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Ztbe IDictorian ^Rea^cr0♦

FIFTH READFE

AVTHOlUZEh BY THE ADVISOMY BOARD
FOR MANITOBA.

TORONTO:

THE COPP, CLARK COMPANY, LIMITED.

THE W. J. GAGE COMPANY, LIMITED.

Entered according' to Act of the Parliament of Canada, in the year one thousand
eight hundred and ninety-eight, hv Tiik Con-, CiiARK Comtany, Limitku, raid
The W. J. Gaok Company, Llmitkd, at the Department of Agriculture.

m^vrow^-msrim^>^-it'^^

CONTENTS

The Selection in Poetry are Prmted in Italics.

The Red River Voyaycur John G. Whittier

The Pilgrim's Progress John Bunyan .

A Canadian Boat-Sowj Thovuis Moore .

The Pickwickians on lee Charles Dickens .

For the Strength of the Hilh we Bless Thee Mrs. Hemans

Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata .... ^non ....

The So a(j of the Camp Bayard Taylor .

The Demon of the Deep Victor Hwjo . .

The Day is Done Henry W. Long fell

Tlui Vision of Mirza . " Joseph Addison.

The Minstrel-Boy .... ... Thomas Moore .

The Battle of the Ants . .... Henry D. Thor can

Skipper Iresmi's Ride J-ohn O. Whittier

The Crusader and the Sai'acen .... Sir Walter Scott

Scarlett's Three Hundred (Jerald Massey .

The Burning of Moscow J. T. Headley .

Marco Bozzaris Fitz-Greene Halleck

The Archery Contest Conan Doyle . .

Rosahtlle Sir Walter Scott

lull Igu and the Queen Sir Walter Scott .

The Deacon's Masterpiece: or, " l'he\ ,.,. „_ , „ „ ,
yrr J r 7 l oi )' } Oliver Wendell Holmes

Wonderful onc-hoss Shay .... J

77ie Winter Lakes William, Wilfrid Camphe

The Captains at Plymouth Charles Kimjsley . .

To the Dandelion James Russell Lowell .

The Voyage Washinyton Irving

The Water-fowl William Cullen Bryant

Cromwell's Expulsion of the Long Par- ^ ^ ,
y .JohnLimjard ...

The Prairies William Cullen Bryant

Rip Van Winkle Washirujton Irving

TAitK
1

«)
10
11)
21
25
20
32
34
40
40
44
47
56
58
64
66
75

4 I

87
88
93
95
103

104

107
111

Contents.

Burns

The Bell of Atri,

The Story of IVfuliammad l)iii ....

The Buridl of Moses

Se(lgeiiKK)r

The Tliin Red Line

The Panthers

27it' Dr(iijoi\tly

Englisli iScenery

Bloiv, Blow, thou Winter Wind ....

Hail to the Chief

Westminster Abbey

The Binh of Killiwnoorth

Westminster Abl)ey

The Lay of the Phi enix

Killifcorankie

Eh<iy Written in a Country Churchyard

The Mill on the Floss

The Isles of Greece

Labor

The Ocean

The Execution of Sir Tlionias More . .

The Cloud

The Plains of Abraham

Ode to A utumn

The Happy Valley

The Visio7i of Sir Launfal

The Fiery Furnace

The Haven

A Man'' s a Man for a^ That

The Death of Nelson

The Lilies of the Field

I'hc Burial March of Dundee ....
The Trial of Warren Hastings ....

The Skylark

To the Skylark

To a Skylark

Reward

The Impeachment of Warren Hastings .
Speech Against Warren Hastings . . .

The Chambered Nautilus

The Fi(jht with the Dragon

The Eruption of Vesuvius

As Ships, Becalmed at Eve

Tlie Tempest. A Tale from Shakesi)eare

Fitz-(jhrene-Salleck . .
Henry W. Lomjfclloio
Rudyard Kipling .
Mrs. C. F. Alexamler
Lord Macaulay . . .
W. H. Russell . . .
Charles (i. D. Roberts
Theodore H. Rand . .
Goldwin Smith , . .
Shakespeare ....
Sir Wcdtcr Scott . ,
Joseph Addison . . .
Henry W. Longfellow .
Washington Irving
Bulioer Lytton . . .
Lord Macaulay . . .
Thonuts Gray . . .
George Eliot ....
Lord Byron ....
Thonuts Carlyle . . .
Lord Byron ....
James Anthony Froude
Percy Bysshe Shelley .
Gilbert Parker . . .
John Keats ....
Samuel Johnson . .
James Russell Loict II .
Daniel, Chapter Hi.
Edgar Allan Poc . .
Robert Burns . . .
Robert Southcy . .
John Keble ....
W. E. Aytoun . . .
Lord Macaulay . . .
James Hogg ....
William Wordsworth .
Percy Bysshe Shelley .
Thonuts Carlyle . . .
Edmund Burke . . .

Sheridan

Oliver Wendell Holmes

Schiller

Anon

Arthur Hugh dough .
Charles Lamb , . .

132
T35
139
143
145

ir)0
ir)4

H\2
105
108
109
170
172
180
184
187
193
198
201
204
208
210
213
216
225
226
228
239
243
248
250
255
256
261
205
266
267
271
273
277
280
281
291
, 296
, 297

Contents.

ToNioht

The World is Too Much With Us . .
The Poctrtf of Earth is Never Dead .

Wapentake

From Dawn to Dawn in tht^ Alps . .
Trial Scene from the Merchant of Venice

The Great Carbuncle

The Cotter's Saturday Nujht

Verres Denounced

Virtue

Harold's Si)eecli to His Army . . . .

TJie Sleep

Tharmtopsis ....

Dream Upon the Universe

Brutus and Antoiiy

Kubla Khan

Perseus

The Battle of the Lake RcfjilluH . . . .
Ood is our Rcfuije and Strcuf/th . . . ,
As the Hartpantdh after the water brooks.
Lead, Kindly Liyht ........

Blanco White . .
William Wordsworth
John Keats . . ,
Henry W. Loiuj fellow
John Raskin . . .
Shakespeare . .
Nathaniel Hawthorne
Robert Burns . .

Cicero

Cncorye Herbert .
Bulwer LytUrn . .
Elizabeth Barrett Brotnni
William C alien Bryant
Thomas De Quincey
Shakespeare . . .
Samuel T. Coleridye
Charles Kinysley
Lord Macaulay . .
Psalm xlvi. , . .
Psalms xlii and jiiH
Cardinal Newman .

312

312
313
313
314
317
330
349
355

358
359
3()1
364
370
378
380
422
437
438
440

t^mmmmm^mi

FIFTH READER.

THE RED RIVER VOYAGEUR.

Out and in the river is winding
The Hnks of its long, red eliain,

Through belts of dusky pine-land
And gusty leagues of plain.

Only, at times, a smoke-wreatli

With the drifting cloud-rack joins, -

The smoke of the hunting-lodges
Of the wild Assiniboins !

Drearily blows the north-wind
From the land of ice and snow ;

The eyes that look are weary,
And heavy the hands that row.

And with one foot on the water,

And one upon the shore,
The Angel of Shadow gives warning

That day shall be no more.

Is it the clang of wild-geese ?

Is it the Indian's yell.
That lends to the voice of the north-wind

The tones of a far-off bell ?

'»%-vm-itn.

FiiTH Kkader.

The voyaffeur smiles as he Hstens
To the sound that grows apace ;

Well he knows the vesper ringing
Of the Ijells of St. Boniface.

The bells of the Roman Mission,
That call from their turrets twain,

To the boatman on the river.
To the hunter on the plain !

Even so in our mortal journey
The bitter north-winds blt)w,

And thus upon life's Jied Jiiver
Our hearts, as oarsmen, "ow.

And when the Angel of Shadow
Rests his feet on wave and shore,

And our eyes grow dim witli watching
And our hearts faint at f iie oar,

'f->}

Happy is he who heareth
The signal of his release

In the bells of the Holy City,
Tlie chimes of eternal peace !

—John 0. Whittier.

Haste not ! rest not ! calmly wait ;
Meekly bear the storms of fate !
Duty be thy polar guide ;—
Bo the right, whate'er betide !
Haste not ! rest not ! conflicts past,
Ood shall crown thy work at last.

—Oofthe.

■^:^^- £

The Piujrim's PmxiUEss.

THE PILGRIM'S PROGRESS.

tier.

As I walked through tlie wilderneHs of this world, I
lighted on a certain place, where was a den, and laid nie
down in that place to sleep: and as I slept, I dreamed a
dream. I dreamed, and behold, I saw a man clothed with
rags, standing in a certain place, with his face from his
own luMise, a lx)ok in his hand, and a great burden upon
his back, I looked, and saw him open the book, and
read therein ; and as he read, he wept and trembled ; and
not being able longer to contain, he broke out with a
lamentable cry, saying " What shall I do ? "

In this plight, therefore, he went home and restrained
himself as long as he could, that his wife and children
.should not perceive his distress ; but he could not be
silent hywi,, because that his trouble increased. Where-
fore at length he brake his mind to his wife and children,
and thus he began to talk to them : " O my dear wife,"
said he, " and you the children of my bowels, I, your dea^
friend, am in myself undone by reason of a burden that
lieth hard upon me ; moreover, I am certainly informed
that this our city will be burnt with fire from heaven ; in
which fearful overthrow, both myself, with thee my wife,
and you my sweet babes, shall miserably come to ruin,
except (the which I see not) some way of escape can be
found, whereby we may be delivered." At this his rela-
tions were sore amazed ; not for that they believed that
what he had said to them was true, but because they
thought that some frenzy distemper had got into his
head ; therefore, it drawing towards night, and they hop-
ing that sleep might settle his brains, with all haste they

I I'

i ;

I !

Fifth Header

^ot liiin to bwd. But the night v^as as troublosome to
him as the day ; wherefore, instead of sleeping, he spent
it in si, hs and tears. So when the niorninijf was come,
they would know how lie did. He told them, " Worse
and worse." He also set to talking to tfiem again ; but
they began to be hardened. They also thought to drive
away liis distemper by harsh and surly carriage to him ;
sometimes they would deride, sometimes they would
chide, and sometimes they would (^uite neglect him.
Wherefore he began to retire himself to his cliamber, to
pray for and pity then), and also to condole his own
misery : he would also walk solitarily in the fields, some-
times reading, and sometimes praying; and thus for
some days he spent his time.

Now I saw, upon a time, when he was walking in the
fields, that he was (as he was wont) reading in his book,
and greatly distressed in his mind ; and as he read, he
burst out, as he had done before, crying, " Wliat shall I
do to be saved ? "

I saw also that he looked this way, and that way, as if
he would run ; yet he stood still, because (as I perceived)
he could not tell which way to go. I looked then, and
saw a man named Evangelist coming to him, who asked,
" Wherefore dost thou cry ? "

He answered, " Sir, I perceive by the book in my hand
that I am condenmed to die, ynd after that to come to
judgment; and I find that I am not willing to do the
first, nor able to do the second." - ■ ; -^i >-^ - -i-.,.. ,-»..>

Then said Evangelist, " Why not willing to die, since
this life is attended with so many evils ? " The man
answered, " Because I fear that this burden that is upon
my back will sink me lower than the grave, and I shall

;as

The Pilcjrim's PuocjRESii. 6

fall into Tophet. And, rh-. if I be not fit to go to prison,
I am not fit to go to judgment, and from thence to execu-
tion ; and the tl.oughts of these things make me cry."

Then said Evangelist, " If this be thy condition, why
stand est tliou still ? " He answered, " Because I know
not whither to go." Then he gave him a parchment roll,
and there was written within, " Flee from the wrath to
come."

