that sound the years For the horologe of time. Millenniums numberless they told, Millenniums a million-fold From the ancient hour of prime. 

II. 

 The stars are glittering in the frosty sky, Frequent as pebbles on a broad sea-coast; And o'er the vault the cloud-like galaxy Has marshall'd its innumerable host. Alive all heaven seems! with wondrous glow Tenfold refulgent every star appears, As if some wide, celestial gale did blow, And thrice illume the ever-kindled spheres. Orbs, with glad orbs rejoicing, burning, beam, Ray-crown'd, with lambent lustre in their zones, Till o'er the blue, bespangled spaces seem Angels and great archangels on their thrones; A host divine, whose eyes are sparkling gems, And forms more bright than diamond diadems. 

III. 

 Hush'd in a calm beyond mine utterance, See in the western sky the evening spread; Suspended in its pale, serene expanse, Like scatter'd flames, the glowing cloudlets red. Clear are those clouds; and that pure sky's profound, Transparent as a lake of hyaline; Nor motion, nor the faintest breath of sound, Disturbs the steadfast beauty of the scene. Far o'er the vault, the winnow'd welkin wide, From the bronzed east unto the whiten'd west, Moor'd, seem, in their sweet, tranquil, roseate pride, Those clouds the fabled islands of the blest;-- The lands where pious spirits breathe in joy, And love and worship all their hours employ. 

LXXII. DOCTOR ARNOLD AT RUGBY. 

ARTHUR PENRHYN STANLEY. --1815-1880. 

With his usual and undoubting confidence in what he believed to be ageneral law of Providence, he based his whole management of the schoolon his early-formed and yearly-increasing conviction that what he had tolook for, both intellectually and morally, was not performance butpromise; that the very freedom and independence of school life, which initself he thought so dangerous, might be made the best preparation forChristian manhood; and he did not hesitate to apply to his scholars theprinciple which seemed to him to have been adopted in the training ofthe childhood of the human race itself. He shrunk from pressing on theconscience of boys rules of action which he felt they were not yet ableto bear, and from enforcing actions which, though right in themselves, would in boys be performed from wrong motives. Keenly as he felt therisk and fatal consequences of the failure of this trial, still it washis great, sometimes his only support to believe that "the character isbraced amid such scenes to a greater beauty and firmness than it evercan attain without enduring and witnessing them. Our work here would beabsolutely unendurable if we did not bear in mind that we should lookforward as well as backward--if we did not remember that the victory offallen man lies not in innocence but in tried virtue. " "I hold fast, " hesaid, "to the great truth, that 'blessed is he that overcometh;'" and hewrites in 1837: "Of all the painful things connected with my employment, nothing is equal to the grief of seeing a boy come to school innocentand promising, and tracing the corruption of his character from theinfluence of the temptations around him, in the very place which oughtto have strengthened and improved it. But in most cases those who comewith a character of positive good are benefited; it is the neutral andindecisive characters which are apt to be decided for evil by schools, as they would be in fact by any other temptation. "

But this very feeling led him with the greater eagerness to catch atevery means by which the trial might be shortened or alleviated. "Canthe change from childhood to manhood be hastened, without prematurelyexhausting the faculties of body or mind?" was one of the chiefquestions on which his mind was constantly at work, and which in thejudgment of some he was disposed to answer too readily in theaffirmative. It was with the elder boys, of course, that he chieflyacted on this principle, but with all above the very young ones hetrusted to it more or less. Firmly as he believed that _a_ time of trialwas inevitable, he believed no less firmly that it might be passed atpublic schools sooner than under other circumstances; and, in proportionas he disliked the assumption of a false manliness in boys, was hisdesire to cultivate in them true manliness, as the only step tosomething higher, and to dwell on earnest principle and moralthoughtfulness, as the great and distinguishing mark between good andevil. Hence his wish that as much as possible should be done _by_ theboys, and nothing _for_ them; hence arose his practice, in which his owndelicacy of feeling and uprightness of purpose powerfully assisted him, of treating the boys as gentlemen and reasonable beings, of making themrespect themselves by the mere respect he showed to them; of showingthat he appealed and trusted to their own common sense and conscience. Lying, for example, to the masters, he made a great moral offence:placing implicit confidence in a boy's assertion, and then, if afalsehood was discovered, punishing it severely, --in the upper part ofthe school, when persisted in, with expulsion. Even with the lower formshe never seemed to be on the watch for boys; and in the higher forms anyattempt at further proof of an assertion was immediately checked: "Ifyou say so, that is quite enough--_of course_ I believe your word;" andthere grew up in consequence a general feeling that "it was a shame totell Arnold a lie--he always believes one. "

Perhaps the liveliest representation of this general spirit, asdistinguished from its exemplification in particular parts of thediscipline and instruction, would be formed by recalling his manner, ashe appeared in the great school, where the boys used to meet when thewhole school was assembled collectively, and not in its different formsor classes. Then, whether on his usual entrance every morning to prayersbefore the first lesson, or on the more special emergencies which mightrequire his presence, he seemed to stand before them, not merely as thehead-master, but as the representative of the school. There he spoke tothem as members together with himself of the same great institution, whose character and reputation they had to sustain as well as he. Hewould dwell on the satisfaction he had in being head of a society, wherenoble and honorable feelings were encouraged, or on the disgrace whichhe felt in hearing of acts of disorder or violence, such as in thehumbler ranks of life would render them amenable to the laws of theircountry; or again, on the trust which he placed in their honor asgentlemen, and the baseness of any instance in which it was abused. "Isthis a Christian school?" he indignantly asked at the end of one ofthose addresses, in which he had spoken of an extensive display of badfeeling amongst the boys; and then added, --"I cannot remain here if allthis is to be carried on by constraint and force; if I am to be here asa jailer, I will resign my office at once. " And few scenes can berecorded more characteristic of him than on one of these occasions, when, in consequence of a disturbance, he had been obliged to send awayseveral boys, and when in the midst of the general spirit of discontentwhich this excited, he stood in his place before the assembled schooland said: "It is _not_ necessary that this should be a school of threehundred, or one hundred, or of fifty boys; but it _is_ necessary that itshould be a school of Christian gentlemen. "

LXXIII. ODE TO THE NORTH-EAST WIND. 

CHARLES KINGSLEY. --1819-1875. 

 Welcome, wild North-easter! Shame it is to see Odes to every zephyr; Ne'er a verse to thee. Welcome, black North-easter! O'er the German foam; O'er the Danish moorlands, From thy frozen home. Tired we are of summer, Tired of gaudy glare, Showers soft and steaming, Hot and breathless air. Tired of listless dreaming Through the lazy day: Jovial wind of winter Turns us out to play! Sweep the golden reed-beds; Crisp the lazy dyke; Hunger into madness Every plunging pike. Fill the lake with wild-fowl; Fill the marsh with snipe; While on dreary moorlands Lonely curlew pipe. Through the black fir-forest Thunder harsh and dry, Shattering down the snow-flakes Off the curdled sky. Hark! The brave North-easter! Breast-high lies the scent, On by holt and headland, Over heath and bent. Chime, ye dappled darlings, Through the sleet and snow. Who can over-ride you? Let the horses go! Chime, ye dappled darlings, Down the roaring blast; You shall see a fox die Ere an hour be past. Go! and rest to-morrow, Hunting in your dreams, While our skates are ringing O'er the frozen streams. Let the luscious South-wind Breathe in lovers' sighs, While the lazy gallants Bask in ladies' eyes. What does he but soften Heart alike and pen? 'Tis the hard grey weather Breeds hard English men. What's the soft South-wester? 'Tis the ladies' breeze, Bringing home their true-loves Out of all the seas. But the black North-easter, Through the snow-storm hurl'd, Drives our English hearts of oak Seaward round the world. Come, as came our fathers, Heralded by thee, Conquering from the eastward, Lords by land and sea. Come; and strong within us Stir the Vikings' blood, Bracing brain and sinew; Blow, thou wind of God!

LXXIV. FROM "THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. "

GEORGE ELIOT. --1820-1880. 

The next morning Maggie was trotting with her own fishing-rod in onehand and a handle of the basket in the other, stepping always, by apeculiar gift, in the muddiest places, and looking darkly radiant fromunder her beaver bonnet because Tom was good to her. She had told Tom, however, that she should like him to put the worms on the hook for her, although she accepted his word when he assured her that worms couldn'tfeel (it was Tom's private opinion that it didn't much matter if theydid). He knew all about worms, and fish, and those things; and whatbirds were mischievous, and how padlocks opened, and which way thehandles of the gates were to be lifted. Maggie thought this sort ofknowledge was very wonderful--much more difficult than remembering whatwas in the books; and she was rather in awe of Tom's superiority, for hewas the only person who called her knowledge "stuff, " and did not feelsurprised at her cleverness. Tom, indeed, was of opinion that Maggie wasa silly little thing; all girls were silly; they couldn't throw a stoneso as to hit anything, couldn't do anything with a pocket-knife, andwere frightened at frogs. Still, he was very fond of his sister, andmeant always to take care of her, make her his housekeeper, and punishher when she did wrong. 

They were on their way to the Round Pool--that wonderful pool, whichthe floods had made a long while ago. No one knew how deep it was;and it was mysterious, too, that it should be almost a perfect round, framed in with willows and tall reeds, so that the water was only tobe seen when you got close to the brink. The sight of the old favoritespot always heightened Tom's good-humor, and he spoke to Maggie in themost amiable whispers, as he opened the precious basket and preparedtheir tackle. He threw her line for her, and put the rod into her hand. Maggie thought it probable that the small fish would come to her hook, and the large ones to Tom's. But she had forgotten all about the fish, and was looking dreamily at the glassy water, when Tom said, in a loudwhisper, "Look! look, Maggie!" and came running to prevent her fromsnatching her line away. 

Maggie was frightened lest she had been doing something wrong, as usual, but presently Tom drew out her line and brought a large tench bouncingon the grass. 

Tom was excited. 

"O Magsie! you little duck! Empty the basket. "

Maggie was not conscious of unusual merit, but it was enough that Tomcalled her Magsie, and was pleased with her. There was nothing to marher delight in the whispers and the dreamy silences, when she listenedto the light dipping sounds of the rising fish, and the gentle rustling, as if the willows, and the reeds, and the water had their happywhisperings also. Maggie thought it would make a very nice heaven to sitby the pool in that way, and never be scolded. She never knew she had abite till Tom told her, but she liked fishing very much. 

It was one of their happy mornings. They trotted along and sat downtogether, with no thought that life would ever change much for them:they would only get bigger and not go to school, and it would always belike the holidays; they would always live together and be fond of eachother. And the mill with its booming--the great chestnut-tree underwhich they played at houses--their own little river, the Ripple, wherethe banks seemed like home, and Tom was always seeing the water-rats, while Maggie gathered the purple plumy tops of the reeds, which sheforgot and dropped afterward--above all, the great Floss, along whichthey wandered with a sense of travel, to see the rushing spring-tide, the awful Eagre, come up like a hungry monster, or to see the Great Ashwhich had once wailed and groaned like a man--these things would alwaysbe just the same to them. Tom thought people were at a disadvantage wholived on any other spot of the globe; and Maggie, when she read aboutChristiana passing "the river over which there is no bridge, " always sawthe Floss between the green pastures by the Great Ash. 

Life did change for Tom and Maggie; and yet they were not wrong inbelieving that the thoughts and loves of these first years would alwaysmake part of their lives. We could never have loved the earth so well ifwe had had no childhood in it--if it were not the earth where the sameflowers come up again every spring that we used to gather with our tinyfingers as we sat lisping to ourselves on the grass--the same hips andhaws on the autumn hedgerows--the same red-breasts that we used to call"God's birds, " because they did no harm to the precious crops. Whatnovelty is worth that sweet monotony where everything is known, and_loved_ because it is known?

The wood I walk in on this mild May day, with the young yellow-brownfoliage of the oaks between me and the blue sky, the white star-flowers, and the blue-eyed speedwell, and the ground-ivy at my feet--what groveof tropic palms, what strange ferns or splendid broad-petaled blossoms, could ever thrill such deep and delicate fibres within me as thishome-scene? These familiar flowers, these well-remembered bird-notes, this sky with its fitful brightness, these furrowed and grassy fields, each with a sort of personality given to it by the capricioushedgerows--such things as these are the mother tongue of ourimagination, the language that is laden with all the subtle inextricableassociations the fleeting hours of our childhood left behind them. Ourdelight in the sunshine on the deep-bladed grass to-day might be no morethan the faint perception of wearied souls, if it were not for thesunshine and the grass in the far-off years, which still live in us, andtransform our perception into love. 

LXXV. THE CLOUD CONFINES. 

DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI. --1828-1882. 

 The day is dark and the night To him that would search their heart; No lips of cloud that will part Nor morning song in the light: Only, gazing alone, To him wild shadows are shown, Deep under deep unknown And height above unknown height. Still we say as we go, -- "Strange to think by the way, Whatever there is to know, That shall we know one day. "

 The Past is over and fled; Named new, we name it the old; Thereof some tale hath been told, But no word comes from the dead; Whether at all they be, Or whether as bond or free, Or whether they too were we, Or by what spell they have sped. Still we say as we go, -- "Strange to think by the way, Whatever there is to know, That shall we know one day. "

 What of the heart of hate That beats in thy breast, O Time?-- Red strife from the furthest prime, And anguish of fierce debate; War that shatters her slain, And peace that grinds them as grain, And eyes fix'd ever in vain On the pitiless eyes of Fate. Still we say as we go, -- "Strange to think by the way, Whatever there is to know, That shall we know one day. "

 What of the heart of love That bleeds in thy breast, O Man?-- Thy kisses snatch'd 'neath the ban Of fangs that mock them above; Thy bells prolong'd unto knells, Thy hope that a breath dispels, Thy bitter forlorn farewells And the empty echoes thereof? Still we say as we go, -- "Strange to think by the way, Whatever there is to know, That shall we know one day. "

 The sky leans dumb on the sea, Aweary with all its wings; And oh! the song the sea sings Is dark everlastingly. Our past is clean forgot, Our present is and is not, Our future's a seal'd seedplot, And what betwixt them are we?-- We who say as we go, -- "Strange to think by the way, Whatever there is to know, That shall we know one day. "

LXXVI. BARBARA FRIETCHIE. 

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. --1807-

 Up from the meadows rich with corn, Clear in the cool September morn, The cluster'd spires of Frederick stand Green-wall'd by the hills of Maryland. 

 Round about them orchards sweep, Apple and peach tree fruited deep, --

 Fair as a garden of the Lord To the eyes of the famish'd rebel horde, On that pleasant morn of the early fall When Lee march'd over the mountain wall, --

 Over the mountains winding down, Horse and foot, into Frederick town. 

 Forty flags with their silver stars, Forty flags with their crimson bars, Flapp'd in the morning wind: the sun Of noon look'd down, and saw not one. 

 Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then, Bow'd with her fourscore years and ten;

 Bravest of all in Frederick town, She took up the flag the men haul'd down;

 In her attic-window the staff she set, To show that one heart was loyal yet. 