The man, therefore, read it, and looking upon Evange-
list very carefully, said, " Whither must I fly ? " Then
said Evangelist (pointing w^th his finger over a very
wide field), " Do j^'ou see yonder wicket-gate ? " The man
said, " No." Then said the other, " Do you see yonder
shining light ? " He said, " I tliink I do." Tiien said
Evangelist, " Keep that light in your eye, and go up
directly tliereto, so shalt thovi see the gate : at which,
when thou knockest, it shall be told thee what thou
nhalt do." So I saw in my dream that tlie man began to
lun. Now he had not run far from his own door, when
his wife and children, perceiving it, begp,n to cry after
him to return ; but the man put his fingers in his ears
and ran on, crying, " Life ! Life ! eternal life ! " So he
looked not behind him, but fled towards the middle of
the plain.

The neighbors also came out to see him run ; and as
he ran, some mocked, others threatened, and some cried
after him to return ; and among those that did so, there
were two that resolved to fetch him back by force. The
name of the one was Obstinate, and the name of the
other Pliable. Now by this time the man was got a good
distance from them ; but, however, they were resolved to
pursue hira, which they did, and in a little time they

Fifth Reader.

overtook liim. Then said the man, " Neighbors, where-
fore are ye come ? " They said, " To persuade you to go
back with us." But he said, "Tliat can by .10 means
be ; you dwell," said he, " in the City of Destruction, the
place also where I was born ; I see it to be so ; and dying
there, sooner or later, you will sink lower than the grave,
into a place that burns with fire and brimstone ; be con-
tent, good neighbors, and go along with me."

Obst. What ! said Obstinate, and leave our friends and
comforts be^nnd us ?

Chr. Yes, said Cliristian (for that was his name),
because that all which you forsake is not worthy to be
compared with a little of tliat I am seeking to enjoy;
and if you will go along with me, and hold it, you shall
fare as I myself : for there, where I go, is enough and to
spare. Come away, and prove my words.

Obst. What are the things you seek, since you leave
all the world to find them if

Chr. I seek an inheritance incorruptible, undefiled,
and that fadeth not away, and it is laid up in heaven,
and safe there, to be bestowed, at the time appointed, on
them that diligently seek it. Read it so, if you will, in
my book.

Obst. Tush ! said Obstinate ; away with your book !
Wi^^ you go back with us or no ? . ;

Chr. No, not I, said the other, because I have put my
hand to the plough.

Obst. Come, then, neighbor Pliable, let us turn again
and go home without him ; there is a company of these
crazy-headed coxcombs, that when they take a fancy by
the end, are wiser in their own eyes than seven men that
can render a rea^u.

The Pilgrim's PiKxaiEss.

Pli. Then said Pliable, Don't revile ; if what the good
Cyhristian says is true, the things he looks after are better
than ours : my heart inclines to go with my neighbor.

Obst. What ! more fools still ? Be ruled by me and
go back, who knows whither such a brain-sick fellow
will lead you ? Go back, go back, and be wise.

Chr. Nay, but do thou come with thy neighbor,
Pliable ; there are such things to be had which I spoke
of, and many more glories besides. If you believe not
me, read here in this book ; and for the truth of what is
expressed therein, behold, all is confirmed by the blood of
Him that made it.

Pli. Well, neighbor Obstinate, said Pliable, I begin
to come to a point : I intend to go along with this good
man, and to cast in my lot with him. But, my good
companion, do you know the way to this desired place ?

Chr. I am directed by a man, whose name is Evange-
list, to speed me to a little gate that is before us, where
we shall receive instruction about the way.

Pli. Come then, good neighbor, let us be going. Then
they went both together.

Obst. And I will go back to my place, said Obstinate ;
I will be no companion of 'ucli misled, fantastical fellows.

Now I saw in my dream, that when Obstinate was
gone back Christian and Pliable went talking over the
plain; and thus they began their discourse:

Chr. Come, neighbor Pliable, how do you do ? I am
glad you are persuaded to go along with me. Had even
Obstinate himself but felt what I have felt of the powers
and terrors of what is yet unseen, he would not thus
lightly have given us the back.

FitTH Reader.

HII

in-

\ui

• Pli. Come, neigh lix)r Christian, since there are none
but us two here, tell me now further what the things
are, and how to be enjoyed, whither we are going.

Chr. I can better conceive of them with my mind,
than speak of them with my tongue : but yet since you
are desirous to know, I will read of them in my book.

Pli. And do you think that tlie words of your book
are certainly true ? , ? r

Chr. Yes, verily; for it was made by Him that cannot

lie. ■•:■./,.:. ^- - I':: •^'^-t''-^r,>.

Pli. V/ell said ; what things are they ?

Chr. There is an endless kingdom to be inhabited, and
everlasting life to be given us, that we may inhabit that
kingdom for ever.

Pli. Well said ; and what else ?

Chr. There are crowns of glory to be given us, and
garments that will make us shine like the sun in the
firmament of heaven. . •

Pll This is very pleasant ; and what else ?

Chr. There shall be no inore crying, nor sorrow: for
He that is owner of the place will wipe all tears from
our eyes.

Pli. And what company shall we have there ?

Chr. There we shall be with seraphims and cherubims,
creatures that will dazzle your eyes to look on them.
There also you shall meet with thousands and ten thou-
sands that have gone before us to that place ; none of
them are hurtful, but loving and holy; every one walking
in the sight of God, and standing in His presence with
acceptance for ever. In a word, there we shall see the
elders with their golden crowns ; there we shall see the
holy virgins with their golden harps ; there we shall see

..,^

A Canadian Boat-Song.

} none
things

mind,
ce you
)ok.
iv book

cannot

,ed, and
)it that

us, and
in the

men that by the world were cut in pieces, burnt in
flames, eaten of l^easts, drowned in tlie seas, for the love
they bare to the Lord of the place, all well, and clothed
with immortality as with a garment.

Pli. The hearing: of this is enough to ravish one's
heart. But are these things to be enjoyed ? How shall
we get to be sharers thereof ?

Chr. The Lord, the Governor of the country, hath
recorded that in this book ; the substance of which is.
If we be truly willing to have it, He will bestow it upon
us freely.

Pli. Well, my good companion, glad am I to hear of
these things : come on, let us mend our pace.

Chr. I cannot go so fast as I would, by reason of this
burden that is on my back.

— John Bunyan.

A CANADIAN BOAT-SONG.

)W : for
rs from

rubims,
1 them,
n thou-
none of
talking
ce with
see the
see the
hall see

Faintly as tolls the evening chime,
Our voices keep tune and our oars keep time.
Soon as the woods on shore look dim, ,. .
We'll sing at St. Ann's our parting hymn.
Row, brothers, row, the stream runs fast.
The Rapids are near, and the daylight's past !

Why should we yet our sail unfurl ?
There is not a breath the blue wave to curl !
But when the wind blows off the shore,
Oh ! sweetly we'll rest our weary oar.
Blow, hreezes, blow, the stream runs fast.
The Rapids are near, and the daylight's past I

n
t

Fifth Reader.

■if!

IJtawas' tide ! tliis treniblin,^ moon
Shall see us float oyer thy surges soon.
Saint of this green Isle ! hear our prayei's,
Oh ! grant us co<j1 heavens and favoiing airs.
Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast.
The llapids are near, and the daylight's past !

— Thomas Manre.

■■If

THE PICKWICKIANS ON ICE.

III!

^■1 !!

! 1'.

ill

"Now," said Wardle, after a substantial lunch had hcc'u
done ample justice to ; " what say you to an hour on the
ice ? We shall have plenty of time."

"Capital!" said Mr. Bi^njamin All(3n.

" Prime ! " ejaculated Mr. Bob Sawyer.

" You skate, of course, Winkle ? " said Wardle.

" Ye — yes ; oh, yes ; " replied IVIr. Winkle. " I — 1 — am
ratlwr out of practice."

" Oh, do skate, Mr. Winkle," said Arabella. " I like to
see it 80 much."

" Oh, it is so graceful," said ar>other young lady.

A third young lady said it was elegant, and a fouith
expressed her opinion that it was " swan-like."

" I should be very happy, I'm sure," said Mr. Winkle,
reddening; " but I have no skates."

This objection was at once over-ruled. Trundle had got
a couple of pair, and the fat boy announced that there
were half-a-dozen more down stairs, whereat Mr. Winkle
expressed excjuisite delight, and looked exquisitely un-
comfortable.

Old Wardle led the way to a pretty large sheet of ice ;

The Pickwickians on Ice.

! Monre.

on the

I — ;ini
like, to

four til

Viiikle,

had got
t there
Winkle
Ay un-

of ice ;

and the fat boy and Mr. Woller, having shovelled and
swept away the snow which had fallen on it during the
night, Mr. Bob Sawyer adjusted his skates with a dex-
terity which to Mr. Winkle was perfectly marvellous,
and described circles with his left leg, and cut figures of
eight ; and inscribed upon the ice, without once stopping
for breath, a great many other pleasant and astonishing
devices, to the excessive satisfaction of Mr. Pickwdck,
Mr. Tupman, and the ladies; which reached a pitch of
positive enthusiasm when old Wardle and Benjamin
Allen, assisted by the aforesaid Bob Sawyer, performed
some mystic evoluti(jns, which they call a reel.

All this time, Mr. Winkle, with his face and hands blue
witli the cold, had been forcing a gimlet into the soles of
his feet, and putting his skates on, with the points behind,
and getting the straps into a very complicated and en-
tangled state, with the assistance of Mr. Snodgrass, who
knew ratlier less about skates than a Hindoo. At length,
however, with the assistance of Mr. Weller, the unfor-
tunate skates were firmly screwed and buckled on, and
Mr. Winkle was raised to his feet.

"Now, then, sir," said Sam, in an encouraging tone;
' oft* vith you, and show 'em how to do it."

" Stop, Sam, stop," said Mr. Winkle, trembling violently,
and clutching hold of Sam's arms wdth the grasp of a
drowning man. " How slippery it is, 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 demonstration Mr. Winkle made at the instant, of a
frantic desire to throw his feet in the air, and dash the
back of his head on the ice.

Fifth REAi)f:R.

"Tliese — tliese — av(^ very awkward .skatii.s; ain't they,
8aiii i " in(|uirt'(l Mr. Winkh^, Htai(t^erin<(.

" I'm afeerd there's a orkard geii'hii'n in 'em, sir,"
replied Sam.

"Now, Winkle," cried Mr. Pickwick, ({uite unconHcious
that there was anything the matter. " Come ; the ladies
are all anxiety."

" Yes, yes," replied Mr. Winkle, with a ghastly smile.

te T' • "

1 m coming.

" Just a goin' to begin," said Sam, endeavoring to dis-
engage himself. " Now, sir, start of!'."

" Stop an instant, Sam," gasped Mr. Winkle, clinging
most affectionately to JVIr. Weller. " I find I've got a
couple of coats at home, that I don't want, Sam. You
may have them, Sam." ' : '■

" Thank 'ee, sir," replied Mr. Weller.

" Never mind touching your hat, Sam," said Mr. Winkle,
hastily. " You needn't take your hand away to do that.
I meant to have given you five shillings this morning for
a Christmas-box, Sam. I'll give it you this afternoon,
Sam.' ,, ; .V .

"You're wery good, sir," replied Mr. Weller. .: ,

'Just hold me at first, Sam; will youT' said Mr.
Winkle. " There — that's right. I shall soon get in the
way of it, Sam. Not too fast, Sam ; not too fast."

Mr. Winkle, stooping forward, with his body half
doubled up, was being assisted over the ice by Mr.
Weller, in a very singular and un -swan-like manner,
when Mr. Pickwick most innocently shouted from the
opposite bank —

" Sam ! "

" Sir ? " said Mr. Weller.

The Pickwickians on Ice.

, they,
, sir,

iHcious
ladies

smile.