 Up the street came the rebel tread, Stonewall Jackson riding ahead. 

 Under his slouch'd hat left and right He glanced: the old flag met his sight. 

 "Halt!"--the dust-brown ranks stood fast "Fire!"--out blazed the rifle-blast. 

 It shiver'd the window, pane and sash; It rent the banner with seam and gash. 

 Quick, as it fell, from the broken staff Dame Barbara snatch'd the silken scarf;

 She lean'd far out on the window-sill, And shook it forth with a royal will. 

 "Shoot, if you must, this old grey head, But spare your country's flag!" she said. 

 A shade of sadness, a blush of shame, Over the face of the leader came;

 The nobler nature within him stirr'd To life at that woman's deed and word:

 "Who touches a hair of yon grey head, Dies like a dog! March on!" he said. 

 All day long through Frederick street Sounded the tread of marching feet:

 All day long that free flag toss'd Over the heads of the rebel host. 

 Ever its torn folds rose and fell On the loyal winds that lov'd it well;

 And through the hill-gaps sunset light Shone over it with a warm good-night. 

 Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er, And the Rebel rides on his raids no more

 Honor to her! and let a tear Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall's bier. 

 Over Barbara Frietchie's grave, Flag of Freedom and Union, wave!

 Peace and order and beauty draw Round thy symbol of light and law;

 And ever the stars above look down On thy stars below in Frederick town!

LXXVII. CONTENTMENT. 

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. --1809-

_"Man wants but little here below. "_

 Little I ask; my wants are few; I only wish a hut of stone, (A _very plain_ brown stone will do, ) That I may call my own;-- And close at hand is such a one, In yonder street that fronts the sun. 

 Plain food is quite enough for me; Three courses are as good as ten;-- If Nature can subsist on three, Thank Heaven for three. Amen! I always thought cold victual nice;-- My _choice_ would be vanilla-ice. 

 I care not much for gold or land;-- Give me a mortgage here and there, -- Some good bank-stock, --some note of hand, Or trifling railroad share, -- I only ask that Fortune send A _little_ more than I shall spend. 

 Honors are silly toys, I know, And titles are but empty names; I would, _perhaps_, be Plenipo, -- But only near St. James; I'm very sure I should not care To fill our Gubernator's chair. 

 Jewels are baubles; 'tis a sin To care for such unfruitful things;-- One good-sized diamond in a pin, -- Some, _not so large_, in rings, -- A ruby, and a pearl, or so, Will do for me;--I laugh at show. 

 My dame should dress in cheap attire; (Good, heavy silks are never dear;)-- I own perhaps I _might_ desire Some shawls of true Cashmere, -- Some marrowy crapes of China silk, Like wrinkled skins on scalded milk. 

 I would not have the horse I drive So fast that folks must stop and stare; An easy gait--two, forty-five-- Suits me; I do not care, -- Perhaps for just a _single spurt_, Some seconds less would do no hurt. 

 Of pictures I should like to own Titians and Raphaels three or four, -- I love so much their style and tone, -- One Turner, and no more, (A landscape, --foreground golden dirt, -- The sunshine painted with a squirt. )

 Of books but few, --some fifty score For daily use, and bound for wear; The rest upon an upper floor;-- Some _little_ luxury _there_ Of red morocco's gilded gleam, And vellum rich as country cream. 

 Busts, cameos, gems, --such things as these, Which others often show for pride, _I_ value for their power to please, And selfish churls deride;-- _One_ Stradivarius, I confess, _Two_ Meerschaums, I would fain possess. 

 Wealth's wasteful tricks I will not learn, Nor ape the glittering upstart fool;-- Shall not carv'd tables serve my turn, But _all_ must be of buhl? Give grasping pomp its double share, -- I ask but _one_ recumbent chair. 

 Thus humble let me live and die, Nor long for Midas' golden touch; If Heaven more generous gifts deny, I shall not miss them _much_, -- Too grateful for the blessing lent Of simple tastes and mind content. 

 * * * * *

 _Flower in the crannied wall, I pluck you out of the crannies;-- Hold you here, root and all, in my hand, Little flower--but if I could understand What you are, root and all, and all in all, I should know what God and man is. _

 TENNYSON. 

LXXVIII. THE BRITISH CONSTITUTION. 

THE RIGHT HON. WILLIAM EWART GLADSTONE. --1809-

_From_ KIN BEYOND SEA. 

The Constitution has not been the offspring of the thought of man. TheCabinet, and all the present relations of the Constitutional powers inthis country, have grown into their present dimensions, and settled intotheir present places, not as the fruit of a philosophy, not in theeffort to give effect to an abstract principle; but by the silent actionof forces, invisible and insensible, the structure has come up into theview of all the world. It is, perhaps, the most conspicuous object onthe wide political horizon; but it has thus risen, without noise, likethe temple of Jerusalem. 

 "No workman steel, no ponderous hammers rung; Like some tall palm the stately fabric sprung. "

When men repeat the proverb which teaches us that "marriages are made inheaven, " what they mean is that, in the most fundamental of all socialoperations, the building up of the family, the issues involved in thenuptial contract, lie beyond the best exercise of human thought, and theunseen forces of providential government make good the defect in ourimperfect capacity. Even so would it seem to have been in that curiousmarriage of competing influences and powers, which brings about thecomposite harmony of the British Constitution. More, it must beadmitted, than any other, it leaves open doors which lead into blindalleys; for it presumes, more boldly than any other, the good sense andgood faith of those who work it. If, unhappily, these personages meettogether, on the great arena of a nation's fortunes, as jockeys meetupon a racecourse, each to urge to the uttermost, as against the others, the power of the animal he rides; or as counsel in a court, each toprocure the victory of his client, without respect to any other interestor right: then this boasted Constitution of ours is neither more norless than a heap of absurdities. The undoubted competency of eachreaches even to the paralysis or destruction of the rest. The House ofCommons is entitled to refuse every shilling of the Supplies. ThatHouse, and also the House of Lords, is entitled to refuse its assent toevery Bill presented to it. The Crown is entitled to make a thousandPeers to-day, and as many to-morrow: it may dissolve all and everyParliament before it proceeds to business; may pardon the most atrociouscrimes; may declare war against all the world; may conclude treatiesinvolving unlimited responsibilities, and even vast expenditure, withoutthe consent, nay without the knowledge, of Parliament, and this notmerely in support or in development, but in reversal, of policy alreadyknown to and sanctioned by the nation. But the assumption is that thedepositaries of power will all respect one another; will evince aconsciousness that they are working in a common interest for a commonend; that they will be possessed, together with not less than an averageintelligence, of not less than an average sense of equity and of thepublic interest and rights. When these reasonable expectations fail, then, it must be admitted, the British Constitution will be in danger. 

Apart from such contingencies, the offspring only of folly or of crime, this Constitution is peculiarly liable to subtle change. Not only in thelong-run, as man changes between youth and age, but also, like the humanbody, with a quotidian life, a periodical recurrence of ebbing andflowing tides. Its old particles daily run to waste, and give place tonew. What is hoped among us is, that which has usually been found, thatevils will become palpable before they have grown to be intolerable. .. . 

Meantime, we of this island are not great political philosophers; and wecontend with an earnest, but disproportioned, vehemence about changeswhich are palpable, such as the extension of the suffrage, or theredistribution of Parliamentary seats, neglecting wholly other processesof change which work beneath the surface, and in the dark, but which areeven more fertile of great organic results. The modern English characterreflects the English Constitution in this, that it abounds in paradox;that it possesses every strength, but holds it tainted with everyweakness; that it seems alternately both to rise above and to fall belowthe standard of average humanity; that there is no allegation of praiseor blame which, in some one of the aspects of its many-sided formation, it does not deserve; that only in the midst of much default, and muchtransgression, the people of this United Kingdom either have heretoforeestablished, or will hereafter establish, their title to be reckonedamong the children of men, for the eldest born of an imperial race. 

 * * * * *

 _It fortifies my soul to know That, though I perish, Truth is so: That, howsoe'er I stray and range, Whate'er I do, Thou dost not change. I steadier step when I recall That, if I slip Thou dost not fall. _

 ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH. 

LXXIX. THE LORD OF BURLEIGH. 

LORD TENNYSON. --1809-

 In her ear he whispers gayly, "If my heart by signs can tell, Maiden, I have watch'd thee daily, And I think thou lov'st me well. " She replies, in accents fainter, "There is none I love like thee. " He is but a landscape-painter, And a village maiden she. He to lips, that fondly falter, Presses his without reproof: Leads her to the village altar, And they leave her father's roof. "I can make no marriage present; Little can I give my wife. Love will make our cottage pleasant, And I love thee more than life. " They by parks and lodges going See the lordly castles stand: Summer woods, about them blowing, Made a murmur in the land. From deep thought himself he rouses Says to her that loves him well, "Let us see these handsome houses Where the wealthy nobles dwell. " So she goes by him attended, Hears him lovingly converse, Sees whatever fair and splendid Lay betwixt his home and hers; Parks with oak and chestnut shady, Parks and order'd gardens great, Ancient homes of lord and lady, Built for pleasure and for state. All he shows her makes him dearer: Evermore she seems to gaze On that cottage growing nearer, Where they twain will spend their days. O but she will love him truly! He shall have a cheerful home; She will order all things duly, When beneath his roof they come. Thus her heart rejoices greatly, Till a gateway she discerns With armorial bearings stately, And beneath the gate she turns; Sees a mansion more majestic Than all those she saw before: Many a gallant gay domestic Bows before him at the door. And they speak in gentle murmur, When they answer to his call, While he treads with footsteps firmer, Leading on from hall to hall. And, while now she wonders blindly, Nor the meaning can divine, Proudly turns he round and kindly, "All of this is mine and thine. " Here he lives in state and bounty, Lord of Burleigh, fair and free, Not a lord in all the county Is so great a lord as he. All at once the color flushes Her sweet face from brow to chin: As it were with shame she blushes, And her spirit changed within. Then her countenance all over Pale again as death did prove; But he clasp'd her like a lover, And he cheer'd her soul with love. So she strove against her weakness, Tho' at times her spirits sank: Shaped her heart with woman's meekness To all duties of her rank: And a gentle consort made he, And her gentle mind was such That she grew a noble lady, And the people lov'd her much. But a trouble weigh'd upon her, And perplex'd her, night and morn, With the burden of an honor Unto which she was not born. Faint she grew, and ever fainter, As she murmur'd, "O, that he Were once more that landscape-painter, Which did win my heart from me!" So she droop'd and droop'd before him, Fading slowly from his side: Three fair children first she bore him, Then before her time she died. Weeping, weeping late and early, Walking up and pacing down, Deeply mourn'd the Lord of Burleigh, Burleigh-house by Stamford-town. And he came to look upon her, And he look'd at her and said, "Bring the dress and put it on her, That she wore when she was wed. " Then her people, softly treading, Bore to earth her body, drest In the dress that she was wed in, That her spirit might have rest. 

 * * * * *

 _And yet, dear heart! remembering thee, Am I not richer than of old?_

 WHITTIER. 

LXXX. "BREAK, BREAK, BREAK. "

LORD TENNYSON. 

 Break, break, break, On thy cold gray stones, O Sea! And I would that my tongue could utter The thoughts that arise in me. 

 O well for the fisherman's boy, That he shouts with his sister at play! O well for the sailor lad, That he sings in his boat on the bay!

 And the stately ships go on To their haven under the hill; But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand, And the sound of a voice that is still!

 Break, break, break, At the foot of thy crags, O Sea! But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me. 

LXXXI. THE "REVENGE. "

A BALLAD OF THE FLEET, 1591. 

LORD TENNYSON. 

 At Flores in the Azores Sir Richard Grenville lay, And a pinnace, like a flutter'd bird, came flying from far away: "Spanish ships of war at sea! we have sighted fifty-three!" Then sware Lord Thomas Howard: "'Fore God I am no coward! But I cannot meet them here, for my ships are out of gear, And the half my men are sick. I must fly, but follow quick. We are six ships of the line; can we fight with fifty-three?"

 Then spake Sir Richard Grenville: "I know you are no coward; You fly them for a moment to fight with them again. But I've ninety men and more that are lying sick ashore. I should count myself the coward if I left them, my Lord Howard, To these Inquisition dogs and the devildoms of Spain. "

 So Lord Howard past away with five ships of war that day, Till he melted like a cloud in the silent summer heaven; But Sir Richard bore in hand all his sick men from the land Very carefully and slow, Men of Bideford in Devon, And we laid them on the ballast down below; For we brought them all aboard, And they blest him in their pain, that they were not left to Spain, To the thumbscrew and the stake, for the glory of the Lord. 

 He had only a hundred seamen to work the ship and to fight, And he sail'd away from Flores till the Spaniard came in sight, With his huge sea-castles heaving upon the weather bow. "Shall we fight or shall we fly? Good Sir Richard, let us know, For to fight is but to die! There'll be little of us left by the time the sun be set. " And Sir Richard said again: "We be all good Englishmen. Let us bang these dogs of Seville, the children of the devil, For I never turn'd my back upon Don or devil yet. "

 Sir Richard spoke, and he laugh'd, and we roar'd a hurrah, and so The little "Revenge" ran on sheer into the heart of the foe, With her hundred fighters on deck, and her ninety sick below; For half of their fleet to the right and half to the left were seen, And the little "Revenge" ran on thro' the long sea-lane between. 

 Thousands of their soldiers look'd down from their decks and laugh'd, Thousands of their seamen made mock at the mad little craft Running on and on, till delay'd By their mountain-like "San Philip" that, of fifteen hundred tons, And up-shadowing high above us with her yawning tiers of guns, Took the breath from our sails, and we stay'd. 

 And while now the great "San Philip" hung above us like a cloud Whence the thunderbolt will fall Long and loud, Four galleons drew away From the Spanish fleet that day, And two upon the larboard and two upon the starboard lay, And the battle-thunder broke from them all. 

 But anon the great "San Philip, " she bethought herself and went, Having that within her womb that had left her ill-content; And the rest they came aboard us, and they fought us hand to hand, For a dozen times they came with their pikes and musqueteers, And a dozen times we shook 'em off as a dog that shakes his ears When he leaps from the water to the land. 

 And the sun went down, and the stars came out far over the summer sea, But never a moment ceas'd the fight of the one and the fifty-three. Ship after ship, the whole night long, their high-built galleons came, Ship after ship, the whole night long, with their battle-thunder and flame; Ship after ship, the whole night long, drew back with her dead and her shame; For some were sunk and many were shatter'd, and so could fight us no more-- God of battles, was ever a battle like this in the world before? For he said, "Fight on! fight on!" Tho' his vessel was all but a wreck; And it chanced that, when half of the summer night was gone, With a grisly wound to be drest he had left the deck, But a bullet struck him that was dressing it suddenly dead, And himself he was wounded again in the side and the head, And he said, "Fight on! fight on!"