:o dis-

inging
ot a
You

got a

inkle,
that.
ng for
noon,

(I Mr.
m the

i half
y Mr.
anner,
m the

"Here. I want you." <•

" Let go, sii," said Sam. " Don't you hear the governor
a callin' ^ Let go, sir." •

With a violent efibrt, Mr. Weller disengaged himself
from the grasp of the agonized Piekwiekian ; and, in so
doing, administered a considerable impetus to the un-
happy Mr, Winkle. With an accuracy which no degree
of dexterity or practice could have insured, that unfor-
tunate gentleman hove swiftly down into the centre of
the reel, at the very moment when Mr. Bob Sawyer was
performing a flourish of unparalleled beauty. Mr. Winkle
struck wildly against him, and with a loud crash they
Ijoth fell heavily down. Mr. Pickwick ran to the spot.
Bob Sawyer had risen to his feet, but Mr. Winkle was far
t(X) wise to do anything of the kind in skates. He was
seated on the ice, making spasmodic eflbrts 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 w^isli you'd let me bleed you," said Mr. Benjamin
with great eagerness.

"No, thank you," replied Mr. Winkle, hurriedly.

" I really think you had better," said Allen. ' •■ m

" 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, and said in a stern voice, " Take his skates
off."

Fifth Reader.

Hi!

" No ; ])ut nnilly I had scarcely bot^uii," remonstrated
Mr. Winkle.

"Take his skates oft*" repeated Mr. Pickwick, firmly.

The command was not to be resisted. Mr. Winkle
allowed Sam to obey it, in silence. . :>^'\Ktx/r^r:.-%;:r^'i^i,

" Lift him up," said Mr. Pickwick. Sam assisted him
to rise. ■' - •• ^■^' ■ ^ ^^^ ^ - ■?; -K^ " - :-r?;^^;-.

Mr. Pickwick retired a few paces apart from the by-
standers ; and, beckoning his friend to approach, fixed a
s(»arching look upon him, and uttered in a low, but distinct
and emphatic tone, these remarkable words :

"You're a humbug, sir."

" A what ! " said Mr. Winkle, startinty.

" A humbug, sir. I will speak plainer, if you wish it.
An impostor, sir." v v ^ -

With these words, Mr. Pickwick turned slowly on his
heel, and rejoined his friends.

While Mr. Pickwick was delivering himself of the
sentiment just recorded, Mr. Weller and the fat boy,
having by their joint endeavors cut out a slide, were
exercising themselves thereupon, in a very masterly and
brilliant manner. Sam Weller, in particular, was dis-
playing that beautiful feat of fancy sliding which is
currently denominated " knocking at the cobbler's door,"
and which is achieved by skimming over the ice on one
foot, and occasionally giving a two-penny postman's
knock upon it with the other. It was a good long slide,
and there was something in the motion which Mr. Pick-
wick, who was very cold with standing still, could not
help envying.

" It looks a nice warm exercise that, doesn't it ? " he
inquired of Wardle, when that gentleman was thoroughly

Thk Pickwickiaxs on Ice.

his

out of breath, by reason of the indefatigable maimer in
winch he had converted his l('<jfs into a pair of c()nipass<'s,
and drawn complicated problems on the ice,

" Ah, it does, indeed," replied Wardle. " Do yon slide?"

" T used to do so, on the gutters, when I was a boy,"
replied Mr. Pickwick.

" Try it now," said Wardle.

"Oh, do, please Mr. Pickwick," cried all the ladies.

" I shonld be very hai)i)v t<) aftbrd you any amusement,"

•/III/ C^ t' '

replied Mr. Pickwick, "but I haven't done such a thing
these thirty years."

" Pooh ! pooh ! nonsense ! " said Wardle, dragging off
his skates with the impetuosity which characterized all
his proceedings. " Hen^ ; I'll keep you comi)any ; come
along." And away went the good-tempered old fellow
down the slide, with a rapidity which came very close
upon ]\Ir. Weller, and l)eat the fat boy all to nothing.

Mr. Pickwick paused, considered, pulled oft' his gloves
and put them in his hat, took two or three short runs,
baulked himself as often, and at last took another run
and went slowly and gravely down the slide, with his feet
about a yard and a quarter apart, amidst the gi'atified
shouts of all the spect.itors.

"Keep the pot a bili.i', sir," said Sam ; and down went
Wardle again, and then Mr. Pickwick, and then Sam,
and then Mr. Winkle, and then Mr. Bob Sawyer, and
then the fat boy, and then Mr. Snodgrass, following
closely upon each other's heels, and ruruiing after each
other with as nuich eagerness as if all theii- future pros-
pects in life depended on their expedition.

It was the most intensely interesting thing, to observe
the manner in which Mr. Pickwick performed his share

Finn Reader.

in the ceremony: to w»itcl tlie torture of anxiety witli
which he viewed the persoi ])e]nn(l, ^ainin«^ upon liini at
the iinniinent hazard of trippini( liini up : to see liini
gradually expend the painful force wliicli \w liad put on
at first, and turn .slowly round on the slide, with his face
towards the point from which he had started ; to contem-
plate the playful smile which mantled on liis face when
he had accomp ished the distance, and the eagerness with
which he turned round when he had done so, and ran
after his predecessor, his ])lack t^aiters trippin<( pleasantly
through the snow, and his (yes beaming cheerfulness
and gladness through his spectacles. And when he was
knocked down (which happened upon the average every
third round), it was the most invigorating sight that can
possibly be imagined, to behold him gather up his hat,
gloves, and handkerchief, with a glowing countenance,
and resume his station in the rank, with an ardor and
enthusiasm which nothing; could abate.

The sport was at its height, the sliding was at the
quickest, the laughter was at the loudest, when a sharp
smart crack was heard. There was a quick rush towards
the bank, a wild scream from the ladies, and a shout
from Mr. Tupman. A large mass of ice disappeared, the
water bubbled up over it, and Mr. Pickwick's hat, gloves,
and handkerchief were floating on the surface ; and this
was all of Mr. Pickwick that anybody could see.

Dismay ;ind anguish were depicted on every counten-
ance; the males turned pale, and the females fainted;
Mr. Snodgrass and Mr. Winkle grasped each other by
the hand, and gazed at the spot where their leader
had gone down, with frenzied eagerness; while Mr.
Tupman, by way of rendering the promptest assistance.

Thk Pickwickians on Ice.

■ t;

and at the .sanio time conveying to any pciHon.s who
iiii<^ht be within ]H'arin<j, the cicareHt po.sHihUi notion of
the catastroplie, ran off' across tlie country at liis utmost
speed, screaming "Fire!" with all liis mi<;ht and main.

It was at this very moment, whenoM W^irdh'and Sam
Weller were approaching^ the hole with cautious steps,
and Mr. Benjamin Allen was holding a hurried consulta-
tion with Mr. Bob Sawyer on the advisiibility of bleeding
the company generally, as an improving little bit of
professional practice — it was at this very moment that a
face, head, and shoulders emerged from })eneath the
water, and disclosed tiie features and spectacles of Mr.
Pickwick.

" Keep yourself up for an instant — for only one instant,"
bawled Mr. Sncxlgrass. ,

" Yes, do ; let me implore you — for my sake," roared
Mr. Winkle, deeply affected. The adjuration was rather
unnecessary ; ihe probability being that if ]\[r. Pickwick-
had declined to keep liimself up for anylxxly else's sake,
it would have occurred to him that he might as well do
HO for his own.

" Do you feel the bottom there, old fellow ? " said
Wardle.

"Yes, certainly," replied Mr. Pickwick, wringing the
water from his head and face, and gasping for bieath.
"I fell upon my back. I couldn't get on my feet at
first."

The clay upon so much of Mr. Pickwick's coat as was
yet visible, bore testimony to the accuracy of this state-
ment ; and as the fears of the spectators were still
further relieved by the fat boy's suddenly recollecting
that the water was nowiiere more than five feet deep,

Fifth Reader.

prodigieH of valor were performed to get liiin ont. After a
vast quantity of splasliiiig, and cracking, and struggling,
Mr. Pickwick was at length fairly extricated from his
unpleasant position, and once more stood on dry land.

" Oh, he'll catch liis death of cold," said Emily.

" Dear old tiling ! " said Arabella. " Let me wrap this
shawl round you, Mr. Pickwick."

"Ah, that's tiie best thing you can do," said Wardle;
" and when you' ve got it on, run liome as fast as your
legs can carry you, and jump into bed directly."

A dozen shawls were offered on the instant ; and three
or four of tlie thickest having been selected, Mr. Pick-
wick was wrapped up, and started off, under the guidance
of Mr. Weller ; presenting the singular phenomenon of an
elderly gentleman dripping wet, and without a hat, with
liis arms bound down to his sides, skimming over the
ground without any clearly defined purpose, at the rate

of six good English miles an liour.

— Charles Dirkftui.

We live in deeds, not'years ; in th()u,i?hts, not breaths ;

In feeliiigs, not in figures on a dial.

We should count time by heart-throbs, when they l)eat

For God, for man, for duty. He most lives,

Who thinks mo,-5t, feels the noblest, acts the best.

Life's but a means unto the end— that end,

Begimiing, mean, and end to all things, God.

—Philip James Bailey, from "Festu<^."

The Strength of the Hills.

A fter a

rorn liis
land.

rap this

Vardle ;
IS your

ths ;
beat

FOR THE STRENGTH OF THE HILLS WE

BLESS THEE.

For the strength of the hills we bless Thee,

Our God, our fathers' God !
Thou hast made thy children mighty,

By the touch of the mountain-sod.
Thou hast fixed our ark of refuge

Where the spoihr's foot ne'er trod ;
For the strength of the hills we bless Thee,

Our God, our fathers' God !

We are watchers of a beacon

Whose light must never die ,
We are guardians of an altar

'Midst the silence of the sky ;
Tlie rocks yield founts of courage,

Struck forth as by the rod ;
For the strength of the hills we bless Thee,

Our God, our fathers' (5^od !

For the dark resounding caverns,

Where thy still, small voice is heard ;
For the strong pines of the forests.

That by thy breath are stirred ;
For the storms, on whose free pinions

Thy spirit walks abroad ;
For the strength of the hills we bless Thee,

Our God, our fathers' God 1

Fifth Reader.

The royal ea^le dartetJi

On his quarry from tlie heights,
And the sttog that knows no mast;er,

Seeks there his wild delights ;
But we, for thy communion,

Have sought the mountain-sod ;
For the strength of the hills we bless Thee,

Our God, our fathers' God !

The banner of the chieftain

Far, far below us waves ;
The war-horse of the spearman

Cannot reach our lofty caves ;
Thy dark clouds wrap the threshold

Of freedom's last abode ;
For the strength of the hills \ye bless Thep.

Our God, our fathers' God !

For the shadow of thy presence,

Round our camp of rock outspread ;
For the stern defiles of battle.

Bearing record of our dead ;
For the snows and for the torrents.

For the free heart's burial-sod ;
For the strength of the hills we bless Thee,

Our God, our fathers' God !

—Mrs. Hemans

Get not your friends by bare compliments, but by giving
them sensible tokens of your love. It is well worth while to
learn how to win the lieart of a man in the right way. Force
is of no use to make or preserve a friend, who is an animal,
that is never caught nor tamed but by kindness and pleasure.

— Socrates.

Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata.

BEETHOVEN'S MOONLIGHT SONATA.

It happened <at Bonn. One moonlight winter's evening
I called upon Beethoven, for I wanted him to take a
walk, and afterward sup with me. In passing through
some dark, narrow street, he paused suddenly. " Hush!"
he said — " v.diat sound is that ? It is from my sonata in
F ! " he said, eagerly. " Hark ! how well it is played ! "

It was a little, mean dwelling, and we paused outside
and listened. The player went on ; but in the midst of
the finale there was a sudden break, then the voice of
sobbing. " I can not play any more. It is so beautiful,
it is utterly beyond my power to do it justice. Oh,
what would I not ffive to o-o to the concert at Colojnie ! "

" Ah, my sister," said her companion, " wliy create
regi-ets, when there is no remedy ? We can scarcely pay
our rent."