 And the night went down, and the sun smiled out far over the summer sea, And the Spanish fleet with broken sides lay round us all in a ring; But they dared not touch us again, for they fear'd that we still could sting, So they watch'd what the end would be. And we had not fought them in vain, But in perilous plight were we, Seeing forty of our poor hundred were slain, And half of the rest of us maim'd for life In the crash of the cannonades and the desperate strife; And the sick men down in the hold were most of them stark and cold, And the pikes were all broken or bent, and the powder was all of it spent; And the masts and the rigging were lying over the side; But Sir Richard cried in his English pride, "We have fought such a fight for a day and a night As may never be fought again! We have won great glory, my men! And a day less or more At sea or shore, We die--does it matter when? Sink me the ship, Master Gunner--sink her, split her in twain! Fall into the hands of God, not into the hands of Spain!"

 And the gunner said, "Ay, ay, " but the seamen made reply: "We have children, we have wives, And the Lord hath spared our lives. We will make the Spaniard promise, if we yield, to let us go; We shall live to fight again, and to strike another blow. " And the lion there lay dying, and they yielded to the foe. 

 And the stately Spanish men to their flagship bore him then, Where they laid him by the mast, old Sir Richard caught at last, And they prais'd him to his face with their courtly foreign grace; But he rose upon their decks, and he cried: "I have fought for Queen and Faith like a valiant man and true; I have only done my duty as a man is bound to do: With a joyful spirit I, Sir Richard Grenville, die!" And he fell upon their decks, and he died. 

 And they stared at the dead that had been so valiant and true, And had holden the power and glory of Spain so cheap, That he dared her with one little ship and his English few; Was he devil or man? He was devil for aught they knew, But they sank his body with honor down into the deep, And they mann'd the "Revenge" with a swarthier alien crew, And away she sail'd with her loss and long'd for her own; When a wind from the lands they had ruin'd awoke from sleep, And the water began to heave and the weather to moan, And or ever that evening ended a great gale blew, And a wave like the wave that is rais'd by an earthquake grew, Till it smote on their hulls and their sails and their masts and their flags, And the whole sea plunged and fell on the shot-shatter'd navy of Spain, And the little "Revenge" herself went down by the island crags To be lost evermore in the main. 

 * * * * *

 _There is no land like England, where'er the light of day be; There are no hearts like English hearts, such hearts of oak as they be. _

 TENNYSON. 

LXXXII. HERVÉ RIEL. 

ROBERT BROWNING. --1812-

 On the sea and at the Hogue, sixteen hundred ninety-two, Did the English fight the French, --woe to France! And, the thirty-first of May, helter-skelter through the blue, Like a crowd of frighten'd porpoises a shoal of sharks pursue, Came crowding ship on ship to St. Malo on the Rance, With the English fleet in view. 

 'Twas the squadron that escaped, with the victor in full chase; First and foremost of the drove, in his great ship, Damfreville; Close on him fled, great and small, Twenty-two good ships in all; And they signall'd to the place "Help the winners of a race! Get us guidance, give us harbor, take us quick;--or, quicker still, Here's the English can and will!"

 Then the pilots of the place put out brisk and leapt on board: "Why, what hope or chance have ships like these to pass?" laugh'd they: "Rocks to starboard, rocks to port, all the passage scarr'd and scored, Shall the _Formidable_ here with her twelve and eighty guns Think to make the river-mouth by the single narrow way, Trust to enter where 'tis ticklish for a craft of twenty tons, And with flow at full beside? Now, 'tis slackest ebb of tide. Reach the mooring? Rather say, While rock stands or water runs, Not a ship will leave the bay!"

 Then was call'd a council straight. Brief and bitter the debate: "Here's the English at our heels; would you have them take in tow All that's left us of the fleet, link'd together stern and bow, For a prize to Plymouth Sound? Better run the ships aground!" (Ended Damfreville his speech. ) Not a minute more to wait! "Let the captains all and each Shove ashore, then blow up, burn the vessels on the beach! France must undergo her fate. 

 "Give the word!" But no such word Was ever spoke or heard; For up stood, for out stepp'd, for in struck, amid all these, -- A captain? a lieutenant? a mate, --first, second, third? No such man of mark, and meet With his betters to compete! But a simple Breton sailor press'd by Tourville for the fleet, A poor coasting-pilot he, --Hervé Riel, the Croisickese. 

 And "What mockery or malice have we here?" cries Hervé Riel: "Are you mad, you Malouins? Are you cowards, fools, or rogues? Talk to me of rocks and shoals?--me, who took the soundings, tell On my fingers every bank, every shallow, every swell 'Twixt the offing here and Grève where the river disembogues? Are you bought by English gold? Is it love the lying's for? Morn and eve, night and day, Have I piloted your bay, Enter'd free and anchor'd fast at the foot of Solidor. Burn the fleet and ruin France? That were worse than fifty Hogues! Sirs, they know I speak the truth! Sirs, believe me there's a way! Only let me lead the line, Have the biggest ship to steer, Get this _Formidable_ clear, Make the others follow mine, And I lead them, most and least, by a passage I know well, Right to Solidor past Grève, And there lay them safe and sound; And if one ship misbehave, -- Keel so much as grate the ground, -- Why, I've nothing but my life, --here's my head!" cries Hervé Riel. 

 Not a minute more to wait. "Steer us in, then, small and great! Take the helm, lead the line, save the squadron!" cried its chief. Captains, give the sailor place! He is admiral, in brief. Still the north-wind, by God's grace! See the noble fellow's face As the big ship, with a bound, Clears the entry like a hound, Keeps the passage as its inch of way were the wide sea's profound! See, safe through shoal and rock, How they follow in a flock! Not a ship that misbehaves, not a keel that grates the ground, Not a spar that comes to grief! The peril, see, is past! All are harbor'd to the last! And just as Hervé Riel hollas "Anchor!"--sure as fate Up the English come, --too late!

 So, the storm subsides to calm: They see the green trees wave On the heights o'erlooking Grève. Hearts that bled are stanch'd with balm. "Just our rapture to enhance, Let the English rake the bay, Gnash their teeth and glare askance As they cannonade away! 'Neath rampired Solidor pleasant riding on the Rance!" Now hope succeeds despair on each captain's countenance! Out burst all with one accord, "This is Paradise for Hell! Let France, let France's king, Thank the man that did the thing!" What a shout, and all one word, "Hervé Riel!" As he stepp'd in front once more, Not a symptom of surprise In the frank blue Breton eyes, -- Just the same man as before. 

 Then said Damfreville, "My friend, I must speak out at the end, Though I find the speaking hard. Praise is deeper than the lips; You have saved the king his ships, You must name your own reward. 'Faith our sun was near eclipse! Demand whate'er you will, France remains your debtor still. Ask to heart's content, and have! or my name's not Damfreville. "

 Then a beam of fun outbroke On the bearded mouth that spoke, As the honest heart laugh'd through Those frank eyes of Breton blue: "Since I needs must say my say, Since on board the duty's done, And from Malo Roads to Croisic Point, what is it but a run?-- Since 'tis ask and have, I may, -- Since the others go ashore, -- Come! A good whole holiday! Leave to go and see my wife, whom I call the Belle Aurore!" That he ask'd and that he got, --nothing more. 

 Name and deed alike are lost: Not a pillar nor a post In his Croisic keeps alive the feat as it befell; Not a head in white and black On a single fishing smack, In memory of the man but for whom had gone to wrack All that France saved from the fight whence England bore the bell. Go to Paris: rank on rank Search the heroes flung pell-mell On the Louvre, face and flank! You shall look long enough ere you come to Hervé Riel. So, for better and for worse, Hervé Riel, accept my verse! In my verse, Hervé Riel, do thou once more Save the squadron, honor France, love thy wife the Belle Aurore!

 * * * * *

 _The Summum Pulchrum rests in heaven above; Do thou, as best thou may'st, thy duty do: Amid the things allow'd thee live and love, Some day thou shalt it view. _

 ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH. 

LXXXIII. SONNET. 

PRESIDENT WILSON. --1816-

 Great things were ne'er begotten in an hour; Ephemerons in birth, are such in life; And he who dareth, in the noble strife Of intellects, to cope for real power, -- Such as God giveth as His rarest dower Of mastery, to the few with greatness rife, -- Must, ere the morning mists have ceased to lower Till the long shadows of the night arrive, Stand in the arena. Laurels that are won, Pluck'd from green boughs, soon wither; those that last Are gather'd patiently, when sultry noon And summer's fiery glare in vain are past. Life is the hour of labor; on Earth's breast Serene and undisturb'd shall be thy rest. 

LXXXIV. OUR IDEAL. 

PRESIDENT WILSON. 

 Did ever on painter's canvas live The power of his fancy's dream? Did ever poet's pen achieve Fruition of his theme? Did marble ever take the life That the sculptor's soul conceiv'd? Or ambition win in passion's strife What its glowing hopes believ'd? Did ever racer's eager feet Rest as he reach'd the goal, Finding the prize achiev'd was meet To satisfy his soul?

LXXXV. FROM THE APOLOGY OF SOCRATES. 

BENJAMIN JOWETT. --1817-

_From_ THE DIALOGUES OF PLATO. 

Not much time will be gained, O Athenians, in return for the evil namewhich you will get from the detractors of the city, who will say thatyou killed Socrates, a wise man; for they will call me wise, evenalthough I am not wise, when they want to reproach you. If you hadwaited a little while, your desire would have been fulfilled in thecourse of nature. For I am far advanced in years, as you may perceive, and not far from death. I am speaking now only to those of you who havecondemned me to death. And I have another thing to say to them: Youthink that I was convicted through deficiency of words--I mean, that ifI had thought fit to leave nothing undone, nothing unsaid, I might havegained an acquittal. Not so; the deficiency which led to my convictionwas not of words--certainly not. But I had not the boldness or impudenceor inclination to address you as you would have liked me to address you, weeping and wailing and lamenting, and saying and doing many thingswhich you have been accustomed to hear from others, and which, as I say, are unworthy of me. But I thought that I ought not to do anything commonor mean in the hour of danger: nor do I now repent of the manner of mydefense, and I would rather die having spoken after my manner, thanspeak in your manner and live. For neither in war nor yet at law oughtany man to use every way of escaping death. For often in battle there isno doubt that if a man will throw away his arms, and fall on his kneesbefore his pursuers, he may escape death; and in other dangers thereare other ways of escaping death, if a man is willing to say and doanything. The difficulty, my friends, is not in avoiding death, but inavoiding unrighteousness; for that runs faster than death. I am old andmove slowly, and the slower runner has overtaken me, and my accusers arekeen and quick, and the faster runner, who is unrighteousness, hasovertaken them. And now I depart hence, condemned by you to suffer thepenalty of death, and they too go their ways, condemned by the truth tosuffer the penalty of villainy and wrong; and I must abide by myaward--let them abide by theirs. I suppose that these things may beregarded as fated, --and I think that they are well. 

And now, O men who have condemned me, I would fain prophesy to you; forI am about to die, and that is the hour in which men are gifted withprophetic power. And I prophesy to you who are my murderers, thatimmediately after my death punishment far heavier than you haveinflicted on me will surely await you. Me you have killed because youwanted to escape the accuser, and not to give an account of your lives. But that will not be as you suppose: far otherwise. For I say that therewill be more accusers of you than there are now; accusers whom hithertoI have restrained: and as they are younger they will be more severe withyou, and you will be more offended at them. For if you think that bykilling men you can avoid the accuser censuring your lives, you aremistaken; that is not a way of escape which is either possible orhonorable; the easiest and the noblest way is not to be crushing others, but to be improving yourselves. This is the prophecy which I utterbefore my departure to the judges who have condemned me. 

Friends, who would have acquitted me, I would like also to talk with youabout this thing which has happened, while the magistrates are busy, andbefore I go to the place at which I must die. Stay then a while, for wemay as well talk with one another while there is time. You are myfriends, and I should like to show you the meaning of this event whichhas happened to me. O my judges--for you I may truly call judges--Ishould like to tell you of a wonderful circumstance. Hitherto thefamiliar oracle within me has constantly been in the habit of opposingme even about trifles, if I was going to make a slip or error aboutanything; and now as you see there has come upon me that which may bethought, and is generally believed to be, the last and worst evil. Butthe oracle made no sign of opposition, either as I was leaving my houseand going out in the morning, or when I was going up into this court, orwhile I was speaking, at anything which I was going to say; and yet Ihave often been stopped in the middle of a speech, but now in nothing Ieither said or did touching this matter has the oracle opposed me. Whatdo I take to be the explanation of this? I will tell you. I regard thisas a proof that what has happened to me is a good, and that those of uswho think that death is an evil are in error. This is a great proof tome of what I am saying, for the customary sign would surely have opposedme had I been going to evil and not to good. 

Let us reflect in another way, and we shall see that there is greatreason to hope that death is a good, for one of two things: either deathis a state of nothingness and utter unconsciousness, or, as men say, there is a change and migration of the soul from this world to another. Now if you suppose that there is no consciousness, but a sleep like thesleep of him who is undisturbed even by the sight of dreams, death willbe an unspeakable gain. For if a person were to select the night inwhich his sleep was undisturbed even by dreams, and were to compare withthis the other days and nights of his life, and then were to tell us howmany days and nights he had passed in the course of his life better andmore pleasantly than this one, I think that any man, I will not say aprivate man, but even the great king will not find many such days ornights, when compared with the others. Now if death is like this, I saythat to die is gain; for eternity is then only a single night. But ifdeath is the journey to another place, and there, as men say, all thedead are, what good, O my friends and judges, can be greater than this?If indeed when the pilgrim arrives in the world below, he is deliveredfrom the professors of justice in this world, and finds the true judgeswho are said to give judgment there, Minos and Rhadamanthus, and, Æacus, and Triptolemus, and other sons of God who were righteous in their ownlife, that pilgrimage will be worth making. What would not a man give ifhe might converse with Orpheus and Musæus and Hesiod and Homer? Nay, ifthis be true, let me die again and again. I, too, shall have a wonderfulinterest in a place where I can converse with Palamedes, and Ajax theson of Telamon, and other heroes of old, who have suffered death throughan unjust judgment; and there will be no small pleasure, as I think, incomparing my own sufferings with theirs. Above all, I shall be able tocontinue my search into true and false knowledge; as in this world, soalso in that; I shall find out who is wise, and who pretends to be wise, and is not. What would not a man give, O judges, to be able to examinethe leader of the great Trojan expedition; or Odysseus or Sisyphus, ornumberless others, men and women too? What infinite delight would therebe in conversing with them and asking them questions! For in that worldthey do not put a man to death for this; certainly not. For besidesbeing happier in that world than in this, they will be immortal, if whatis said is true. 

Wherefore, O judges, be of good cheer about death, and know this of atruth--that no evil can happen to a good man, either in life or afterdeath. He and his are not neglected by the gods; nor has my ownapproaching end happened by mere chance. But I see clearly that to dieand be released was better for me; and therefore the oracle gave nosign. For which reason, also, I am not angry with my accusers or mycondemners; they have done me no harm, although neither of them meant todo me any good; and for this I may gently blame them. 