"*You are right; and yet I wish for once in my life to
hear some really good music. But it is of no use."

Beethoven looked at me. " Let us go in," he vsaid.

" Go in I " I exclaimed. " What can we go in for ? "

" I will play to her," he said, m an excited tone. " Here
is feeling — genius — understanding. I will play to her,
and she will understand it." And, before I could prevent
him, his hand was upon the door.

A pale young man was sitting by the table, making
shoes; and near him, leaning sorrowfully upon an old-
fashioned harpsichord, sat a young girl, with a profusion
of light hair falling over her bent face. Both were
cleanly but very poorly dressed, and both started and
turned toward us as we entered.

Fifth Reader.

" Pardon me," said Beethoven, " but I lieard nm.sic, and
was tempted to enter. I am a musician."

The girl blushed, and the young man looked grave —
somewhat annoyed.

"I — I also overheard something of what you said,"
continued my friend. " You wish to hear — that is, you
would like — that is — Shall I play for you ? "

There was something so odd in the wliole affair, and
something so comic and pleasant in the manner of the
speaker, that the spell was broken in a moment, and all
smiled involuntarily. ' ' ' "

" Thank you ! " said the shoemaker ; " but our harpsi-
chord is so wretched, and we have no music."

" No music ! " echoed my friend. " How, then, does
the Fraulein — "

He paused, and colored up, for the girl looked full at
him, and he saw tliat she was blind.

" I — I entreat your pardon ! " he stammered. ' But I
had not perceived before. Then you play by ear ? "

" Entirely."

" And where do you hear the music, since you frequent
no concerts ?"

" I used to hear a lady practising near us, when we
lived at Brlihl two years. During the summer evenings
her windows were generally open, and I walked to and
fro outside to listen to her."

She seemed shy ; so Beethoven said no more, but seated
himself quietly before the piano, and began to play. He
had no sooner struck the first chord than I knew what
would follow — how grand he would be that night. And
I was not mistaken. Never, during all the years I knew
him, did I hear him play as he then played to that blind

■Vi

■^1

Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata.

ic, and

•avc —

Haul,
is, you

r, and
of the
md all

harpsi-

Q, does

full at

• But I

•equeut

len we

sellings

to and

seated
y. He
V what
And
I knew

t blind

■"5

■m

girl and her brother. He was inspired ; and from the
instant when his fingers began to wander along the keys,
the very tone of the instrument began to gi'ow sweeter
«nd more eipial.

The brother and sister were silent with wonder and
rapture. The former laid aside his work ; the latter,
with her head bent slightly forward, and her hands
pressed tightly over her breast, crouched down near the
end of the harpsichord, as if fearful lest even the beating
of her heart should break the flow of those magical, sweet
sounds. It was as if we wert; all bound in a strange
dream, and only feared to wake.

Suddenly the flame of the single candle wavered, sank,
flickered, and went out. Beethoven paused, and I threw
open the shutters, admitting a flood of brilliant moon-
light. The room was almost as light as before, and the
illumination fell strongest upon the piano and player.
But tlie chain of his ideas seemed to have been broken
by the accident. His head dropped upon his breast ; his
hands rested upon his knees; he seemed absorbed in
meditation. It was thus for some time.

At length the young shoemaker rose, and approached
him eagerly, yet reverently. " Wonderful man ! " he
said, in a low tone, " who and what are you ? "

The composer smiled as he only could smile, benevo-
lently, indulgently, kingly. "Listen ! " he said, and he
played the opening bars of the sonata in F.

A cry of delight and recognition burst from them both,
and exclaiming, " Then you are Beethoven ! " they covered
his hands with tears and kisses.

He rose to go, but we held him back with entreatiea

" Play to us once more-— only once more ! "

Fifth Reader.

He suffered himself to be led back to the instrument.
The moon shone brightly in through the window and lit
up his glorious, rugged head and massive figure. "I
will improvise a sonata to the moonlight ! " looking up
thoughtfully to the sky and stars. Then his hands
dropped on the keys, and he began playing a sad and
infinitely lovely movement, which crept gently over the
instrument like the calm flow of moonlight over the dark
earth.

This was followed by a wild, elfin passage in triple
time — a sort of grotesque interlude, like the dance of
sprites upon tlie sward. Then came a swift agitato
finale — a breathless, hurrying, trembling movement,
descriptive of flight and uncertainty, and vague, impul-
sive terror, which carried us away on its rustling wings,
and left us all in emotion and wonder.

" Farewell to you ! " said Beethoven, pushing back his
chair and turning toward the door — " farewell to you ! "

" You will come again ? " asked they, in one breath.

He paused, and looked compassionately, almost ten-
derly, at the face of the blind girl. " Yes, yes," he said,
hurriedly, " I will come again, and give the Fraulein some
lessons. Farewell ! I will soon come again ! "

They followed us in silence more eloquent than words,
and stood at their door till we were out of sight and
hearing.

" Let us make haste back," said Beethoven, " that I
may write out that sonata while I can yet remember it."

We did so, and he sat over it till long past day-dawn.
And this was the origin of that moonlight sonata with
which we are all so fondly acquainted.

—Anon.

The 8()N(i ok the Camp.

[•ument.
and lit
re. " I
:ing up
I hands
lad and
)ver the
he dark

n triple
ance of
aaitato
vement,
, impul-
T winga,

3ack his
you!

eath.

ost ten-
le said,
in some

words,
jht and

" that I
iber it."

^-dawn.
ta with

—Arum.

THE SONG OF THE CAMP.

"Give us a soni^," tlie soldiers crio<l,

The outer tivnehes gujudiiijj;,
When the lieated «,'uiis of tlie camps allierl

Grew weary of bombarding.

The dark llodan, in silent scoff,
Lay, grim and thrcatc^ning, under ;

And the tawny mound of the ^hllakort'
No longer })elched its thunder.

Tnere was a pause. A guardsman said,
" We storm the forts t<j-nu)rrow ;

Sing while we may, another day
W^ill ])ring enough of sorrow."

They lay along the ])attery's side,

l^elow the smoking cannon ;
Brave hearts from Severn and from Clyde,

And from the banks of Shannon.

They sang of love, and not of fame ;

Forgot was Ihitain's glory;
Each heart recalled a different name.

But all sang "Annie Lawrie."

Voice after voice caught up the song,

Until its tender passion
Bose like an anthem, rich and strong, —

Their battle-eve confession.

Dear girl, her name he dared not speak.

But, as the song grew louder.
Something upon the soldier's cheek

Washed off the stains of powder.

FiPiH Reader.

Jieyond tlie flarkening ocean burned

The bloody sunset's enil)ers,
While the Crimean valleys learned

How English love reniemljers.

And once again a fire of hell

llained on the Russian cjuai-ters,

With scream of shot — and burst of sliell,
And bellowing of the mortars.

And Irish Nora's eyes are dim
For a singer, dumb and gory ;

And P^nglish Mary mourns for him
Who sang of "Annie Lawrie," *

Sleep, soldiers still in honored rest
Your truth and valor wearing ;

The bravest are the tenderest, — -v
The loving are the daring.

-Jiayard Tat/lor.

THE DEMON OF THE DEEP.

When Gilliatt awoke he was huiiOTv. The sea was
growing calmer. Although pressed by hunger, he began
by stripping himself of his wet clothing, — the only means
of getting warmth. His overcoat, jacket, overalls, and
sheepskin he spread out and fixed with large round stones
here and there. Then he thought of eating.

He had recourse to his knife, which he was careful to
sharpen, and to keep always in good condition, and he
detached from the rocks a few limpets. He took advan-
tage of the receding tide to wander among the rocks in

TiiK Demon ok the Deep.

ni Taylor.

scJi was
10 bet^an
y means
ills, and
1(1 stones

areful to
and he
Wi advan-
rocks in

Hcai-ch of cray-tish. He wandered, not in tlie ^orge of
tlie rocks, but outside, among the smaUer breakers. For
the search that Gilliatt was prosecutintj, this part was
more fav^orable than tlie interior. At low water the
crabs are accustoiiuKl to crawl out into the air.

On this day, however, the cray-iish and crabs were
both lacking ; the tempest had driven them into their
solitary retreats, and th(;y had not yet mustered C(3urage
to venture abroad. Gilliatt held his open knife in his
hand, and from time to time scraped a cockle from inidisr
the bunches of sea- weed^^ which he ate while still walking.
As he was determinini; to content himself with the sea-
urchins, a little clattering noise at his feet aroused his
attention. \ large crab, startled by his approach, had
just dropped into a pool. He chased it along the base of
the rock. Suddenly it was gone. It had buried itself in
some crevice under the rock. :

Gilliatt clutched the projections of the rock, and
stretched out to observe where it shelved away under
the water. As he suspected, there was an opening there
in which the creature had evidently taken refuge. It
was a kind of porch. The sea entered beneath it, but
was not deep. The bottom was visible, covered with
large pebbles. Holding his knife between his teeth,
Gilliatt descended, by the help of feet and hands, from
the upper part of the escarpment, and leaped into the
water. It reached almost to his shoulders.

He made his way through the porch, and found himself
in a blind passage, with a roof in the form of a rude arch
over his head. The walls were polished and slippery.
The crab was nowhere visible. He gained liis feet, and
advanced in daylight growing fainter, so that he began

Fifth Reader.

to lose tho power to (listin<(nisli objects. At alxnit fifteen
paces the vhuIUkI root' ended overliead. Ho Iwid p(»ne-
trated beyond tlie ])lind paH.sa<^o. '^I'Jiere was liere more
Hpace, and con.se(inently more dayli<:flit. His vision be-
came clearer. He saw before his eyes another vaulted
roof, and at the farther end an altar-like stone.

He now obsc^rved before him, at a certain height in
the wall, a crevice, which, from the point where lie stood,
appeared inaccessible. Near the moulded arch he saw
low dark grottoes within tlu; cavern. The entrance to
the nearest was out of the water, and easily approachable.
Nearer still than this recess, he noticed above the level
of the water and within reach of his hand a horizontal
fissure. It seemed to him probable that the crab had
taken refuge there, and he plunged his hand in as far as
he was able, and groped about in that dusky aperture.

Suddenly he felt himself seized by the arm. A strange,
indescribable horror thrilled through him. Some living
thing — thin, rough, fiat, cold, slimy — had twisted itself
round his naked arm, in the dark depth below, it crept
upward towards his chest. Its pressure was like a
tightening cord, its steady persistence like that of a
screw. In less than a moment some mysterious spiral
form had passed round his wrist and elbow, and had
reached his shoulder. A sharp point penetrated beneath
the arm-pit.

Gilliatt recoiled, but he had scarcely power to move.
He was, as it were, nailed to the place. With his left
hand he seized his knife, which he still held between his
teeth, and wath that hand holding the knife he supported
himself against the rocks, while he made a desperate
efTort to withdraw his arm. He succeeded in only dis-

■m

''X

The Dkmox or tiik Dkep.

fifteen
i penc-
e more
ion be-
v^aulted

itrht in
b stood,
he saw
ance to
ichable.
le level
rizontal
[•ab had
LS far as
ture.
strange,
e living
d itself
it crept
like a
at of a
IS spiral
md had
beneath

o move,
his left
rtreen his
ipported
esperate
Dnly dis-

I
fit.

turbing his persecutor, which wound itself still tighter.
It was supple as leather, strong as steel, cold as night.

A second form — sharp, elongated, and narrow — IssikmI
out of the crevice, like a tongue out of monstrous jaws.
It seemed to lick his naked body ; then, suddenly stretch-
ing out, became longer and thinner, as it crept over his
skin and wound itself round him. At the same time a
terrible sense of pain, comparable t(j nothing he had ever
known, compelled all his muscles to contract. He felt
ujKMi his skin a number of Hat, rounded points. It
seemed as if innunierable suckers had fastened to his
fhish and were alxjut to drink his blood.

A third long, undulating shape issued from the hole
in the rock, — seemed to feel its way about his body, —
hished round his ribs like a cord, and fixed itself ther<*.
Agony when at its height is unite : Gilliatt uttered no cry.
There was sufficient light for him to see the repulsive
forms which had entangled themselves about him.

A fourth ligature — but this one swift as an arrow —
darted towards his stomach, and wound around him
there. It was impossibhi to sever or tear away the
slimy bands which were twisted tightly round his Ixjdy,
and were adhering by a number of points. Eacli of the
points was the focus of frightful and singular pangs.
It was as if numberless small mouths were devouring
him at the same time.

A fifth long, slimy, riband-shaped strip issued from
the hole. It passed over the others, and wound itself
tightly round his chest. The compression increased his
sufferings ; he could scarcely breathe. These living
(hongs were pointed at their extremities, but broadened
like the blade of a sword towards its hilt. All belonged

•1:

Firm Kkadkh.

ovidently to Uio Hamo ccntro. Tlicy crept ami irlidcd
al)<)ut him ; lie tVlt the Htrant^(5 points of jn-csHurc, wliich
Heoincd to him like mouthH, clianiro tlieir places from timt
to time.

Suddenly a lar<jje, round, llattened, «;lutinouH mass
issued from tlio crevice. It was tlie centre ; the five
tlionti^H were aHached to it like spokes to the nave of a
wlieei. On the opposite side of tliis distrusting monster
appeared tlie commencement of three other tentacles, the
(!nds of v/hich remained under tlie rock. In the middles
of this slimy mass appeared two eyes. The eyes were
fixed on (lilliatt. He recomiized the devil-fish.

It is difficult for those who have not seen it, to believe
in the existence of the devil-fish. If terror were th(!
object of its creation, nothing could be imagined more
perfect than the devil-fish. The octopus is the sea-vam-
pire. The swimmer who, attracted by the beauty of the
spot, ventures among breakers in the open sea, — where
the still waters hide the splendors of the deep, — in the
hollows of unfr'^quented rocks, — in unknown caverns
abounding in sea-plants, testacea, and Crustacea, — under
the deep portals of the ocean, — runs the risk of meeting
it. The monster was the inhabitant of the grotto — the
terrible genius oi' ^he place — a kind of sombi'e demon of
the water.

Gilliatt had thrust his arm deep into the opening ; the
monster had snapped at it. It held him fast, as the
spider hoidt=) the fly. He was in the water up to his
belt ; his naked feet clutching the slippery roundness of
the h age stones at the bottom ; his right arm bound and
rendered powerless by the flat- coils of the long tentacles
of the creature, and his body almost hidden under the

'I'm: Dkmox of the T>kkv

folds and cross folds of this liomble l)an(la<ift». Of the
«i^dit nniis of the devil-rtsh, three adhered to the rock,
whilt^ tivc! encircled (lilliatt. In this way, clin<:inir to
the iiraiiite on the one hand, and on the othrr to its
human prey, it enchained liini to the rock. Two hundred
and fifty suckers were upon him, tornientin*^ liini with
a«(ony and loathinj^. He was <^rasped hy <^i(rantic liands,
tlie fin«j;ers of which were each nearly a yard loUj;^, and
furnished inside with livintj blisters eatiiig into the flesh.

It is impovssible to tear one's self from the folds of the
devil-fish ; the attt^mpt ends only in a firmer grasp ; the
monster clin<rs with more determined force. Its effort
increases with that of its victim ; every strugt;rlo produces
a tiirhteninij of its lii^atures. Gilliatt had but one re-
source, — his knife. His left hand only was free; his
open knife was in this hand. The antenna of the devil-
fish cannot be cut ; it is a leathery substance, impossible
to divide with the knife, — it slips under the edge. Its
position in attack also is such that to cut it would be to
wound the victim's own flesh. The creature is formid-
able, but there is a way of resisting it. The cephalopod,
in fact, is vulnerable only through the head.

Gilliatt was not ignorant of this fact. With the
octopus there is a certain moment in the conflict wdiich
must be seized. It is the instant when the devil-fish
advances its head. The movement is rapid. He who
loses that moment is destroyed.

The things we have described occupied only a few
mom nts. Gilliatt felt the increasing power of its
innumerable suckers. He grasped his knife and looked
at the monster, which seemed to look at him. Suddenly
it loosened from the rock its sixth antenna, and, darting

-i- (J

Mitmmmjm.

Fifth Reader.

it at liiui, seized him by the left arm. At the same
moment it advanced its head with a violent movement.
In one second more its mouth would have fastened on
his breast. Bleeding in the sides, and with his two arms
entangled, he would have been a dead man.

But Gilliatt was watchful. He avoided the antenna,
and at the moment when the monster darted forward to
fasten on his breast, lie struck it with the knife clenched
in his left hand. There were two convulsions in opposite
directions, — that of the devil-fish and that of its prey.
The movement was rapid as a double flash of liglitning.
He had plunged the blade of his knife into the flat, slimy
substance, and by a rapid movement, like the flourish of
a whip in the air, describing a circle round the two eyes,
he wrenched the head oft' as a man would draw a tooth.

The struggle was ended. The folds relaxed; the
monster dropped away, like the slow detaching of liands;
the four hundred suckers, deprived of their sustaining-
power, dropped at once from the man and the rock. The
mass sank to the bottom of the water. The UKjuster was
quite dead. Gilliatt closed his knife.

— Victor Hugo.

THE DAY IS DONE.

Tlu; day is done, and the darkness
Falls from the winjL^s of Night,

As a feather is wafted downward
From an eagle in his flight.

I see the lights of the village

Gleam through the rain and the mist,
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me

That my soul cannot resist :

le same
vement.
med on
^^o arms

The Day is Bone.

A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain,

And resembles sorrow only

As the mist resembles the rain.

ntenna,
tvard to
lenched
•pposite
H prey,
litniiiif.
t, slimy
Irish of
-'o eyes,
I tooth.
rl ; the
i lands;
taining
:. The
ber was

•/• If ago.

Come, read to me some poem,
Seme simple and heartfelt lay.

That shall soothe this restless feeling.
And banish the thoughts of day.

Not from the grand old masters.
Not from the bards sublime,

Whovse distant footsteps echo
Through the corridors of Time.

For, like strains of martial music,
Their mighty thoughts suggest

Life's endless toil and endeavor ;
And to-night I long for rest.

Head from some humbler poet.

Whose songs gushed from his heart,

As showers from the clouds of summer,
Or tears from the eyelids start ;

Who, through long days of lal>or,

And nights devoid of ease.
Still heard in his soul the music

Of wonderful melodies.

Such songs have power to (juiet

The restless pulse of care.
And come like the l)ene(liction

That follows after prayer.

it^rri'.-ir,igitt^rffW«fcTftiTa«ai^sW-.^^>«>;t;giaagVjjai«g.Vv.ii^

Fifth Reader.

Then read from the treasured volume

The poem of thy choice,
And lend to the rhyme of the poet

The beauty of thy voice.

And the night shall be filled with music,
And the cares, that infest the day.

Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away.

— Henry \\\ Lotujfellow.

THE VISION OF MIRZA.

On the fifth day of the moon, which, according to the
custom of my forefathers, I always keep holy, after hav-
ing washed myself, and offered up my morning devotions,
I ascended to the high hills of Bagdad, in order to pass
the rest of the day in meditation and prayer. As I was
here airing myself on the tops of the mountains, I fell
into a profound contemplation on the vanity of human
life ; and passing from one thought to another, " Surely,"
said I, " man is but a shadow, and life a dream." Whilst
I was thus musing, I cast my eyes towards the summit
of a rock that was not far from me, where I discoverea
one in the habit of a shepherd, with a little musical
instrument in his hand. As I looked upon him, he
applied it to his lips, and began to play upon it. The
sound of it was exceeding sweet, and wrought into a
variety of tunes that were inexpressibly melodious, and
altogether different from anything I had ever heard:
they put me in mind of those heavenly airs that aro
played to the departed souls of good men upon their first

The Vision of Mirza.

(jfellow.

' to the
Br hav-
^otions,
to pasH
5 1 was
s, I fell
human
lurely,"
Whilst
Miiiniit

overed
musical
urn, he

, The

into a
•us, and

heard :
liat are
eir first

cirri val in Paradise, to wear out the impressions of the
last agonies, and (jualify tliem for the pleasures of that
happy place. My heart melted away in secret raptures.

I had been often told that the rock before me was the
haunt of a genius, and tliat several had been entertained
with that nnisic who had passed by it, but never heard
that the musician had before made himself visible.
When he had raised my thoughts by those transport-
ing airs which he played to taste the pleasures of his
conversation, as I looked upon him like one astonished,
lie beckoned to me, and by the waving of his hand,
directed me to approach to the place where he sat. I
drew near with that reverence which is due to a superior
nature ; and as my heart was entirely subdued by the
captivating strains I had heard, I fell down at his feet
and wept. The genius smiled upon me with a look of
compassion and atf ability that familiarized him to my
imagination, and at once dispelled all the fears and
apprehensions with which I approached him. He lifted
me from the gi'ound, and taking me by the hand,
" Mirza," said he, " I have heard thee in thy soliloquies ;
follow me."

He then led me to the highest pinnacle of the rock,
and placing me on the top oi it, "Cast thy eyes east-
ward," said he, " and tell me what thou seest." — " I see,'
Siiid I, "a huge valley, and a prodigious tide of water
rolling through it." " The valley that thou seest," said
he, "is the vale of Misery; and the tide of water that
thou seest is part of thci great tide of Eternity." " What
is tlie re^ison," said I, " that the tide I see rises out of a
thick mist at one end, and again loses itself in a thick
mist at the other ? " " Wliat thou seest," said he, " is

Fifth Reader.

that portion of Eternity wliich is called Time, measured
out by the sun, and reaching from the beginning of the
world to its consummation."

" Examine now," said he, " this sea that is bounded
with darkness at both ends, and tell me what thou dis-
coverest in it." " I see a bridge," said I, " standing in the
midst of the tide." " The bridge thou seest," said he,
" is Human life ; consider it attentively." Upon a more
leisurely survey of it, I found that it consisted of three
score and ten entire corches, with several broken arches,
which, added to tlujse that were entire, made up the
number to about an hundred. As I was counting the
arches, the genius told me that this bridge first consisted
of a thousand arches ; but that a great fl(X)d swept away
the rest, and left the bridge in the ruinous condition I
now beheld it.

" But tell me further," said he, " what thou discoverest
on it.' " I see nmltitudes of people passing over it," said
I, "and a black cloud hanging on eacli end of it." As i
looked more attentively, I saw several of the passengers
dropping through the bridge into the great tide that
flowed underneath it ; and upon further examination,
perceived there were innumerable trap-doors tliat lay
concealed in the bridge, which the passengers no sooner
trod upon but they fell through them into the tide, and
immediately disappeared. Ther,e hidden pit-falls were
set very thick at the entrance of the bridge, so that
throngs of people no sooner broke through the cloud but
many of them fell into them. They grew thinner to-
wards the middle, but multiplied and lay closer together
towards the end of the arches that were entire. There
were, indeed, some persons, but their number was very

►verest
said
Ar 1

There
s very

The Vision of Mirza.

•m

small, that continued a kind of hobbling march on the
l)r()ken arches, bnt fell through, one after anotlier, being
(juite tired and spent with so long a walk.