Still I have a favor to ask of them. When my sons are grown up, I wouldask you, O my friends, to punish them, and I would have you troublethem, as I have troubled you, if they seem to care about riches, oranything, more than about virtue; or if they pretend to be somethingwhen they are really nothing, --then reprove them, as I have reprovedyou, for not caring about that for which they ought to care, andthinking that they are something when they are really nothing. And ifyou do this, I and my sons will have received justice at your hands. 

The hour of departure has arrived, and we go our ways--I to die, and youto live. Which is better God only knows. 

 * * * * *

 _Be of good cheer then, my dear Crito, and say that you are burying my body only. _

 _Socrates, in the_ PHÆDO. --PLATO. 

LXXXVI. THE EMPIRE OF THE CÆSARS. 

JAMES ANTHONY FROUDE. --1818-

_From_ CÆSAR. 

Of Cæsar it may be said that he came into the world at a special timeand for a special object. The old religions were dead, from the Pillarsof Hercules to the Euphrates and the Nile, and the principles on whichhuman society had been constructed were dead also. There remained ofspiritual conviction only the common and human sense of justice andmorality; and out of this sense some ordered system of government had tobe constructed, under which quiet men could live, and labor, and eat thefruit of their industry. Under a rule of this material kind there can beno enthusiasm, no chivalry, no saintly aspirations, no patriotism of theheroic type. It was not to last forever. A new life was about to dawnfor mankind. Poetry, and faith, and devotion were to spring again out ofthe seeds which were sleeping in the heart of humanity. But the lifewhich is to endure grows slowly; and as the soil must be prepared beforethe wheat can be sown, so before the Kingdom of Heaven could throw upits shoots there was needed a kingdom of this world where the nationswere neither torn in pieces by violence nor were rushing after falseideals and spurious ambitions. Such a kingdom was the Empire of theCæsars--a kingdom where peaceful men could work, think, and speak asthey pleased, and travel freely among provinces ruled for the most partby Gallios who protected life and property, and forbade fanatics to teareach other in pieces for their religious opinions. "It is not lawful forus to put any man to death, " was the complaint of the Jewish priests tothe Roman governor. Had Europe and Asia been covered with independentnations, each with a local religion represented in its ruling powers, Christianity must have been stifled in its cradle. If St. Paul hadescaped the Sanhedrim at Jerusalem, he would have been torn to pieces bythe silversmiths at Ephesus. The appeal to Cæsar's judgment-seat was theshield of his mission, and alone made possible his success. 

LXXXVII. OF THE MYSTERY OF LIFE. 

JOHN RUSKIN--1819-

_From_ SESAME AND LILIES. 

And now, returning to the broader question what these arts and labors oflife have to teach us of its mystery, this is the first of theirlessons--that the more beautiful the art, the more it is essentially thework of people who _feel themselves wrong_;--who are striving for thefulfilment of a law, and the grasp of a loveliness, which they have notyet attained, which they feel even farther and farther from attaining, the more they strive for it. And yet, in still deeper sense, it is thework of people who know also that they are right. The very sense ofinevitable error from their purpose marks the perfectness of thatpurpose, and the continued sense of failure arises from the continuedopening of the eyes more clearly to all the sacredest laws of truth. 

This is one lesson. The second is a very plain, and greatly preciousone, namely:--that whenever the arts and labors of life are fulfilledin this spirit of striving against misrule, and doing whatever we haveto do, honorably and perfectly, they invariably bring happiness, as muchas seems possible to the nature of man. In all other paths, by whichthat happiness is pursued, there is disappointment, or destruction: forambition and for passion there is no rest--no fruition; the fairestpleasures of youth perish in a darkness greater than their past light;and the loftiest and purest love too often does but inflame the cloud oflife with endless fire of pain. But, ascending from lowest to highest, through every scale of human industry, that industry worthily followed, gives peace. Ask the laborer in the field, at the forge, or in the mine;ask the patient, delicate-fingered artisan, or the strong-armed, fiery-hearted worker in bronze, and in marble, and with the colors oflight; and none of these, who are true workmen, will ever tell you, thatthey have found the law of heaven an unkind one--that in the sweat oftheir face they should eat bread, till they return to the ground; northat they ever found it an unrewarded obedience, if, indeed, it wasrendered faithfully to the command--"Whatsoever thy hand findeth todo--do it with thy might. "

These are the two great and constant lessons which our laborers teach usof the mystery of life. But there is another, and a sadder one, whichthey cannot teach us, which we must read on their tombstones. 

"Do it with thy might. " There have been myriads upon myriads ofhuman creatures who have obeyed this law--who have put every breathand nerve of their being into its toil--who have devoted every hour, and exhausted every faculty--who have bequeathed their unaccomplishedthoughts at death--who being dead, have yet spoken, by majesty ofmemory, and strength of example. And, at last, what has all this"Might" of humanity accomplished, in six thousand years of labor andsorrow? What has it _done_? Take the three chief occupations and artsof men, one by one, and count their achievements. Begin with thefirst--the lord of them all--agriculture. Six thousand years havepassed since we were set to till the ground, from which we weretaken. How much of it is tilled? How much of that which is, wisely orwell? In the very centre and chief garden of Europe--where the twoforms of parent Christianity have had their fortresses--where thenoble Catholics of the Forest Cantons, and the noble Protestants ofthe Vaudois valleys, have maintained, for dateless ages, their faithsand liberties--there the unchecked Alpine rivers yet run wild indevastation: and the marshes, which a few hundred men could redeemwith a year's labor, still blast their helpless inhabitants intofevered idiotism. That is so, in the centre of Europe! While, on thenear coast of Africa, once the Garden of the Hesperides, an Arabwoman, but a few sunsets since, ate her child, for famine. And, withall the treasures of the East at our feet, we, in our own dominion, could not find a few grains of rice, for a people that asked of usno more; but stood by, and saw five hundred thousand of them perishof hunger. 

Then, after agriculture, the art of kings, take the next head of humanarts--weaving; the art of queens, honored of all noble Heathen women, inthe person of their virgin goddess--honored of all Hebrew women, by theword of their wisest king--"She layeth her hands to the spindle, and herhands hold the distaff; she stretcheth out her hand to the poor. She isnot afraid of the snow for her household, for all her household areclothed with scarlet. She maketh herself covering of tapestry, herclothing is silk and purple. She maketh fine linen, and selleth it, anddelivereth girdles to the merchant. " What have we done in all thesethousands of years with this bright art of Greek maid and Christianmatron? Six thousand years of weaving, and have we learned to weave?Might not every naked wall have been purple with tapestry, and everyfeeble breast fenced with sweet colors from the cold? What have we done?Our fingers are too few, it seems, to twist together some poor coveringfor our bodies. We set our streams to work for us, and choke the airwith fire, to turn our spinning-wheels, --and--_are we yet clothed_? Arenot the streets of the capitals of Europe foul with the sale of castclouts and rotten rags? Is not the beauty of your sweet children left inwretchedness of disgrace, while, with better honor, nature clothes thebrood of the bird in its nest, and the suckling of the wolf in her den?And does not every winter's snow robe what you have not robed, andshroud what you have not shrouded; and every winter's wind bear up toheaven its wasted souls, to witness against you hereafter, by the voiceof their Christ, --"I was naked, and ye clothed me not"?

Lastly--take the Art of Building--the strongest-proudest--mostorderly--most enduring of the arts of man, that of which the produce isin the surest manner accumulative, and need not perish, or be replaced;but if once well done will stand more strongly than the unbalancedrocks--more prevalently than the crumbling hills. The art which isassociated with all civic pride and sacred principle; with which menrecord their power--satisfy their enthusiasm--make sure theirdefence--define and make dear their habitation. And, in six thousandyears of building, what have we done? Of the greater part of all thatskill and strength, _no_ vestige is left, but fallen stones, thatencumber the fields and impede the streams. But from this waste ofdisorder, and of time, and of rage, what _is_ left to us? Constructiveand progressive creatures, that we are, with ruling brains, and forminghands; capable of fellowship, and thirsting for fame, can we notcontend, in comfort, with the insects of the forest, or, in achievement, with the worm of the sea? The white surf rages in vain against theramparts built by poor atoms of scarcely nascent life; but only ridgesof formless ruin mark the places where once dwelt our noblestmultitudes. The ant and the moth have cells for each of their young, butour little ones lie in festering heaps, in homes that consume them likegraves; and night by night, from the corners of our streets, rises upthe cry of the homeless--"I was a stranger, and ye took me not in. "

Must it be always thus? Is our life forever to be withoutprofit--without possession? Shall the strength of its generations be asbarren as death; or cast away their labor, as the wild fig-tree castsher untimely figs? Is it all a dream then--the desire of the eyes andthe pride of life--or, if it be, might we not live in nobler dream thanthis? The poets and prophets, the wise men, and the scribes, though theyhave told us nothing about a life to come, have told us much about thelife that is now. They have had--they also, --their dreams, and we havelaughed at them. They have dreamed of mercy, and of justice; they havedreamed of peace and good-will; they have dreamed of laborundisappointed, and of rest undisturbed; they have dreamed of fulness inharvest, and overflowing in store; they have dreamed of wisdom incouncil, and of providence in law; of gladness of parents, and strengthof children, and glory of gray hairs. And at these visions of theirs wehave mocked, and held them for idle and vain, unreal andunaccomplishable. What have we accomplished with our realities? Is thiswhat has come of our worldly wisdom, tried against their folly? this ourmightiest possible, against their impotent ideal? or have we onlywandered among the spectra of a baser felicity, and chased phantoms ofthe tombs, instead of visions of the Almighty; and walked after theimaginations of our evil hearts, instead of after the counsels ofEternity, until our lives--not in the likeness of the cloud of heaven, but of the smoke of hell--have become "as a vapor, that appeareth for alittle time, and then vanisheth away"?

_Does_ it vanish then? Are you sure of that?--sure, that the nothingnessof the grave will be a rest from this troubled nothingness; and that thecoiling shadow, which disquiets itself in vain, cannot change into thesmoke of the torment that ascends forever? Will any answer that they_are_ sure of it, and that there is no fear, nor hope, nor desire, norlabor, whither they go? Be it so; will you not, then, make as sure ofthe Life, that now is, as you are of the Death that is to come? Yourhearts are wholly in this world--will you not give them to it wisely, as well as perfectly? And see, first of all, that you _have_ hearts, and sound hearts, too, to give. Because you have no heaven to lookfor, is that any reason that you should remain ignorant of thiswonderful and infinite earth, which is firmly and instantly given youin possession? Although your days are numbered, and the followingdarkness sure, is it necessary that you should share the degradationof the brute, because you are condemned to its mortality; or live thelife of the moth, and of the worm, because you are to companion themin the dust? Not so; we may have but a few thousands of days tospend, perhaps hundreds only--perhaps tens; nay, the longest of ourtime and best, looked back on, will be but as a moment, as thetwinkling of an eye; still, we are men, not insects; we are livingspirits, not passing clouds. "He maketh the winds His messengers; themomentary fire, His minister;" and shall we do less than _these_? Letus do the work of men while we bear the form of them; and, as wesnatch our narrow portion of time out of Eternity, snatch also ournarrow inheritance of passion out of Immortality--even though ourlives _be_ as a vapor, that appeareth for a little time, and thenvanisheth away. 

But there are some of you who believe not this--who think this cloud oflife has no such close--that it is to float, revealed and illumined, upon the floor of heaven, in the day when He cometh with clouds, andevery eye shall see Him. Some day, you believe, within these five, orten, or twenty years, for every one of us the judgment will be set, andthe books opened. If that be true, far more than that must be true. Isthere but one day of judgment? Why, for us every day is a day ofjudgment--every day is a Dies Iræ, and writes its irrevocable verdict inthe flame of its West. Think you that judgment waits till the doors ofthe grave are opened? It waits at the doors of your houses--it waits atthe corners of your streets; we are in the midst of judgment--theinsects that we crush are our judges--the moments we fret away are ourjudges--the elements that feed us, judge, as they minister--and thepleasures that deceive us, judge as they indulge. Let us, for our lives, do the work of Men while we bear the Form of them, if indeed those livesare _Not_ as a vapor, and do _Not_ vanish away. 

LXXXVIII. THE ROBIN. 

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. --1819-

_From_ MY GARDEN ACQUAINTANCE. 

The return of the robin is commonly announced by the newspapers, likethat of eminent or notorious people to a watering-place, as the firstauthentic notification of spring. And such his appearance in the orchardand garden undoubtedly is. But, in spite of his name of migratorythrush, he stays with us all winter, and I have seen him when thethermometer marked 15 degrees below zero of Fahrenheit, armedimpregnably within, like Emerson's Titmouse, and as cheerful as he. Therobin has a bad reputation among people who do not value themselves lessfor being fond of cherries. There is, I admit, a spice of vulgarity inhim, and his song is rather of the Bloomfield sort, too largelyballasted with prose. His ethics are of the Poor Richard school, and themain chance which calls forth all his energy is altogether of the belly. He never has those fine intervals of lunacy into which his cousins, thecatbird and the mavis, are apt to fall. But for a' that and twice asmuckle 's a' that, I would not exchange him for all the cherries thatever came out of Asia Minor. With whatever faults, he has not whollyforfeited that superiority which belongs to the children of nature. Hehas a finer taste in fruit than could be distilled from many successivecommittees of the Horticultural Society, and he eats with a relishinggulp not inferior to Dr. Johnson's. He feels and freely exercises hisright of eminent domain. His is the earliest mess of green peas; his allthe mulberries I had fancied mine. But if he get also the lion's shareof the raspberries, he is a great planter, and sows those wild ones inthe woods, that solace the pedestrian and give a momentary calm even tothe jaded victims of the White Hills. He keeps a strict eye over one'sfruit, and knows to a shade of purple when your grapes have cooked longenough in the sun. During a severe drought a few years ago, the robinswholly vanished from my garden. I neither saw nor heard one for threeweeks. Meanwhile a small foreign grape-vine, rather shy of bearing, seemed to find the dusty air congenial, and, dreaming perhaps of itssweet Argos across the sea, decked itself, with a score or so of fairbunches. I watched them from day to day till they should have secretedsugar enough from the sunbeams, and at last made up my mind that I wouldcelebrate my vintage the next morning. But the robins too had somehowkept note of them. They must have sent out spies, as did the Jews intothe promised land, before I was stirring. When I went with my basket, atleast a dozen of these winged vintagers bustled out from among theleaves, and alighting on the nearest trees interchanged some shrillremarks about me of a derogatory nature. They had fairly sacked thevine. Not Wellington's veterans made cleaner work of a Spanish town; notFederals or Confederates were ever more impartial in the confiscation ofneutral chickens. I was keeping my grapes a secret to surprise the fairFidele with, but the robins made them a profounder secret to her than Ihad meant. The tattered remnant of a single bunch was all myharvest-home. How paltry it looked at the bottom of my basket, --as if ahumming-bird had laid her egg in an eagle's nest! I could not helplaughing; and the robins seemed to join heartily in the merriment. Therewas a native grape-vine close by, blue with its less refined abundance, but my cunning thieves preferred the foreign flavor. Could I tax themwith want of taste?