I passed some time in the contemplation of this won-
derful structure, and the great variety of objects which
it presented. My heart was filled with a deep melan-
choly, to see several dropping unexpectedly in the midst
of mirth and jollity, and catching at everything that
stood by them to save themselves ; some were looking up
towards the heavens in a thoughtful posture, and in the
midst of a speculation stund)led and fell out of sight;
nmltitudes were busy in the pursuit of bubbles, that
glittered in their eyes, and danced before them, but often
when they thought themselves within the reach of them,
their footing failed, and down they sunk. In this con-
fusion of objects I observed some with seimetars in their
hands, who ran to and fro upon the bridge, thrusting
several persons upon trap-doors which did not seem to
lie in their way, and which they might have escaped had
they not been thus forced upon thtan.

The genius seeing me indulge myself in this melan-
choly prospect, told me I liad dwelt long enough upon it.
"Take thine eyes off the bridge," said he, "and tell me if
thou seest any thing that thou dost not comprehend."
Upon looking up, " What mean," said I, " those great
flocks of birds that are perpetually hovering about the
bridge, and settling upon it from time to time ? I see
vultures, harpies, ravens, cormorants, and, among many
other feathered creatures, several little winged b<jys,
that perch in great numbers upon the middle arches."
"These," said the genius, "are Envy, Avarice, Super-
stition, Despair, Love, with the like cares and passions
that infest human life."

Fifth Reader.

I here fetched a deep sigh : " Alas," said I, " man was
made in vain ! liow is he given away to misery and
mortality, tortured in life, and swallowed up in death ! "
The genius being moved with compassion towards me,
bid me quit so uncomfortable a prospect. " Look no
more," said he, "on man in the first stage of his exist-
ence, in his setting out for eternity, but cast thine eye on
tliat thick mist into which the tide bears the several
generations of mortals that fall into it." I directed my
sight as I was ordered, and (whether or no the good
genius strengthened it with any supe....itural force,
or dissipated part of the mist, that was before too thick
for the eye to penetrate) I saw the valley opening at th6
farther end, and spreading into an immense ocean, that
had a huge rock of adamant running through the midst
of it, and dividing it into two equal parts. The clouds
still rested on one half of it, insomuch that I could dis-
cover nothing in it ; but the other appeared to me a
vast ocean, planted with innumerable islands that were
covered with fruits and flowers, and interwoven with a
thousand little shining seq-s that ran among them. I
could see persons dressed in glorious habits, with gar-
lands upon their heads, passing among the trees, lying
down by the side of fountains, or resting on beds
of flowers, and could hear a confused harmony of
singing birds, falling waters, human voices, and musical
instruments.

Gladness grew in me at the discovery of so delightful
a scene. I wished for the wings of an eagle, that I
might fly away to those happy seats ; but the genius
told me there was no passage to them, except through
the gates of death that I saw opening every moment

The Vision of Mikza.

in was
y and
eatli ! "
[Is me,
►ok no
, exist-
eye on
several
bed my
e good

force,
o thick
r at the
in, that
e midst
! clouds
lid dis-
me a
it were

with a
lem. I

}h gar-

In beds
ony of
musical

lightful
that I

upon the bridge. " The islands," said lie, " tliat lie so
fresh and green before thee, and with which the whole
face of the ocenn appears spotted, as far as thou canst
see, are more in number than the sand on the sea-shore :
there are myiiads of islands behind those which thou
here discoverest, reaching farther than thine eye, or even
thine imarrination can extend itself. These are the man-
sions of good men after death, who, according to tue
degree and kinds of virtue in which they excelled, are
distributed among fchese several islands, which ab(jund
with pleasures of different kinds and degrees, suitable to
the relishes and perfections of those who are settled in
them; every island is a paradise, accommodated to its
respective inhabitants. Are not these, O Mirza, habita-
tions worth contending for ? Does life appear miserable,
that gives thee opportunities of earning such a reward ?
Is death to be feared, that wiH convey thee to so happy
an existence ? Think not man was made in vain, who
lias such an eternity reserved for him."

I gazed with inexpressible pleasure on these happy
islands. At length said I, " Show me now, I beseech
tlice, the secrets that lie hid under those dark clouds
which cover the ocean, on the other side of the rock of
adamant." The genius making me no answer, I turned
about to address myself to him a second time, but I
found he had left me. I then turned again to the vision
I had been so long contemplating; but instead of the
rolling tide, the arched bridge, nnd tlie happy islands, I
saw nothing but the long, hollow valley of Bagdad, with
oxen, sheep, and camels grazing upon the sides of it.

— Joseph Addison.

jf^^atwti

Fifth Reaukr.

THE MINSTREL-BOY.

The Minstrol-boy to the war is gone,

Tn the ranks of death you'll find him ;
His father's sword he has girded on,

And his wild harp slung behind him. — ■
" r^ind of song ! " said the warrior-bard,

"Though all the world betrays thee,
One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard,

One faithful harp shall praise thee ! "

The Minstrel fell ! — but the foeraan's chain

Could not bring his proud soul under ;
The harp he loved ne'er spoke again.

For he tore its chords asunder ;
And said, " No chains shall sully thee,

I'liou soul of love and bravery !
Thy songs were made for the brave and free.

They shall never sound in slavery ! "

— ThoirwH Moore.

THE BATTLE OF THE ANTS.

One day when I went out to my wood-pile, or rather
my pile of stumps, I observed two large ants, the one
red, the other much larger, nearly half an inch long, and
black, fiercely contending with one another. Having
once got hold, they never let go, but struggled and
wrestled and rolled on the chips incessantly.

Looking further, I was surprised to find that the chips
were covered with such combatants; that it was not a

The Battle of the Ants.

iii Moore.

" rather
the one
'iig, and
Having
ied and

le chips
s not a

duellum, but a helium — a war between two races of ants,
the rod always pitted against tlie black, and frequently
two red ones to one black. The legions of these myrmi-
dons covered all the hills and vales in my wood-yard,
and the gi'ound was already strewn with the dead and
dying, both red and black.

It was the only battle-field which I have ever witnessed,
the only battle-field I ever trod while the battle was
raging : internecine war — the red republicans on the one
hand and the black imperialists on the other. On every
side they were engaged in deadly combat, yet without
any noise that I could hear; and human soldiers never
fought so resolutely.

I watched a couple that were fast locked in each other's
embrace, in a little sunny valley amid the chips, now at
noonday prepared to fight till tlie sun went down or life
went out. The smaller red champion had fastened him-
self like a vice to his adversary's front, and through all
the tumblings on that field never for an instant ceased to
gnaw at one of his feelers near the root, having already
caused the other to go by the board ; while the stronger
black one dashed him from side to side, and, as I saw on
looking nearer, had already Jiivested him of several of
his members.

They fought with more pertinacity than bull-dogs.

Neither manifested the least disposition to retreat. It

was evident that their battle-cry was " Conquer, or die ! "

In the meanwhile, there came along a single red ant on

the hill-side of this valley, evidently full of excitement,

who either had dispatched his foe, or had not yet taken

part in the battle — probably the latter, for he had lost

none of his limbs — whose mother had charged him to

return with his shield or upon it-
4

Ffftii "Rkader.

Or perchance he was Honie AehilleH, who had nourished
his wrath apart, and had now come to avenge or rescue
his Patroclus. He saw this Tni('(|ual c()nd)at from afar —
for the blacks were nearly twice tlie size of the reds.
He drew near with rapid pace till he stood on liis guard
within half an inch of the cond)atants ; then, watching
his opportunity, he sprang upon the black warrior, and
connnenced his operations near the root of his right
fore leg, leaving the foe to select among his own members ;
and so there were three united for life, as if a new kind
of attraction had been invented which put all otlier locks
and cements to shame.

I should not have wondered by this time to find that
they had their respective nnisical bands stationed on
some eminent chip, and playing their national airs the
while, to excite the slow and cheer the dying combatants.
I was myself excited somewhat, even as if they had been
men. The more you think of it, the less the difierence.
And certainly there is not the fight recorded in Concord
history at least, if in the history of America, that will
bear a moment's comparison with this, whevher for the
numbers engaged in it, or for the patriotism and heroism
displayed.

For numbers and for carnage it was an Austerlitz or
Dresden. I have no doubt it was a principle they fought
for, as much as our ancestors, and not to avoid a three-
penny tax on their tea; and the results of this battle
will be as 'mportant and memorable to those whom it
concerns as those of the battle of Bunker Hill, at least.

I took up the chip on which the three I have particu-
larly described were struggling, carried it into my house,
and placed it under a tumbler on my window-sill, in

The Battle of the Ants.

irished
rescue
afar —
e reds,
guard
itching
jr, and
J right
nd)era;
^v kind
r locks

id tliat
led on
irs tlie
)atant8.
id been
ference.
/oncord
at will
for the
leroiain

rlitz or
fought
I three-
1 battle
hom it
least.
)articu-
' house,
-sill, in

order to see the issue. Holding a microscope to the first-
mentioned red ant, I saw that, thougli he was assi<lu()usly
gnawing at the near fore l"g of his enemy, having severed
his I'cmaining fe<'ler, his own breast was all torn away,
exposing what vitals ho had there to the jaws of the
black warrior, whose breast-plate was apparently too
thick for him to pierce; and the dark carbuncles of the
sufferer's eyes shone with ferocity such as war only could
excite.

They struggled half an hour longer under the tumbler,
and when I looked again the black soldier liad severed
the heads of his foes from their bo<lies, and the still
living heads were hanging on either side of him like
ghastly trophies at his saddle-bow, still rpparently as
firmly fastened as ever, and he was endeavoring with
feeble struggles, being without feelers and with only the
renniant of a leg, and I know not how many other
wounds, to divest himself of them ; wdiich at length,
after half an hour more, he accomplished. I raised the
glass, and he went off over the window-sill in that
crippled state. Whether he finally survived that combat,
and spent the remainder of his days in some Hotel des
Tnvalides, I do not know ; but I thought his industry
would not be worth much thereafter. I never learned
which party was victorious, nor the cause of the war;
but 1 felt for the rest of that day as if I had had my
feelings excited and harrowed by witnessing the struggle,
the ferocity and carnage, of a human battle before my
door.

-^Uenry D. Thoreau.

Fifth Kkadkk.

SKIPPER IRESON'S RIDE.

Of all tlid rules since the birth of tiiiu?,
Told in story or sunj^ in rhyme, — *

On Apuleius's Golden Ass,
Or one-eyed Calendar's horse of brass,
Witch astride of a human back,
Islam's prophet on Al-Borak, —
The strangest ride that ever was sped
Was Ireson's, out from Marl)lehead !
Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heai-t.
Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart
By the women of Marblehead !

Body of turkey, head of owl,
Wings a-droop like a rained-on fowl,
Feathered and ruffled in every part,
Skipper Ireson stood in the cart.
Scores of women, old and young,
Strong of muscle, and glib of tongue,
Pushed and pulled up the rocky lane.
Shouting and singing the shrill refrain :
"Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt,
Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt
By the women o' Morble'ead ! "

Wrinkled scolds with hands on hips.
Girls in bloom of cheek and lips.
Wild-eyed, free-limbed, such as cho^e
Bacchus round some antique vase,
Brief of skirt, with ankles bare.
Loose of kerchief and loose of hair,

Skii'I'EK Iiieson's Ride.

With conch- HJiolls blowing' and fish-horns' twang,

Over and over the Micnads san;^ :

"Here's Find Oirson, fur liis horrd horrt,
Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt
By the women o' Morble'ead ! "

Small pity for him ! — He sailed away
Fi-om a leaking ship, in Chaleur liay, —
Sailed away from a sinking wreck, '

With his own town's-pt^ople on her deck !
" fjay by ! lay by ! " they called to him.
r>ack he answered, "Sink or swim !
Hrag of your catch of fish again ! "
vVnd off he sailed through the fog and rain !
Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart.
Tarred and feathered and cari'ied in a cart
By the women of Marblehead !