The robins are not good solo singers, but their chorus, as, likeprimitive fire-worshippers, they hail the return of light and warmthto the world, is unrivalled. There are a hundred singing like one. They are noisy enough then, and sing, as poets should, with noafterthought. But when they come after cherries to the tree near mywindow, they muffle their voices, and their faint _pip, pip, pop_!sounds far away at the bottom of the garden, where they know I shallnot suspect them of robbing the great black-walnut of itsbitter-rinded store. [P] They are feathered Pecksniffs, to be sure, but then how brightly their breasts, that look rather shabby in thesunlight, shine in a rainy day against the dark green of thefringe-tree! After they have pinched and shaken all the life out ofan earthworm, as Italian cooks pound all the spirit out of a steak, and then gulped him, they stand up in honest self-confidence, expandtheir red waistcoats with the virtuous air of a lobby member, andoutface you with an eye that calmly challenges inquiry. "Do _I_ looklike a bird that knows the flavor of raw vermin? I throw myself upona jury of my peers. Ask any robin if he ever ate anything lessascetic than the frugal berry of the juniper, and he will answer thathis vow forbids him. " Can such an open bosom cover such depravity?Alas, yes! I have no doubt his breast was redder at that very momentwith the blood of my raspberries. On the whole, he is a doubtfulfriend in the garden. He makes his dessert of all kinds of berries, and is not averse from early pears. But when we remember howomnivorous he is, eating his own weight in an incredibly short time, and that Nature seems exhaustless in her invention of new insectshostile to vegetation, perhaps we may reckon that he does more goodthan harm. For my own part, I would rather have his cheerfulness andkind neighborhood than many berries. 

FOOTNOTES:

[P] The screech-owl, whose cry, despite his ill name, is one of thesweetest sounds in nature, softens his voice in the same way with themost beguiling mockery of distance. --AUTHOR'S NOTE. 

LXXXIX. THE OLD CRADLE. 

FREDERICK LOCKER. --1821-

 And this was your Cradle? Why, surely, my Jenny, Such cosy dimensions go clearly to show You were an exceedingly small pickaninny Some nineteen or twenty short summers ago. 

 Your baby-days flow'd in a much-troubled channel; I see you, as then, in your impotent strife, A tight little bundle of wailing and flannel, Perplex'd with the newly-found fardel of Life. 

 To hint at an infantile frailty's a scandal; Let bygones be bygones, for somebody knows It was bliss such a Baby to dance and to dandle, -- Your cheeks were so dimpled, so rosy your toes. 

 Ay, here is your Cradle; and Hope, a bright spirit, With Love now is watching beside it, I know. They guard the wee nest it was yours to inherit Some nineteen or twenty short summers ago. 

 It is Hope gilds the future, Love welcomes it smiling, Thus wags this old world, therefore stay not to ask, "My future bids fair, is my future beguiling?" If mask'd, still it pleases--then raise not its mask. 

 Is Life a poor coil some would gladly be doffing? He is riding post-haste who their wrongs will adjust; For at most 'tis a footstep from cradle to coffin-- From a spoonful of pap to a mouthful of dust. 

 Then smile as your future is smiling, my Jenny; I see you, except for those infantine woes, Little changed since you were but a small pickaninny-- Your cheeks were so dimpled, so rosy your toes!

 Ay, here is your Cradle, much, much to my liking, Though nineteen or twenty long winters have sped. Hark! As I'm talking there's six o'clock striking, -- It is time JENNY'S BABY should be in its bed. 

XC. RUGBY CHAPEL. 

NOVEMBER, 1857. 

MATTHEW ARNOLD. --1822-

 Coldly, sadly descends The autumn-evening. The field Strewn with its dank yellow drifts Of wither'd leaves, and the elms, Fade into dimness apace, Silent;--hardly a shout From a few boys late at their play! The lights come out in the street, In the school-room windows--but cold, Solemn, unlighted, austere, Through the gathering darkness, arise The chapel-walls, in whose bound Thou, my father! art laid. 

 There thou dost lie, in the gloom Of the autumn evening. But ah! That word, _gloom_, to my mind Brings thee back in the light Of thy radiant vigor again: In the gloom of November we pass'd Days not dark at thy side; Seasons impair'd not the ray Of thy buoyant cheerfulness clear. Such thou wast! and I stand In the autumn evening, and think Of bygone autumns with thee. 

 Fifteen years have gone round Since thou arosest to tread, In the summer-morning, the road Of death, at a call unforeseen, Sudden. For fifteen years, We who till then in thy shade Rested as under the boughs Of a mighty oak, have endured Sunshine and rain as we might, Bare, unshaded, alone, Lacking the shelter of thee. 

 O strong soul, by what shore Tarriest thou now? For that force, Surely, has not been left vain! Somewhere, surely, afar, In the sounding labor-house vast Of being, is practis'd that strength, Zealous, beneficent, firm! Yes, in some far-shining sphere, Conscious or not of the past, Still thou performest the word Of the Spirit in whom thou dost live-- Prompt, unwearied, as here! Still thou upraisest with zeal The humble good from the ground, Sternly repressest the bad! Still, like a trumpet, dost rouse Those who with half-open eyes Tread the border-land dim 'Twixt vice and virtue; reviv'st, Succorest!--this was thy work. This was thy life upon earth. 

 What is the course of the life Of mortal men on the earth?-- Most men eddy about Here and there--eat and drink, Chatter and love and hate, Gather and squander, are rais'd Aloft, are hurl'd in the dust, Striving blindly, achieving Nothing; and then they die-- Perish--and no one asks Who or what they have been, More than he asks what waves, In the moonlit solitudes mild Of the midmost Ocean, have swell'd, Foam'd for a moment, and gone. 

 And there are some, whom a thirst Ardent, unquenchable, fires, Not with the crowd to be spent, Not without aim to go round In an eddy of purposeless dust Effort unmeaning and vain. Ah yes! some of us strive Not without action to die Fruitless, but something to snatch From dull oblivion, nor all Glut the devouring grave! We, we have chosen our path-- Path to a clear-purpos'd goal, Path of advance!--but it leads A long, steep journey, through sunk Gorges, o'er mountains in snow. Cheerful, with friends, we set forth-- Then, on the height, comes the storm. Thunder crashes from rock To rock, the cataracts reply; Lightnings dazzle our eyes; Roaring torrents have breach'd The track, the stream-bed descends In the place where the wayfarer once Planted his footstep--the spray Boils o'er its borders! aloft The unseen snow-beds dislodge Their hanging ruin!--alas, Havoc is made in our train! Friends, who set forth at our side, Falter, are lost in the storm. We, we only are left!-- With frowning foreheads, with lips Sternly compress'd, we strain on On--and at nightfall at last Come to the end of our way, To the lonely inn 'mid the rocks; Where the gaunt and taciturn host Stands on the threshold, the wind Shaking his thin white hairs-- Holds his lantern to scan Our storm-beat figures, and asks: Whom in our party we bring? Whom we have left in the snow?

 Sadly we answer: We bring Only ourselves! we lost Sight of the rest in the storm. Hardly ourselves we fought through, Stripp'd, without friends, as we are. Friends, companions, and train, The avalanche swept from our side. 

 But thou would'st not _alone_ Be saved, my father! _alone_ Conquer and come to thy goal, Leaving the rest in the wild. We were weary; and we Fearful, and we in our march Fain to drop down and to die. Still thou turnedst, and still Beckonedst the trembler, and still Gavest the weary thy hand. If, in the paths of the world, Stones might have wounded thy feet, Toil or dejection have tried Thy spirit, of that we saw Nothing--to us thou wast still Cheerful, and helpful, and firm! Therefore to thee it was given Many to save with thyself; And, at the end of thy day, O faithful shepherd! to come, Bringing thy sheep in thy hand, And through thee I believe In the noble and great who are gone; Pure souls honor'd and blest By former ages, who else-- Such, so soulless, so poor, Is the race of men whom I see-- Seem'd but a dream of the heart, Seem'd but a cry of desire. Yes! I believe that there liv'd Others like thee in the past, Not like the men of the crowd Who all round me to-day Bluster or cringe, and make life Hideous, and arid, and vile; But souls temper'd with fire, Fervent, heroic, and good, Helpers and friends of mankind. 

 Servants of God!--or sons Shall I not call you? because Not as servants ye knew Your Father's innermost mind, His, who unwillingly sees One of his little ones lost-- Yours is the praise, if mankind Hath not as yet in its march Fainted, and fallen, and died!

 See! In the rocks of the world Marches the host of mankind, A feeble, wavering line. Where are they tending?--A God Marshall'd them, gave them their goal. -- Ah, but the way is so long!

 Years they have been in the wild! Sore thirst plagues them, the rocks, Rising all round, overawe; Factions divide them, their host Threatens to break, to dissolve. -- Ah, keep, keep them combined! Else, of the myriads who fill That army, not one shall arrive; Sole they shall stray; on the rocks Batter forever in vain, Die one by one in the waste. 

 Then, in such hour of need Of your fainting, dispirited race, Ye, like angels, appear, Radiant with ardor divine. Beacons of hope, ye appear! Languor is not in your heart, Weakness is not in your word, Weariness not on your brow. Ye alight in our van! at your voice, Panic, despair, flee away. Ye move through the ranks, recall The stragglers, refresh the outworn, Praise, re-inspire the brave. Order, courage, return; Eyes rekindling, and prayers, Follow your steps as ye go. Ye fill up the gaps in our files, Strengthen the wavering line, Stablish, continue our march, On, to the bound of the waste, On, to the City of God. 

 * * * * *

 _What know we greater than the soul? On God and Godlike men we build our trust. _

 TENNYSON. 

XCI. IN THE ORILLIA WOODS. 

CHARLES SANGSTER. --1822-

 My footsteps press where, centuries ago, The Red Men fought and conquer'd; lost and won. Whole tribes and races, gone like last year's snow, Have found the Eternal Hunting-Grounds, and run The fiery gauntlet of their active days, Till few are left to tell the mournful tale: And these inspire us with such wild amaze They seem like spectres passing down a vale Steep'd in uncertain moonlight, on their way Towards some bourn where darkness blinds the day, And night is wrapp'd in mystery profound. We cannot lift the mantle of the past: We seem to wander over hallow'd ground: We scan the trail of Thought, but all is overcast. 

 THERE WAS A TIME--and that is all we know! No record lives of their ensanguin'd deeds: The past seems palsied with some giant blow, And grows the more obscure on what it feeds. A rotted fragment of a human leaf; A few stray skulls; a heap of human bones! These are the records--the traditions brief-- 'Twere easier far to read the speechless stones. The fierce Ojibwas, with tornado force, Striking white terror to the hearts of braves! The mighty Hurons, rolling on their course, Compact and steady as the ocean waves! The fiery Iroquois, a warrior host! Who were they?--Whence?--And why? no human tongue can boast!

XCII. MORALS AND CHARACTER IN THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY. 

GOLDWIN SMITH. --1823-

_From_ COWPER. 

The world into which Cowper came was one very adverse to him, and at thesame time very much in need of him. It was a world from which the spiritof poetry seemed to have fled. There could be no stronger proof of thisthan the occupation of the throne of Spenser, Shakespeare, and Milton, by the arch-versifier Pope. The Revolution of 1688 was glorious, butunlike the Puritan Revolution which it followed, and in the politicalsphere partly ratified, it was profoundly prosaic. Spiritual religion, the source of Puritan grandeur and of the poetry of Milton, was almostextinct; there was not much more of it among the Nonconformists, who hadnow become to a great extent mere Whigs, with a decided Unitariantendency. The Church was little better than a political force cultivatedand manipulated by political leaders for their own purposes. The Bishopswere either politicians, or theological polemics collecting trophies ofvictory over free-thinkers as titles to higher preferment. The inferiorclergy as a body were far nearer in character to Trulliber than to Dr. Primrose; coarse, sordid, neglectful of their duties, shamelesslyaddicted to sinecurism and pluralities, fanatics in their Toryism and inattachment to their corporate privileges, cold, rationalistic, andalmost heathen in their preachings, if they preached at all. The societyof the day is mirrored in the pictures of Hogarth in the works ofFielding and Smollett; hard and heartless polish was the best of it; andnot a little of it was _Marriage à la Mode_. Chesterfield, with hissoulless culture, his court graces, and his fashionable immoralities, was about the highest type of an English gentleman; but the Wilkeses, Potters, and Sandwiches, whose mania for vice culminated in theHell-fire Club, were more numerous than the Chesterfields. Among thecountry squires, for one Allworthy, or Sir Roger de Coverley, there weremany Westerns. Among the common people religion was almost extinct, andassuredly no new morality or sentiment, such as Positivists now promise, had taken its place. Sometimes the rustic thought for himself, andscepticism took formal possession of his mind; but as we see from one ofCowper's letters, it was a coarse scepticism which desired to be buriedwith its hounds. Ignorance and brutality reigned in the cottage. Drunkenness reigned in palace and cottage alike. Gambling, cock-fighting, and bull-fighting were the amusements of the people. Political life, which, if it had been pure and vigorous, might have madeup for the absence of spiritual influences, was corrupt from the top ofthe scale to the bottom: its effect on national character is portrayedin Hogarth's _Election_. That property had its duties as well as itsrights, nobody had yet ventured to say or think. The duty of a gentlemantowards his own class was to pay his debts of honor, and to fight a duelwhenever he was challenged by one of his own order; towards the lowerclass his duty was none. Though the forms of government were elective, and Cowper gives us a description of the candidate at election timeobsequiously soliciting votes, society was intensely aristocratic, andeach rank was divided from that below it by a sharp line which precludedbrotherhood or sympathy. Says the Duchess of Buckingham to LadyHuntingdon, who had asked her to come and hear Whitefield, "I thankyour ladyship for the information concerning the Methodist preachers;their doctrines are most repulsive, and strongly tinctured withdisrespect towards their superiors, in perpetually endeavoring to levelall ranks and do away with all distinctions. It is monstrous to be toldyou have a heart as sinful as the common wretches that crawl on theearth. This is highly offensive and insulting; and I cannot but wonderthat your ladyship should relish any sentiments so much at variance withhigh rank and good breeding. I shall be most happy to come and hear yourfavorite preacher. " Her Grace's sentiments towards the common wretchesthat crawl on the earth were shared, we may be sure, by her Grace'swaiting-maid. Of humanity there was as little as there was of religion. It was the age of the criminal law which hanged men for petty thefts, oflife-long imprisonment for debt, of the stocks and the pillory, of aTemple Bar garnished with the heads of traitors, of the unreformedprison system, of the press-gang, of unrestrained tyranny and savageryat public schools. That the slave trade was iniquitous hardly any onesuspected; even men who deemed themselves religious took part in itwithout scruple. But a change was at hand, and a still mightier changewas in prospect. At the time of Cowper's birth, John Wesley wastwenty-eight, and Whitefield was seventeen. With them the revival ofreligion, was at hand. Johnson, the moral reformer, was twenty-two. Howard was born, and in less than a generation Wilberforce was to come. 