Fathoms deep in dark Chaleur
That wreck shall lie for evermore.
Mother and sister, wife and maid,
Tiooked from the rocks of Marblehead
Over the moaning and rainy sea, —
TiOoked for the coming that might not l)e !
What did the winds and the sea-birds say
Of the cruel captain who sailed away ? —
Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart.
Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart
By the women of Marblehead !

Through the street, on either side,
ITp flew windows, doors swung wide ;
Sha) p-tongued spinsters, old wives gray,
Treble lent the fish-horn's bray.
Sea-worn grandsires, cripple-bound,

Fifth Reader.

Hullcs of old sailors run aground,
Shook head, and fist, and hat, and cane.
And cracked v/ith curses the hoarse refrain :
"Here's Flud Oirson, fur his hotrd horrt,
Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt
By the women o' Morble'ead ! "

Sweetly along the Salem road ' ^

Bloom of orchard and lilac showed.

Little the wicked skipper knew

Of the fields so green and the sky so blue.

Riding there in his sorry trim.

Like an Indian idol glum an<l grim,

Scarcely he seemed the sound to hear

Of voices shouting, far and near:

" Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrrl horrt,
T(jrr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt
By the women o' Morble'ead ! "

" Hear me, neighbors ! " at last he cried, —

" What to me is this noisy ride ?

What is the sname that clothes the skin

To the nameless horror that lives within?

Waking or sleeping, I see a wreck.

And hear a cry from a reeling deck !

Hate me and curse me, — I only dread

The hand of God and the face of the dead ! "
Said old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart.
Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart
By the woraeii of Marblehead !

Then the wife of the skipper lost at sea

Said, "God has touched him I^^why sliould we?"

Said an old wife mourning her only son,

" Cut the rogue's tether and let him run ! "

The Crusader and the Saracen.

So with soft relentings cand rude excuse,
Half scorn, half pity, they cut him loose,
And gave hini a cloak to hide him in,
And left him alone with his shame and sin.
Pot>r Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart.
Tarred and feathered and carric^d in a cart
By the women of Marblehead !

-John O. Whittier.

THE CRUSADER AND THE SARACEN.

The burning sun of Syria had not yet attained its
highe.st point in the horizon, when a knight of the Red
Cross, who had left his distant northern lionie, and
joined tlie host of the Crusaders in Palestine, was pacing
slowly along the sandy deserts which lie in the vicinity
of tlie Dead Sea, where the waves of the Jordan pour
themselves into an iidand sea, from which there is no
dischar"-e of waters.

The warlike pilgrim had toiled among cliffs and preci-
pices during the earlier part of the morning; more lately,
issuing from those rocky and dangerous defiles, he had
entered upon that great plain, where the accursed cities
provoked, in ancient days, the direct and dreadful ven-
geance of the Onmipotent.

The toil, the thirst, the dangers of the way, were for-
gotten, as the traveller recalled the fearful catastrophe,
which had convi'rted into an arid and dismal wilderness
the fair and fertile valley of Siddim, once well watered,
even as the Garden of the Lord, now a parched and
blighted waste, C(jndenmed to eternal sterility.

Fifth Reader.

Crossing himself, as he viewed tlie dark mass of rolling
waters, in color as in quality unlike those of every other
lake, the traveller shuddered as he remembered that
beneath these sluggish waves lay the once proud cities of
the plain, whose gi-ave was dug by the thunder of the
heavens, or the eruption of subterraneous fire, and whcjse
remains were hid, even by that sea which h(jlds no living
fish in its bosom, bears no skiff on its surface, and, as if
its own dreadful bed were the only fit receptacle for its
sullen waters, sends not, like other lakes, a tribute to the
ocean. The whole land around, as in the days of Moses,
was " brimstone and salt ; it is not sown, nor beareth,
nor any grass gi'oweth thereon " ; the land as well as the
lake might be termed dead, as producing nothing having
resemblance to vegetation, and even the very air was
entirely devoid of its ordinary winged inhabitants, de-
terred probably by the odor of bitumen and sulphur,
which the burning sun exhaled from the waters of the
lake, in steaming clouds, frequently assuming the appear-
ance of waterspouts. Masses of the slimy and sulphurous
substance called naphtha which floated idly on the slug-
gish Lad sullen waves, supplied those rolling clouds with
new vapors, and afforded awful testimony to the truth of
the Mosaic history.

Upon this scene of desolation the sun shone with almost
intolerable splendor, and all living natui-e seemed to have
hidden itself from the rays, excepting the solitary figure
which moved through the flittings and at a foot's pace,
and appeared the sole breathing thing on the wide surface
of the plain. The dress of the rider and the accoutre-
ments of his horse were peculiarly unfit for the traveller
in such a country. A coat of linked mail, with long

The Crusader and the Saracen.

sleeves, plated gauntlets, and a steel breastplate, had not
been esteemed a sufficient weight of armor ; there was
also his triangular shield suspended round his neck, and
his barred helmet of steel, over which he had a hood and
collar of mail, which was drawn around the warrior's
shoulders and throat, and filled up the vacancy between
the hauberk and the headpiece. His lower limbs were
sheathed, like his body, in flexible mail, securing the legs
and thighs, while the feet rested in plated shoes, which
corresponded with the gauntlets. A long, broad, straight-
shaped, double-edged falchion, with a handle formed like
a cross, corresponded with a stout poniard on the other
side. The Knight also bore, secured to his saddle, with
one end resting on his stirrup, the long steel-headed
lance, his own proper weapon, which, as he rode, pro-
jected backwards, and displayed its little pennoncelle, t(^
dally with the faint breeze, or drop in the dead calm.
To this cumbrous equipment must be added a surcoat of
embroidered cloth, much frayed and worn, which was
thus far useful, that it excluded the burning rays of the
sun from the armor, which they would otherwise have
rendered intolerable to the wearer. The surcoat bore,
in several places, the arms of the owner, although much
defaced. These seemed to be a couchant leopard, with
the motto, " I sleep — wake me not." An outline of the
same device might be traced on his shield, though many
a blow had almost etiaced the painting. The flat top of
his cumbrous cylindrical helmet was unadorned with any
crest. In retaining their own unwieldy defensive armor,
the northern Crusaders seemed to set at defiance the
nature of the climate and country to which they had
come to war.

Fifth Reader.

The accoutrements of the horse were scarcely less
massive and unwieldy than those of the rider. The
animal had a heavy saddle plated with steel, uniting in
front with a species of breastplate, and behind witli
defensive armor made to cover the loins. Then there
was a steel axe, called a mace-of-arms, and which hung
to the saddle-bow ; the reins were secured by chain-work,
and the front-stall of the bridle was a steel plate, with
apertures for the eyes and nostrils, having in the midst a
short sharp pike, projecting from the forehead of the
horse like the horn of the fabulous unicorn.

But habit had made the endurance of this load of
panoply a second nature, both to the knight and his
gallant charger. Numbers, indeed, of the Western war-
riors, who hurried to Palestine, died ere they became
inured to the burning climate ; but there were others to
whom that climate became innocent and even friendly,
and among this fortunate number was the solitary horse-
man who now traversed the border of the Dead Sea.

Nature, which cast his lind:)s in a mould of uncommon
strength, fitted to wear his linked hauberk with as much
ease as if the meshes had been formed of cobwebs, lu?d
endowed him with a constitution as strong as his limbs,
and which bade defiance to almost all changes of climate,
as wellj as to fatigue and privations of every kind. His
disposition seemed, in some degree, to partake of the
qualities of his bodily frame; and as the one possessed
great strength and endurance, united with the power of
violent exertion, the other, under a calm and undisturbed
semblance, had much of the fiery and enthusiastic love of
glory which constituted the principal attribute of the re-
nowned Norman line, and had rendered them sovei'eigns

The Crusader and the Saracen.

ill every corner of Europe, wliere tliey had drawn their
adveuturouH swor<ls. ^^^ — -^_.-i-

It was not, however, to all the race that fortune pro-
posed such tempting rewards; and those obtained by the
solitaiy knight durint^ two years' campaign in Palestine,
liad been only temporal fame, and, as he was taught to
believe, spiritual privileges. Meantime, his slender stock
of money had melted away, the lath'^r that he did not
pursue any of the ordinary modes by w^hich the followers
of the Crusade condescended to recruit their diminished
ri'sources, at the expense of the people of Palestine ; he
exacted no gifts from the wretched natives for sparing
their possessions when engaged in warfare with the
Saracens, and he had not availed himself of any oppor-
tunity of enriching himself by the ransom of prisoners of
consequence. The small train which had followed him
from his native country, had been gradually diminished,
ns tlie means of maintaining them, disappeared, and his
only remaining s(pnre was at present on a sick-bed, and
unable to attend his master, who travelled, as we have
seen, singly and alone. This was of little consequence to
the Crusader, who v\^as accustomed to consider his good
sword as his safest escort, and devout thoughts as his
best companion.

Nature, had, however her demands for refreshment
and repose, even on the iron f ramie and patient disposition
of the Knight of the Sleeping Leopard ; and at noon,
when the Dead Sea lay at some distance on his right, he
joyfully hailed the sight of two or three palm-trees,
which arose beside the well which was assigned for his
nud-day station. His good horse, too, which had plodded
forward with the steady endurance of his master, now

i^IIC^SSS

Fifth Reader.

lifted liis head, expanded his nostrils, and quickened his
pace, as if he snutt'ed afar off' the living waters, which
marked the place of repose and refreshment. But lalx^r
and danger were doomed to intervene ere the horse or
horseman reached the desired spot.

As the Knight of the Couchant Leopard continued to
fix his eyes attentively on the yet distant cluster of
palm-trees, it seemed to him as if some object was moving
among them. The distant form separated itself from
the trees, which partly hid its motions, and advanced
towards the knight with a speed which soon showed a
mounted horseman, whom his turban, long spear, and
green caftan floating in the wind, on his nearer approach,
showed to be a Saracen cavalier. " In the desert," saitli
an Eastern proverb, " no man meets a friend." The
Crusader was totally indifferent whether the infidel, who
now approached on his gallant barb, as if borne on the
wings of an eagle, came as friend or foe — perhaps as a
vowed champion of the Cross, he nught rather have pre-
ferred the latter. He disengaged his lance from his
saddle, seized it with the right hand, placed it in rest
with its point half elevated, gathered up the reins in the
left, waked his liorse's mettle with the spin', and prepared
to encounter the stranger with the calm self-confidence
belonging to the victor in many contests.