 * * * * *

 _That is best blood that hath most iron in 't To edge resolve with, pouring without stint For what makes manhood dear. _

 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 

XCIII. A LIBERAL EDUCATION. 

THOMAS HENRY HUXLEY. --1825-

_From_ LAY SERMONS, ADDRESSES, AND REVIEWS. 

Suppose it were perfectly certain that the life and fortune of every oneof us would, one day or other, depend upon his winning or losing a gameat chess. Don't you think that we should all consider it to be a primaryduty to learn at least the names and the moves of the pieces; to have anotion of a gambit, and a keen eye for all the means of giving andgetting out of check? Do you not think that we should look with adisapprobation amounting to scorn, upon the father who allowed his son, or the state which allowed its members, to grow up without knowing apawn from a knight?

Yet it is a very plain and elementary truth, that the life, thefortune, and the happiness of every one of us, and, more or less, of those who are connected with us, do depend upon our knowingsomething of the rules of a game infinitely more difficult andcomplicated than chess. It is a game which has been played foruntold ages, every man and woman of us being one of the two playersin a game of his or her own. The chess-board is the world, thepieces are the phenomena of the universe, the rules of the game arewhat we call the laws of Nature. The player on the other side ishidden from us. We know that his play is always fair, just, andpatient. But also we know, to our cost, that he never overlooks amistake, or makes the smallest allowance for ignorance. To the manwho plays well, the highest stakes are paid, with that sort ofoverflowing generosity with which the strong shows delight instrength. And one who plays ill is checkmated--without haste, butwithout remorse. 

My metaphor will remind some of you of the famous picture in whichRetzsch has depicted Satan playing at chess with man for his soul. Substitute for the mocking fiend in that picture, a calm, strong angel, who is playing for love, as we say, and would rather lose than win--andI should accept it as an image of human life. 

Well, what I mean by Education, is learning the rules of this mightygame. In other words, education is the instruction of the intellect inthe laws of Nature, under which name I include not merely things andtheir forces, but men and their ways; and the fashioning of theaffections and of the will into an earnest and loving desire to move inharmony with those laws. For me, education means neither more nor lessthan this. Anything which professes to call itself education must betried by this standard, and if it fails to stand the test, I will notcall it education, whatever may be the force of authority, or ofnumbers, upon the other side. 

It is important to remember that, in strictness, there is no such thingas an uneducated man. Take an extreme case. Suppose that an adult man, in the full vigor of his faculties, could be suddenly placed in theworld, as Adam is said to have been, and then left to do as he bestmight. How long would he be left uneducated? Not five minutes. Naturewould begin to teach him, through the eye, the ear, the touch, theproperties of objects. Pain and pleasure would be at his elbow tellinghim to do this and avoid that; and by slow degrees the man would receivean education, which, if narrow, would be thorough, real, and adequate tohis circumstances, though there would be no extras and very fewaccomplishments. 

And if to this solitary man entered a second Adam, or, better still, anEve, a new and greater world, that of social and moral phenomena, wouldbe revealed. Joys and woes, compared with which all others might seembut faint shadows, would spring from the new relations. Happiness andsorrow would take the place of the coarser monitors, pleasure and pain;but conduct would still be shaped by the observation of the naturalconsequences of actions; or, in other words, by the laws of the natureof man. 

To every one of us the world was once as fresh and new as to Adam. Andthen, long before we were susceptible of any other mode of instruction, Nature took us in hand, and every minute of waking life brought itseducational influence, shaping our actions into rough accordance withNature's laws, so that we might not be ended untimely by too grossdisobedience. Nor should I speak of this process of education as pastfor any one, be he as old as he may. For every man, the world is asfresh as it was at the first day, and as full of untold novelties forhim who has the eyes to see them. And Nature is still continuing herpatient education of us in that great university, the universe, of whichwe are all members--Nature having no Test-Acts. 

Those who take honors in Nature's university, who learn the laws whichgovern men and things, and obey them, are the really great andsuccessful men in this world. The great mass of mankind are the "Poll, "who pick up just enough to get through without much discredit. Those whowon't learn at all are plucked; and then you can't come up again. Nature's pluck means extermination. 

Thus the question of compulsory education is settled so far as Nature isconcerned. Her bill on that question was framed and passed long ago. But, like all compulsory legislation, that of Nature is harsh andwasteful in its operation. Ignorance is visited as sharply as wilfuldisobedience--incapacity meets with the same punishment as crime. Nature's discipline is not even a word and a blow, and the blow first;but the blow without the word. It is left to you to find out why yourears are boxed. 

The object of what we commonly call education--that education in whichman intervenes and which I shall distinguish as artificial education--isto make good these defects in Nature's methods; to prepare the child toreceive Nature's education, neither incapably nor ignorantly, nor withwilful disobedience; and to understand the preliminary symptoms of herdispleasure, without waiting for the box on the ear. In short, allartificial education ought to be an anticipation of natural education. And a liberal education is an artificial education, which has not onlyprepared a man to escape the great evils of disobedience to naturallaws, but has trained him to appreciate and to seize upon the rewardswhich Nature scatters with as free a hand as her penalties. 

That man, I think, has had a liberal education, who has been so trainedin youth that his body is the ready servant of his will, and does withease and pleasure all the work that, as a mechanism, it is capable of;whose intellect is a clear, cold, logic engine, with all its parts ofequal strength, and in smooth working order; ready, like a steam engine, to be turned to any kind of work, and spin the gossamers as well asforge the anchors of the mind; whose mind is stored with a knowledge ofthe great and fundamental truths of Nature and of the laws of heroperations; one, who, no stunted ascetic, is full of life and fire, butwhose passions are trained to come to heel by a vigorous will, theservant of a tender conscience; who has learned to love all beauty, whether of Nature or of art, to hate all vileness, and to respect othersas himself. 

Such an one and no other, I conceive, has had a liberal education; forhe is, as completely as a man can be, in harmony with Nature. He willmake the best of her, and she of him. They will get on together rarely;she as his ever beneficent mother; he as her mouth-piece, her consciousself, her minister and interpreter. 

XCIV. TOO LATE. 

DINAH MARIA MULOCK CRAIK. --1826-

 Could ye come back to me, Douglas, Douglas, In the old likeness that I knew, I would be so faithful, so loving, Douglas, Douglas, Douglas, tender and true. 

 Never a scornful word should grieve ye, I'd smile on ye sweet as the angels do, -- Sweet as your smile on me shone ever, Douglas, Douglas, tender and true. 

 O to call back the days that are not! My eyes were blinded, your words were few; Do you know the truth now up in heaven, Douglas, Douglas, tender and true?

 I never was worthy of you, Douglas, Not half worthy the like of you; Now all men beside seem to me like shadows, -- I love _you_, Douglas, tender and true. 

 Stretch out your hand to me, Douglas, Douglas, Drop forgiveness from heaven like dew, As I lay my heart on your dead heart, Douglas, Douglas, Douglas, tender and true. 

XCV. AMOR MUNDI. 

CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI. --1830-

 "O where are you going with your love-locks flowing, On the west wind blowing along this valley track?" "The down-hill path is easy, come with me an it please ye, We shall escape the up-hill by never turning back. "

 So they two went together in glowing August weather, The honey-breathing heather lay to their left and right; And dear she was to doat on, her swift feet seem'd to float on The air like soft twin pigeons too sportive to alight. 

 "Oh, what is that in heaven where grey cloud-flakes are seven, Where blackest clouds hang riven just at the rainy skirt?" "Oh, that's a meteor sent us, a message dumb, portentous, An undecipher'd solemn signal of help or hurt. "

 "Oh, what is that glides quickly where velvet flowers grow thickly, Their scent comes rich and sickly?" "A scaled and hooded worm. " "Oh, what's that in the hollow, so pale I quake to follow?" "Oh, that's a thin dead body which waits the eternal term. "

 "Turn again, O my sweetest, --turn again, false and fleetest: This beaten way thou beatest, I fear is hell's own track. " "Nay, too steep for hill mounting; nay, too late for cost counting: This down-hill path is easy, but there's no turning back. "

XCVI. TOUJOURS AMOUR. 

EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN. --1833-

 Prithee tell me, Dimple-Chin, At what age does love begin? Your blue eyes have scarcely seen Summers three, my fairy queen, But a miracle of sweets, Soft approaches, sly retreats, Show the little archer there, Hidden in your pretty hair; When didst learn a heart to win? Prithee tell me, Dimple-Chin! "Oh!" the rosy lips reply, "I can't tell you if I try. Tis so long I can't remember: Ask some younger lass than I. "

 Tell, O tell me, Grizzled-Face, Do your heart and head keep pace? When does hoary Love expire, When do frosts put out the fire? Can its embers burn below All that chill December snow? Care you still soft hands to press, Bonny heads to smooth and bless? When does Love give up the chase? Tell, O tell me, Grizzled-Face! "Ah!" the wise old lips reply, "Youth may pass and strength may die; But of Love I can't foretoken: Ask some older sage than I!"

XCVII. ENGLAND. 

THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH. --1836-

 While men pay reverence to mighty things, They must revere thee, thou blue-cinctured isle Of England--not to-day, but this long while In the front of nations, Mother of great kings, Soldiers, and poets. Round thee the Sea flings His steel-bright arm, and shields thee from the guile And hurt of France. Secure, with august smile, Thou sittest, and the East its tribute brings. Some say thy old-time power is on the wane, Thy moon of grandeur fill'd, contracts at length-- They see it darkening down from less to less. Let but a hostile hand make threat again, And they shall see thee in thy ancient strength, Each iron sinew quivering, lioness!

 * * * * *

 _Such kings of shreds have woo'd and won her, Such crafty knaves her laurel own'd, It has become almost an honor Not to be crown'd. _

 THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH. _On Popularity. _

XCVIII. ROCOCO. 

THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH. 

 By studying my lady's eyes I've grown so learnèd day by day, So Machiavelian in this wise, That when I send her flowers, I say

 To each small flower (no matter what, Geranium, pink, or tuberose, Syringa, or forget-me-not, Or violet) before it goes:

 "Be not triumphant, little flower, When on her haughty heart you lie, But modestly enjoy your hour: She'll weary of you by-and-by. "

XCIX. KINGS OF MEN. 

JOHN READE. --1837-

 As hills seem Alps, when veil'd in misty shroud, Some men seem kings, through mists of ignorance; Must we have darkness, then, and cloud on cloud, To give our hills and pigmy kings a chance? Must we conspire to curse the humbling light, Lest some one, at whose feet our fathers bow'd, Should suddenly appear, full length, in sight, Scaring to laughter the adoring crowd? Oh, no! God send us light!--Who loses then? The king of slaves and not the king of men. True kings are kings for ever, crown'd of God, The King of Kings, --we need not fear for them. 'Tis only the usurper's diadem That shakes at touch of light, revealing fraud. 

C. THALATTA! THALATTA!

JOHN READE. 

 In my ear is the moan of the pines--in my heart is the song of the sea, And I feel his salt breath on my face as he showers his kisses on me, And I hear the wild scream of the gulls, as they answer the call of the tide, And I watch the fair sails as they glisten like gems on the breast of a bride. 

 From the rock where I stand to the sun is a pathway of sapphire and gold, Like a waif of those Patmian visions that wrapt the lone seer of old, And it seems to my soul like an omen that calls me far over the sea-- But I think of a little white cottage and one that is dearest to me. 

 Westward ho! Far away to the East is a cottage that looks to the shore, -- Though each drop in the sea were a tear, as it was, I can see it no more; For the heart of its pride with the flowers of the "Vale of the Shadow" reclines, And--hush'd is the song of the sea and hoarse is the moan of the pines. 

CI. THE FORSAKEN GARDEN. 

ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE. --1837-

 In a coign of the cliff between lowland and highland, At the sea-down's edge between windward and lee, Wall'd round with rocks as an inland island, The ghost of a garden fronts the sea. A girdle of brushwood and thorn encloses The steep square slope of the blossomless bed Where the weeds that grew green from the graves of its roses Now lie dead. 

 The fields fall southward, abrupt and broken, To the low last edge of the long lone land. If a step should sound or a word be spoken, Would a ghost not rise at the strange guest's hand? So long have the gray bare walks lain guestless, Through branches and briers if a man make way, He shall find no life but the sea-wind's, restless Night and day. 

 The dense hard passage is blind and stifled, That crawls by a track none turn to climb To the strait waste place that the years have rifled Of all but the thorns that are touch'd not of time. The thorns he spares when the rose is taken; The rocks are left when he wastes the plain. The wind that wanders, the weeds wind-shaken, These remain. 

 Not a flower to be prest of the foot that falls not; As the heart of a dead man the seed-plots are dry; From the thicket of thorns whence the nightingale calls not, Could she call, there were never a rose to reply. Over the meadows that blossom and wither Rings but the note of sea-bird's song; Only the sun and the rain come hither All year long. 

 The sun burns sere and the rain dishevels One gaunt bleak blossom of scentless breath. Only the wind here hovers and revels In a round where life seems barren as death. Here there was laughing of old, there was weeping, Haply, of lovers none ever will know, Whose eyes went seaward a hundred sleeping Years ago. 

 Heart handfast in heart as they stood, "Look thither, " Did he whisper? "Look forth from the flowers to the sea; For the foam-flowers endure when the rose-blossoms wither, And men that love lightly may die--but we?" And the same wind sang and the same waves whiten'd, And or ever the garden's last petals were shed, In the lips that had whisper'd, the eyes that had lighten'd, Love was dead. 

 Or they lov'd their life through, and then went whither? And were one to the end--but what end who knows? Love deep as the sea as a rose must wither, As the rose-red seaweed that mocks the rose. Shall the dead take thought for the dead to love them? What love was ever as deep as a grave? They are loveless now as the grass above them Or the wave. 

 All are at one now, roses and lovers, Not known of the cliffs and the fields and the sea. Not a breath of the time that has been hovers In the air now soft with a summer to be. Not a breath shall there sweeten the seasons hereafter Of the flowers or the lovers that laugh now or weep, When as they that are free now of weeping and laughter We shall sleep. 

 Here death may deal not again for ever; Here change may come not till all change end. From the graves they have made they shall rise up never, Who have left nought living to ravage and rend. Earth, stones, and thorns of the wild ground growing, When the sun and the rain live, these shall be; Till a last wind's breath upon all these blowing Roll the sea. 

 Till the slow sea rise and the sheer cliff crumble, Till terrace and meadow the deep gulfs drink, Till the strength of the waves of the high tides humble The fields that lessen, the rocks that shrink, Here now in his triumph where all things falter, Stretch'd out on the spoils that his own hand spread, As a god self-slain on his own strange altar, Death lies dead. 

CII. A BALLAD TO QUEEN ELIZABETH OF THE SPANISH ARMADA. 

(BALLADE. )

AUSTIN DOBSON. --1840-

 King Philip had vaunted his claims; He had sworn for a year he would sack us; With an army of heathenish names He was coming to fagot and stack us; Like the thieves of the sea he would track us, And shatter our ships on the main; But we had bold Neptune to back us, -- And where are the galleons of Spain?

 His carackes were christen'd of dames To the kirtles whereof he would tack us; With his saints and his gilded stern-frames, He had thought like an egg-shell to crack us; Now Howard may get to his Flaccus, And Drake to his Devon again, And Hawkins bowl rubbers to Bacchus, -- For where are the galleons of Spain?

 Let his Majesty hang to St. James The axe that he whetted to hack us; He must play at some lustier games Or at sea he can hope to out-thwack us; To his mines of Peru he would pack us To tug at his bullet and chain; Alas! that his Greatness should lack us!-- But where are the galleons of Spain?

 ENVOY. 

 GLORIANA!--the Don may attack us Whenever his stomach be fain; He must reach us before he can rack us, . .. And where are the galleons of Spain?

 * * * * *

 _He lives not best who dreads the coming pain And shunneth each delight desirable:_ FLEE THOU EXTREMES, _this word alone is plain, Of all that God hath given to Man to spell!_

 ANDREW LANG. --1844. _From Sonnets from the Antique. _

CIII. CIRCE. 

(TRIOLET. )

AUSTIN DOBSON. 

 In the School of Coquettes Madame Rose is a scholar:-- O, they fish with all nets In the School of Coquettes! When her brooch she forgets 'Tis to show her new collar; In the School of Coquettes Madame Rose is a scholar!

CIV. SCENES FROM "TECUMSEH. "[Q]

CHARLES MAIR. --1840-

SCENE. --TECUMSEH'S _Cabin_. 

_Enter_ IENA. 

_Iena. _ 'Tis night, and Mamatee is absent still!Why should this sorrow weigh upon my heart, And other lonely things on earth have rest?Oh, could I be with them! The lily shoneAll day upon the stream, and now it sleepsUnder the wave in peace--in cradle softWhich sorrow soon may fashion for my grave. Ye shadows which do creep into my thoughts--Ye curtains of despair! what is my fault, That ye should hide the happy earth from me?Once I had joy of it, when tender Spring, Mother of beauty, hid me in her leaves;When Summer led me by the shores of song, And forests and far-sounding cataractsMelted my soul with music. I have heardThe rough chill harpings of dismantled woods, When Fall had stripp'd them, and have felt a joyDeeper than ear could lend unto the heart;And when the Winter from his mountains wildLook'd down on death, and, in the frosty sky, The very stars seem'd hung with icicles, Then came a sense of beauty calm and cold, That wean'd me from myself, yet knit me stillWith kindred bonds to Nature. All is past, And he--who won from me such love for him, And he--my valiant uncle and my friend, Comes not to lift the cloud that drapes my soul, And shield me from the fiendish Prophet's power. 

_Enter_ MAMATEE. 

Give me his answer in his very words!

_Mamatee. _ There is a black storm raging in his mind--His eye darts lightning like the angry cloudWhich hangs in woven darkness o'er the earth. Brief is his answer--you must go to him. The Long-Knife's camp-fires gleam among the oaksWhich dot yon western hill. A thousand menAre sleeping there cajoled to fatal dreamsBy promises the Prophet breaks to-night. Hark! 'tis the war-song. 

_Iena. _ Dares the Prophet nowBetray Tecumseh's trust, and break his faith?

_Mamatee. _ He dares do anything will feed ambition. His dancing braves are frenzied by his tongue, Which prophesies revenge and victory. Before the break of day he will surpriseThe Long-Knife's camp, and hang our people's fateUpon a single onset. 

_Iena. _ Should he fail?

_Mamatee. _ Then all will fail;--Tecumseh's scheme will fail. [R]

_Iena. _ It shall not! Let us go to him at once!

_Mamatee. _ And risk your life?

_Iena. _ Risk hovers everywhereWhen night and man combine for darksome deeds. I'll go to him, and argue on my knees--Yea, yield my hand--would I could give my heartTo stay his purpose and this act of ruin. 

_Mamatee. _ He is not in the mood for argument. Rash girl! they die who would oppose him now. 

_Iena. _ Such death were sweet as life--I go! But, first--Great Spirit! I commit my soul to Thee. [_Kneels. _

SCENE. --_An open space in the forest near the Prophet's Town. A fire ofbillets burning. War-cries are heard from the town. _

_Enter the_ PROPHET. 

_Prophet. _ My spells do work apace! Shout yourselves hoarse, Ye howling ministers by whom I climb!For this I've wrought until my weary tongue, Blister'd with incantation, flags in speech, And half declines its office. Every braveInflamed by charms and oracles, is nowA vengeful serpent, who will glide ere mornTo sting the Long-Knife's sleeping camp to death. Why should I hesitate? My promises!My duty to Tecumseh! What are theseCompared with duty here? Where I perceiveA near advantage, there my duty lies;Consideration strong which overweighsAll other reason. Here is Harrison--Trepann'd to dangerous lodgment for the night--Each deep ravine which grooves the prairie's breastA channel of approach; each winding creekA screen for creeping death. Revenge is sickTo think of such advantage flung aside. For what? To let Tecumseh's greatness grow, Who gathers his rich harvest of renownOut of the very fields that I have sown!By Manitou, I will endure no more!Nor, in the rising flood of our affairs, Fish like an osprey for this eagle longer. But, soft!It is the midnight hour when comesTarhay to claim his bride. [_Calls. _] Tarhay! Tarhay!

_Enter_ TARHAY _with several braves. _

_Tarhay. _ Tarhay is here!

_Prophet. _ The Long-Knives die to-night. The spirits which do minister to meHave breathed this utterance within my ear. You know my sacred office cuts me offFrom the immediate leadership in fight. My nobler work is in the spirit-world, And thence come promises which make us strong. Near to the foe I'll keep the Magic Bowl, Whilst you, Tarhay, shall lead our warriors on. 

_Tarhay. _ I'll lead them; they are wild with eagerness. But fill my cold and empty cabin firstWith light and heat! You know I love your niece, And have the promise of her hand to-night. 

_Prophet. _ She shall be yours! [_To the braves. _] Go bring her here at once--But, look! Fulfilment of my promise comesIn her own person. 

_Enter_ IENA _and_ MAMATEE. 

 Welcome, my sweet niece!You have forstall'd my message by these braves, And come unbidden to your wedding-place. 

_Iena. _ Uncle! you know my heart is far away--

_Prophet. _ But still your hand is here! this little hand! [_Pulling her forward. _

_Iena. _ Dare you enforce a weak and helpless girl, Who thought to move you by her misery?Stand back! I have a message for you too. What means the war-like song, the dance of braves, And bustle in our town?

_Prophet. _ It means that weAttack the foe to-night. 

_Iena. _ And risk our all?O that Tecumseh knew! his soul would rushIn arms to intercept you. What! break faith, And on the hazard of a doubtful strife, Stake his great enterprise and all our lives!The dying curses of a ruin'd raceWill wither up your wicked heart for this!

_Prophet. _ False girl! your heart is with our foes;Your hand I mean to turn to better use. 

_Iena. _ Oh, could it turn you from your mad intentHow freely would I give it! Drop this scheme, Dismiss your frenzied warriors to their beds;And, if contented with my hand, TarhayCan have it here. 

_Tarhay. _ I love you, Iena!

_Iena. _ Then must you love what I do! Love our race!'Tis this love nerves Tecumseh to uniteIts scatter'd tribes--his fruit of noble toil, Which you would snatch unripen'd from his hand, And feed to sour ambition. Touch it not--Oh, touch it not, Tarhay! and though my heartBreaks for it, I am yours. 

_Prophet. _ His anyway, Or I am not the Prophet!

_Tarhay. _ For my partI have no leaning to this rash attempt, Since Iena consents to be my wife. 

_Prophet. _ Shall I be thwarted by a yearning fool! [_Aside. _This soft, sleek girl, to outward seeming good, I know to be a very fiend beneath--Whose sly affections centre on herself, And feed the gliding snake within her heart. 

_Tarhay. _ I cannot think her so--

_Mamatee. _ She is not so!There is the snake that creeps among our race;Whose venom'd fangs would bile into our lives, And poison all our hopes. 

_Prophet. _ She is the head--The very neck of danger to me here, Which I must break at once! [_Aside. _] Tarhay--attend!I can see dreadful visions in the air;I can dream awful dreams of life and fate;I can bring darkness on the heavy earth;I can fetch shadows from our fathers' graves, And spectres from the sepulchres of hell. Who dares dispute with me, disputes with death!Dost hear, Tarhay?

[TARHAY _and braves cower before the_ PROPHET. 

_Tarhay. _ I hear, and will obey. Spare me! Spare me!

_Prophet. _ As for this foolish girl, The hand she offers you on one condition, I give to you upon a better one;And, since she has no mind to give her heart--Which, rest assured, is in her body still--There, --take it at my hands!

[_Flings_ IENA _violently towards_ TARHAY, _into whose arms she fallsfainting, and is then borne away by_ MAMATEE. 

[_To_ TARHAY. ] Go bring the braves to view the Mystic TorchAnd belt of Sacred Beans grown from my flesh--One touch of it makes them invulnerable--Then creep, like stealthy panthers, on the foe!

SCENE. --_Morning. The field of Tippecanoe after the battle. The groundstrewn with dead soldiers and warriors. _

_Enter_ HARRISON, _officers and soldiers, and_ BARRON. 

_Harrison. _ A costly triumph reckon'd by our slain!Look how some lie still clench'd with savagesIn all-embracing death, their bloody handsGlued in each other's hair! Make burial straightOf all alike in deep and common graves:Their quarrel now is ended. 

_1st Officer. _ I have heardThe red man fears our steel--'twas not so here;From the first shots, which drove our pickets in, Till daylight dawn'd, they rush'd upon our lines, And flung themselves upon our bayonet pointsIn frenzied recklessness of bravery. 

_Barron. _ They trusted in the Prophet's rites and spells, Which promis'd them immunity from death. All night he sat on yon safe eminence, Howling his songs of war and mystery, Then fled, at dawn, in fear of his own braves. 

_Enter an_ AIDE. 

_Harrison. _ What tidings bring you from the Prophet's Town?

_Aide. _ The wretched women with their children flyTo distant forests for concealment. InTheir village is no living thing save miceWhich scamper'd as we oped each cabin door. Their pots still simmer'd on the vacant hearths, Standing in dusty silence and desertion. Naught else we saw, save that their granariesWere cramm'd with needful corn. 

_Harrison. _ Go bring it all--Then burn their village down! [_Exit_ AIDE. 

_2nd Officer. _ This victoryWill shake Tecumseh's project to the base. Were I the Prophet I should drown myselfRather than meet him. 

_Barron. _ We have news of him--Our scouts report him near in heavy force. 

_Harrison. _ 'Twill melt, or draw across the British line, And wait for war. But double the night watch, Lest he should strike, and give an instant careTo all our wounded men: to-morrow's sunMust light us on our backward march for home. Thence Rumor's tongue will spread so proud a storyNew England will grow envious of our glory;And, greedy for renown so long abhorr'd, Will on old England draw the tardy sword!

SCENE. --_The Ruins of the Prophet's Town. _

_Enter the_ PROPHET, _who gloomily surveys the place. _

_Prophet. _ Our people scatter'd, and our town in ashes!To think these hands could work such madness here--This envious head devise this misery!Tecumseh, had not my ambition drawnSuch sharp and fell destruction on our raceYou might have smiled at me! for I have match'dMy cunning 'gainst your wisdom, and have dragg'dMyself and all into a sea of ruin. 

_Enter_ TECUMSEH. 

_Tecumseh. _ Devil! I have discover'd you at last!You sum of treacheries, whose wolfish fangsHave torn our people's flesh--you shall not live!

[_The_ PROPHET _retreats facing and followed by_ TECUMSEH. 

_Prophet. _ Nay--strike me not! I can explain it all!It was a woman touch'd the Magic Bowl, And broke the brooding spell. 

_Tecumseh. _ Impostor! Slave!Why should I spare you? [_Lifts his hand as if to strike. _

_Prophet. _ Stay, stay, touch me not!One mother bore us in the self-same hour. 

_Tecumseh. _ Then good and evil came to light together. Go to the corn-dance, change your name to villain!Away! Your presence tempts my soul to mischief. [_Exit the_ PROPHET _hastily. _Would that I were a woman, and could weep, And slake hot rage with tears! O spiteful fortune, To lure me to the limit of my dreams, Then turn and crowd the ruin of my toilInto the narrow compass of a night!My brother's deep disgrace--myself the scornOf envious harriers and thieves of fame, Who fain would rob me of the lawful meedOf faithful services and duties done--Oh, I could bear it all! But to beholdOur ruin'd people hunted to their graves--To see the Long-Knife triumph in their shame--This is the burning shaft, the poison'd woundThat rankles in my soul! But, why despair?All is not lost--the English are our friends. My spirit rises--manhood bear me up!I'll haste to Malden, join my force to theirs, And fall with double fury on our foes. Farewell ye plains and forests, but rejoice!Ye yet shall echo to Tecumseh's voice. 

_Enter_ LEFROY. 

_Lefroy. _ What tidings have you glean'd of Iena?

_Tecumseh. _ My brother meant to wed her to Tarhay--The chief who led his warriors to ruin;But, in the gloom and tumult of the night, She fled into the forest all alone. 

_Lefroy. _ Alone! In the wide forest all alone!Angels are with her now, for she is dead. 

_Tecumseh. _ You know her to be skilful with the bow. 'Tis certain she would strike for some great Lake--Erie or Michigan. At the DetroitAre people of our nation, and perchanceShe fled for shelter there. I go at onceTo join the British force. [_Exit_ TECUMSEH. 

_Lefroy. _ But yesterdayI climb'd to Heaven upon the shining stairsOf love and hope, and here am quite cast down. My little flower amidst a weedy world, Where art thou now? In deepest forest shade?Or onward, where the sumach stands array'dIn autumn splendor, its alluring formFruited, yet odious with the hidden worm?Or, farther, by some still sequester'd lake, Loon-haunted, where the sinewy panthers slakeTheir noon-day thirst, and never voice is heardJoyous of singing waters, breeze or bird, Save their wild wailings. --[_A halloo without. _] 'Tis Tecumseh calls!Oh Iena! If dead, where'er thou art--Thy saddest grave will be this ruin'd heart! [_Exit. _

FOOTNOTES:

[Q] These scenes are enacted at the "Prophet's Town, " an Indianvillage, situated at the junction of the Tippecanoe river with theWabash, the latter a tributary of the Ohio. Tecumseh is gone on amission to the Southern Indians to induce them to unite in aconfederation of all the Indian tribes, leaving his brother, theProphet, in charge of the tribes already assembled, having strictlyenjoined upon him not to quarrel with the Americans, or Long-Knives, as the Indians called them, during his absence. General Harrison, Governor of Indiana, and commander of the American forces, havinglearned of Tecumseh's plans, marches to attack the Prophet; but thelatter, pretending to be friendly, sends out some chiefs to meetHarrison. By the advice of these chiefs, the Americans encamp on anelevated plateau, near the Prophet's Town, --"a very fitting place, "to the mind of Harrison's officers, but to the practised eye ofHarrison himself, also well fitted for a night attack by the Indians. He, therefore, very wisely makes all necessary preparations fordefence against any sudden attack. Tecumseh has left behind him, under the protection of the Prophet, his wife, Mamatee, and hisniece, Iena. He is accompanied on his mission by Lefroy, an Englishpoet-artist, "enamoured of Indian life, and in love with Iena. " TheProphet, who is hostile to Lefroy, intends to marry Iena to Tarhay, one of his chiefs, but Mamatee has gone to intercede with herbrother-in-law for Iena, and, if possible, to turn him from hispurpose. 

[R] Tecumseh had long foreseen that nothing but combination couldprevent the encroachments of the whites upon the Ohio, and had longbeen successfully endeavoring to bring about a union of the tribeswho inhabited its valley. The Fort Wayne treaties gave a wider scopeto his design, and he now originated his great scheme of a federationof the entire red race. In pursuance of this object, his exertions, hitherto very arduous, became almost superhuman. He made repeatedjourneys, and visited almost every tribe from the Gulf of Mexico tothe Great Lakes, and even north of them, and far to the west of theMississippi. In order to further his scheme he took advantage of hisbrother's growing reputation as a prophet, and allowed him to gain apowerful hold upon the superstitious minds of his people by hispreaching and predictions. The Prophet professed to have obtainedfrom the Great Spirit a magic bowl, which possessed miraculousqualities; also a mystic torch, presumably from Nanabush, the keeperof the sacred fire. He asserted that a certain belt, said to makethose invulnerable who touched it whilst in his hands, was composedof beans which had grown from his flesh; and this belt was circulatedfar and wide by Indian runners, finding its way even to the Red Riverof the North. These, coupled with his oratory and mummeries, greatlyenhanced an influence which was possibly added to by a gloomy andsaturnine countenance, made more forbidding still by the loss of aneye. Unfortunately for Tecumseh's enterprise, the Prophet was morebent upon personal notoriety than upon the welfare of his people;and, whilst professing the latter, indulged his ambition, inTecumseh's absence, by a precipitate attack upon Harrison's force onthe Tippecanoe. His defeat discredited his assumption of supernaturalpowers, led to distrust and defection, and wrecked Tecumseh's plan ofindependent action. But the protection of his people was Tecumseh'ssole ambition; and, true statesman that he was, he joined the Britishat Amherstburg (Fort Malden), in Upper Canada, with a large force, and in the summer of 1812 began that series of services to theBritish interest which has made his name a household word in Canada, and endeared him to the Canadian heart. --_From_ AUTHOR'S NOTE. 

CV. THE RETURN OF THE SWALLOWS. 

EDMUND WILLIAM GOSSE. --1849-

 "Out in the meadows the young grass springs, Shivering with sap, " said the larks, "and we Shoot into air with our strong young wings Spirally up over level and lea; Come, O Swallows, and fly with us Now that horizons are luminous! Evening and morning the world of light, Spreading and kindling, is infinite!"

 Far away, by the sea in the south, The hills of olive and slopes of fern Whiten and glow in the sun's long drouth, Under the heavens that beam and burn; And all the swallows were gather'd there Flitting about in the fragrant air, And heard no sound from the larks, but flew Flashing under the blinding blue. 

 Out of the depths of their soft rich throats Languidly fluted the thrushes, and said: "Musical thought in the mild air floats, Spring is coming and winter is dead! Come, O Swallows, and stir the air, For the buds are all bursting unaware, And the drooping eaves and the elm-trees long To hear the sound of your low sweet song. "

 Over the roofs of the white Algiers, Flashingly shadowing the bright bazaar, Flitted the swallows, and not one hears The call of the thrushes from far, from far; Sigh'd the thrushes; then, all at once, Broke out singing the old sweet tones, Singing the bridal of sap and shoot, The tree's slow life between root and fruit. 

 But just when the dingles of April flowers Shine with the earliest daffodils, When, before sunrise, the cold clear hours Gleam with a promise that noon fulfils, -- Deep in the leafage the cuckoo cried, Perch'd on a spray by a rivulet-side, "Swallows, O Swallows, come back again To swoop and herald the April rain. "

 And something awoke in the slumbering heart Of the alien birds in their African air, And they paused, and alighted, and twitter'd apart, And met in the broad white dreamy square; And the sad slave woman, who lifted up From the fountain her broad-lipp'd earthen cup, Said to herself, with a weary sigh, "To-morrow the swallows will northward fly!"

CVI. DAWN ANGELS. 

A. MARY F. ROBINSON. --1856-

 All night I watch'd, awake, for morning: At last the East grew all aflame, The birds for welcome sang, or warning, And with their singing morning came. 

 Along the gold-green heavens drifted Pale wandering souls that shun the light, Whose cloudy pinions, torn and rifted, Had beat the bars of Heaven all night. 

 These cluster'd round the Moon; but higher A troop of shining spirits went, Who were not made of wind or fire, But some divine dream-element. 

 Some held the Light, while those remaining Shook out their harvest-color'd wings, A faint unusual music raining (Whose sound was Light) on earthly things. 

 They sang, and as a mighty river Their voices wash'd the night away: From East to West ran one white shiver, And waxen strong their song was Day. 

CVII. LE ROI EST MORT. 

A. MARY F. ROBINSON. 

 And shall I weep that Love's no more, And magnify his reign? Sure never mortal man before Would have his grief again. Farewell the long-continued ache, The days a-dream, the nights awake, I will rejoice and merry make, And never more complain. 

 King Love is dead and gone for aye, Who ruled with might and main, For with a bitter word one day, I found my tyrant slain, And he in Heathenesse was bred, Nor ever was baptized, 'tis said, Nor is of any creed, and dead Can never rise again. 

CVIII. TO WINTER. 

CHARLES G. D. ROBERTS. --1859-

 Ruling with an iron hand O'er the intermediate land 'Twixt the plains of rich completeness, And the realms of budding sweetness, Winter! from thy crystal throne, With a keenness all thy own Dartest thou, through gleaming air, O'er the glorious barren glare Of thy sunlit wildernesses, Thine undazzled level glances, Where thy minions' silver tresses Stream among their icy lances; While thy universal breathing, Frozen to a radiant swathing For the trees, their bareness hides, And upon their sunward sides Shines and flushes rosily To the chill pink morning sky. Skilful artists thou employest, And in chastest beauty joyest-- Forms most delicate, pure, and clear, Frost-caught starbeams fallen sheer In the night, and woven here In jewel-fretted tapestries. But what magic melodies, As in the bord'ring realms are throbbing, Hast thou, Winter?--Liquid sobbing Brooks, and brawling waterfalls, Whose responsive-voicèd calls Clothe with harmony the hills, Gurgling meadow-threading rills, Lakelets' lisping wavelets lapping Round a flock of wild ducks napping, And the rapturous-noted wooings, And the molten-throated cooings, Of the amorous multitudes Flashing through the dusky woods, When a veering wind hath blown A glare of sudden daylight down?-- Naught of these!--And fewer notes Hath the wind alone that floats Over naked trees and snows; Half its minstrelsy it owes To its orchestra of leaves. Ay! weak the meshes music weaves For thy snarèd soul's delight, 'Less, when thou dost lie at night 'Neath the star-sown heavens bright, To thy sin-unchokèd ears Some dim harmonies may pierce From the high-consulting spheres: 'Less the silent sunrise sing Like a vibrant silver string When its prison'd splendors first O'er the crusted snow-fields burst. But thy days the silence keep, Save for grosbeaks' feeble cheep, Or for snow-birds' busy twitter When thy breath is very bitter. 

 So my spirit often acheth For the melodies it lacketh 'Neath thy sway, or cannot hear For its mortal-cloakèd ear. And full thirstily it longeth For the beauty that belongeth To the Autumn's ripe fulfilling;-- Heapèd orchard-baskets spilling 'Neath the laughter-shaken trees; Fields of buckwheat full of bees, Girt with ancient groves of fir Shod with berried juniper; Beech-nuts mid their russet leaves; Heavy-headed nodding sheaves; Clumps of luscious blackberries; Purple-cluster'd traceries Of the cottage climbing-vines; Scarlet-fruited eglantines; Maple forests all aflame When thy sharp-tongued legates came. 

 Ruler with an iron hand O'er an intermediate land! Glad am I thy realm is border'd By the plains more richly order'd, -- Stock'd with sweeter-glowing forms, -- Where the prison'd brightness warms In lush crimsons through the leaves, And a gorgeous legend weaves. 

CIX. ABIGAIL BECKER. 

(_Off Long Point Island, Lake Erie, November 24th, 1854. _)

AMANDA T. JONES. 

 The wind, the wind where Erie plunged, Blew, blew nor'-east from land to land; The wandering schooner dipp'd and lunged, -- Long Point was close at hand. 

 Long Point--a swampy island-slant, Where, busy in their grassy homes, Woodcock and snipe the hollows haunt, And musk-rats build their domes;

 Where gulls and eagles rest at need, Where either side, by lake or sound, Kingfishers, cranes, and divers feed, And mallard ducks abound. 

 The lowering night shut out the sight: Careen'd the vessel, pitch'd and veer'd, -- Raved, raved the wind with main and might; The sunken reef she near'd. 

 She pounded over, lurch'd, and sank; Between two sand-bars settling fast, Her leaky hull the waters drank, And she had sail'd her last. 

 Into the rigging, quick as thought, Captain and mate and sailors sprung, Clamber'd for life, some vantage caught, And there all night they swung. 

 And it was cold--oh, it was cold! The pinching cold was like a vise: Spoondrift flew freezing, --fold on fold It coated them with ice. 

 Now when the dawn began to break, Light up the sand-path drench'd and brown, To fill her bucket from the lake, Came Mother Becker down. 

 From where her cabin crown'd the bank Came Abigail Becker tall and strong: She dipp'd, and lo! a broken plank Came rocking close along!

 She pois'd her glass with anxious ken: The schooner's top she spied from far, And there she counted seven men That clung to mast and spar. 

 And oh, the gale! the rout and roar! The blinding drift, the mounting wave, A good half-mile from wreck to shore, With seven men to save!

 Sped Mother Becker: "Children! wake! A ship's gone down! they're needing me! Your father's off on shore; the lake Is just a raging sea!

 "Get wood, cook fish, make ready all. " She snatch'd her stores, she fled with haste, In cotton gown and tatter'd shawl, Barefoot across the waste, Through sinking sands, through quaggy lands, And nearer, nearer, full in view, Went shouting through her hollow'd hands: "Courage! we'll get you through!"

 Ran to and fro, made cheery signs, Her bonfire lighted, steeped her tea, Brought drift-wood, watch'd Canadian lines Her husband's boat to see. 

 Cold, cold it was--oh, it was cold! The bitter cold made watching vain: With ice the channel laboring roll'd, -- No skiff could stand the strain. 

 On all that isle, from outer swell To strait between the landings shut, Was never place where man might dwell, Save trapper Becker's hut. 

 And it was twelve and one and two, And it was three o'clock and more. She call'd: "Come on! there's nought to do, But leap and swim ashore!"

 Blew, blew the gale; they did not hear: She waded in the shallow sea; She waved her hands, made signals clear, "Swim! swim, and trust to me!"

 "My men, " the captain cried, "I'll try: The woman's judgment may be right; For, swim or sink, seven men must die If here we swing to-night. "

 Far out he mark'd the gathering surge; Across the bar he watch'd it pour, Let go, and on its topmost verge Came riding in to shore. 

 It struck the breaker's foamy track, -- Majestic wave on wave uphurl'd, Went grandly toppling, tumbling back, As loath to flood the world. 

 There blindly whirling, shorn of strength, The captain drifted, sure to drown; Dragg'd seaward half a cable's length, Like sinking lead went down. 

 Ah, well for him that on the strand Had Mother Becker waited long! And well for him her grasping hand And grappling arm were strong!

 And well for him that wind and sun, And daily toil for scanty gains, Had made such daring blood to run Within such generous veins!

 For what to do but plunge and swim? Out on the sinking billow cast, She toil'd, she dived, she groped for him, She found and clutch'd him fast. 

 She climb'd the reef, she brought him up, She laid him gasping on the sands; Built high the fire and fill'd the cup, -- Stood up and waved her hands!

 Oh, life is dear! The mate leap'd in. "I know, " the captain said, "right well, Not twice can any woman win A soul from yonder hell. 

 "I'll start and meet him in the wave. " "Keep back!" she bade: "what strength have you? And I shall have you both to save, -- Must work to pull you through!"

 But out he went. Up shallow sweeps Raced the long white-caps, comb on comb: The wind, the wind that lash'd the deeps, Far, far it blew the foam. 

 The frozen foam went scudding by, -- Before the wind, a seething throng, The waves, the waves came towering high, They flung the mate along. 

 The waves came towering high and white. They burst in clouds of flying spray: There mate and captain sank from sight, And, clinching, roll'd away. 

 Oh, Mother Becker, seas are dread, Their treacherous paths are deep and blind! But widows twain shall mourn their dead If thou art slow to find. 

 She sought them near, she sought them far, Three fathoms down she gripp'd them tight; With both together up the bar She stagger'd into sight. 

 Beside the fire her burdens fell: She paus'd the cheering draught to pour, Then waved her hands: "All's well! all's well! Come on! swim! swim ashore!"

 Sure, life is dear, and men are brave: They came, --they dropp'd from mast and spar; And who but she could breast the wave, And dive beyond the bar?

 Dark grew the sky from east to west, And darker, darker grew the world: Each man from off the breaker's crest To gloomier deeps was hurl'd. 

 And still the gale went shrieking on, And still the wrecking fury grew; And still the woman, worn and wan, Those gates of Death went through, --

 As Christ were walking on the waves, And heavenly radiance shone about, -- All fearless trod that gulf of graves And bore the sailors out. 

 Down came the night, but far and bright, Despite the wind and flying foam, The bonfire flamed to give them light To trapper Becker's home. 

 Oh, safety after wreck is sweet! And sweet is rest in hut or hall: One story Life and Death repeat, -- God's mercy over all. 

 * * * * *

 Next day men heard, put out from shore, Cross'd channel-ice, burst in to find Seven gallant fellows sick and sore, A tender nurse and kind;

 Shook hands, wept, laugh'd, were crazy-glad; Cried: "Never yet, on land or sea, Poor dying, drowning sailors had A better friend than she. 

 "Billows may tumble, winds may roar, Strong hands the wreck'd from Death may snatch: But never, never, nevermore This deed shall mortal match!"

 Dear Mother Becker dropp'd her head, She blush'd as girls when lovers woo: "I have not done a thing, " she said, "More than I ought to do. "

THE END. 

+------------------------------------------+| Transcriber's notes: |+------------------------------------------+| Non-ascii diacritical marks represented || as follows: ||------------------------------------------|| || [=a] a macron [)a] a breve || [=e] e macron [)e] e breve || [=i] i macron [)i] i breve || [=o] o macron [)o] o breve || [=u] u macron [)u] u breve || || [a:] two dots under a || [. A] dot over a |+------------------------------------------+