The Saracen came on at the speedy gallop of an Arab
horseman, managing his steed more by his limbs, and the
inflection of his body, than by any use of the reins, which
hung loose in his left hand ; so that he was enabled to
wield the light round buckler of the skin of the rhino-
ceros, ornamented with silver loops, which he wore on
his arm, swinging it as if he meant to oppose its slender

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The Crusader and the Saracen.

circle to tlie forinidablo thrust of the western lance. His
own long spear was not couched or levelled like that of
his antagonist, but grasped by the middle with his right
hand, and brandished at ai-ni's length above his head.
As the cavalier approached his enemy at full career, he
seemed to expect that the Knight of the Leopard should
put his horse to the gallop to encounter him. But the
Christian knight, well acquainted with the customs of
Eastern warriors, did not mean to exhaust his good horse
by any unnecessary exertion ; and, on the contrary, made
a dead halt, confident that if the enemy advanced to the
actual shock, his own weight, and that of his powerful
charger, would give him sufficient advantage, without
the additional momentum of rapid motion. Ecjually
sensible and apprehensive of such a probable result, the
Saracen cavalier, when he had approached towai-ds the
Christian within twice the length of his lance, wheeled
his steed to the left with inimitable dexterity, and rode
twice round his antagonist, who, turning without quitting
his ground, and presenting his front constantly to his
enemy, frustrated his attempts to attack him on an
unguarded point ; so that the Saracen, wheeling his
horse, was fain to retreat to the distance of an hundred
yards. A second time, like a hawk attacking a heron,
the Heathen renewed the charge, and a second time was
fain to retreat without coming to a close struggle. A.
third time he approached in the same manner, when the
Christian knight, desirous to terminate this elusory war-
fare, in which he might at length have been worn out by
the activity of his foeman, suddenly seized the mace
which hung at his saddle-bow, and, with a strong hand
and unerring aim, hurled it against the head of the Emir,
for such and not less his enemy appeared. The Saracen

FiFiH Reader.

was jnst awaxG of the formidable missile in time to inter-
pose his li<^lit but'kUir betwixt the mace and his head;
but the violence of the blow forced the buckler down on
his turban, and though that defence alsp contributed to
deaden its violence, the Saracen was beaten from his
horse. Ere the Christian could avail himself of this
mishap, his nimble foeman spnnig from the ground, and
calling on his horse, which instantly returned to liis side,
he leaped into his seat without touching the stirrup, and
regained all the advantage of which the Knight of the
Leopard hoped to deprive him. But the latter had mean-
while recovered his mace, and the Eastern cavalier, who
remembered the strength and dexterity with which his
antagonist had aimed it, seemed to keep cautiously out
of reach of that weapon, while he showed his purpose of
waging a distant w^arfare with missile weapons of his
own. Planting his long spear in the sand at a distance
from the scene of combat, he strung, with great address,
a short bow, which he carried at his back, and putting
his horse to the gallop, once more described two or three
circles of a wider extent than formerly, in the course of
which he discharged six arrows at the Christian with
such unerring skill, that the goodness of his harness
alone saved him from being wounded in as many places.
The seventh shaft apparently found a less perfect part
of the armor, and the Christian dropped heavily from
his horse. But what was the surprise of the Saracen,
when, dismounting to examine tlie condition of his
prostrate enemy, he found himself suddenly within the
grasp of the European, who had had recourse to this
artifice to bring his enemy within his reach ! Even in
this deadly grapple, the Saracen was saved b} his agility
and presence of mind. He unloosed the sword-belt, in

The Chusadeh axd the Saracen.

wliicli the Knight of tlie Leopard liad fixed liis lioM, and,
tliUH eluding Ids fatal grasp, mounted his liorse, which
seemed to watch his motions with the intelligence of a
human l)eing, and again rode otf. But in tlie last
encounter the Saracen had lost his sword and his (piiver
of arrows, both of which were attached to the girdle,
which he was obliged to abandon. He had also lost his
turban in the struggle. These disiidvantages seemed to
incline the Moslem to a truce : he approached the
Christian with liis right hand extended, but no longer in
a menacing attitude.

" There is truce betwixt our nations," he said in the
lingua franca connnonly used for the purpose of connini-
nication with tlie Crusaders ; " wherefore should there be
war betwixt thee and me ? — Let there be peace betwixt
us.

" i am well contented," answered he of the Couchant
Leopard ; " but what security dost thou otter that thou
wilt observe the truce ? "

"The word of a follower of the Prophet was never
])roken," answered the Emir. "It is thou, brave
Nazarene, from whom I should demand security, did I
not know that treason seldom dwells with courage."

The Crusader felt that the confidence of the Moslem
made him ashamed of his own doubts.

" By the cross of my sword," he said, laying his hand
on the weapon as he spoke, " I will be true companion to
thee, Saracen, while our fortune wills that we remain in
company together."

" By Mahommed, Prophet of God, and by Allah, God
of the Prophet," replied his late foeman, " there is not

Fifth Keai^eh.

treachory in my Imart towards tht^o. And now wend we
to yonder fountain, f(jr the lioiir of rest is at hand, and
the stream liad liardly touched my lip when I was called
to battle by thy approach."

The Knight of the Couchant Leopard yielded a ready
and courteous assent; and the late foes, without an
angry look, or gesture of doubt, rode side by side to the
little cluster of palm-trees.

—Sir Walter Scott.

SCARLETT'S THREE HUNDRED.

To horse, trot, gallop, and out with each blade .
To-day, Lads, we ride on a dare-devil raid ;
'Tis death, or a halo that never shall rade.
Old England f<jr Ever, Hurrah !

An Array o'erhanging us, in the death-hush
Massed, like an AvaUnche crowded to crush ;
Up at them, pierce them, ere on us they rush !
Old England for Ever, Hurrah !

Stick to old Scarlett, Lads ! See how he goes
In for a near-sighted look at our foes :
Faster, men, faster, or singly he'll close !
Old England for Ever, Hurrah !

Chariots of fire in the dark of death stand,
With crowns for the foremost who fall for their land
My God, what a time ere we meet hand to hand !
Old England for Ever, Hurrah !

Scaklk'it's Thukk Hindkkd. 57

() tho lightning of lifo I O tho thunder of steeds !
Saddk'H are einptufl, but iioImkIv hccdH ;
All f'ghtiiiK to follow where Elliot leads.
Old England for Plver, 1 1 unah !

S}»ring too now, wedge; through now, and eleave crest and

crown ;
All one as a mowing-machine, cut them down !
For each ff^e round you strewn now a wreath of renown.
Old England for Ever, Hurrah !

There's fear in their faces ; they shrink from the shock ;
They will open the ioor, only loud enough knock ;
Keep turning the key, lest we stick in the lock !
Old England for Ever, Hun ah !

Well done ! Soul and steel alike trusty and true !
By Thousands they faced our invincible Few ;
Like sand in a sieve you have riddled them through.
Old England for Ever, Hurrah !

Charge back ! Once again we must ride the Death-ride,
Torn, tattered, but smiling with something of pride :
Charge home : out of Hell ; gory-grim : glorified !
Old England for Ever, Hurrah !

One cheer for the living ! One cheer for the dead !
One cheer for the deed on that hill-side red !
The glory is gathered for England's proud head !
Old England for Ever, Hurrah !

— Oer.ld Massey (by permission of the Author).

FiFTii Keadek.

THE BURNING OF MOSCOW.

At Icnfrth MoHcow, with its domes arid towers ami
palaces, appeared in si^lit ; and Napoleon, who had
joiiie<l the advanced <ifuard, ^-azed long and thou^dit-
i'ully on that goal of his wishes. Mnrat went forward,
and entered tlie gates witli his splendid cavalry; but as
he pass(Ml through the streets, lie was struck ])y the soli-
tude that surroundtMl him. Nothing was heard hut the
lieavy tramp of his scpiadrons as he passed along; for a,
deserted and abandon id city was the nu^agi'o prize for
which such unparalleled efforts had been made.

As night drew its curtain over the splendid capital.
Napoleon entered tlie gates, and innnediately appointed
Mortier governor. In his directions he connnanded him
to abstain from all pillage. "For this," said he, "you
.shall be answerable with your life. Defend Moscow
against nW, whether friend or foe." The l)right moon
rose over the mighty city, tipping with silver th(>' domes
of more than two liun Ired churches, and pouring a ilood
of light over a thousand palaces and the dwellings of
three hundred thousand inhabitants. The weary soldiers
sunk to rest, but there was no sleep for Mortier's eyes.

Not tlie gorgeous and variegated palaces and their
rich ornaments, nor the parks and gardens and Oriental
magnificence that everywhere surrounded him, kept him
wakeful, but the ominous foreboding that some dire
calamity was hanging over the silent capital. When
he entered it, scarcely a living soul met his gaze as he
looked down the long streets ; and when he broke open
the buildings, he found parlors and bedrooms and cham-

The BuKNiNG of Moscow.

bors all I'uriiiHhcd and in order, lait no occupants. This
sudden abandonment of their honieH betokened some
secret purpose yet to })e fulfilled. The nddnight moon
was setting over the city, when the cry of " Fire ! "
readied the ears of Mortier; tind tlie first light over
Napoleon's faltering empire was kindled, and that most
wonfli'ous sceiKi of modern times connnenced, — tlie Burn-
ing of Moscow.

Mortier, as governor of tlu; city, innnediately issued
his orders, and was putting forth every exertion, when
at daylight Napoleon hastened to him. Affecting to dis-
believe the reports that the inhabitants were firing their
own city, he put more rigid conunands on Mortier, to
keep the soldiers from the work of destruction. The
Marshal simply pointed to some iron-covered houses that
had not yet been opened, from every crevice of which
smoke was issuing like steam from the sides of a pent-up
volcano. Sad and thoughtful, Napoleon turned towards
the Kremlin, the ancient palace of the Czars, whose huge
structure rose high above the surrounding edifices.

In the morning, Mortier, by gi'eat exertions, was
enabled to subdue the fire ; but the next night, Sep-
tember 1.5th, at midnight, the sentinels on watch upon
the lofty Krendin saw below them the flames bursting
through the houses and palaces, and the cry of " Fire !
fire ! " passed through the city. The dread scene was
now fairly opened. Fiery balloons were seen dropping
from the air and lighting on the houses ; dull explosions
were heard on every side from the shut-up dwellings ;
and the next moment light biu-st forth, and the flames
were raging through the apartments.

All was uproar and confusion. The serene air and

Fii-TH Reader.

m()(jiiliglit of the niglit before had given way to driving
clouds and a wild tempest, that swept like the roar of
the sea over the city. Flames arose on every side,
blazing and crackling in the storm ; while clouds of
smoke and sparks, in an incessant shower, went driving
toward the Kremlin. The clouds themselves seemed
turned into fire, rolling wrath over devoted Moscow.
Mortier, crushed with the responsibility thrown upon his
shoulders, moved with his Young Guard amid this deso-
lation, blowing up the houses and facing the tempest and
the flames, struggling nobly to arrest the conflagi'ation.

He hastened from place to place amid the ruins, his
face blackened with smoke, and his hair and eyebrows
singed with the fierce heat. At length the day dawned,
— a day of tempest and of flame, — and Mortier, who
had strained every nerve for thirtv-six hours, entered
a palace and dropped down from fatigue. The manly
form and stalwart arm that h".d so often carried death
into the ranks of the enemy, at length gave way, and
the gloomy Marshal lay and panted in utter exhaustion.
But the night of tempest had been succeeded by a day of
tempest ; and when night again enveloped the city, it
was one broad flame, waving to and fro in the blast.

The wnnd had increased to a perfect hurricane, and
shifted from quarter to quarter, as if on purpose to swell
the sea of fire and extinguish the last hope. The fire
was approaching the Kreudin ; and already the roar of
the flames and crash of falling houses, and the crackling
ol burning timbers, were borne to the ears of the startled
Emperor. He arose and walked to and fro, stopping
convulsively and gazing on the terrific scene. Murat,
Eugene, and Berthier rushed into his pre8env.e, and on

The Burning of Moscow.

their knees besought him to flee ; but he still clung to
that haughty palace as if it were liis empire.

But at length the shout, "The Kremlin is on fire!"
was heard above the roar of the conflagration, and
Napoleon reluctantly consented to leave. He descended
into the streets with his staff', and looked about for a
way of egi'ess, but the flames blocked every passage. At
length they discovered a postern gate, leading to tlie
Moskwa, and entered it ; but they had passed still fur-
ther into the danger. As Napoleon cast his eye round
the open space, girdled and arched with fire, smoke, and
cinders, he saw^ one single street yet open, but all on fire.
Into this he rushed, and amid the crash of falling houses
and the raging of the flames, over burning ruins, through
clouds of rolling smoke, and between walls of fire, he
pressed on. At length, half sufibcated, he emerged in
safety fron^ the blazing city, and took up his quarters
in the imperial palace of Petrowsky, nearly three miles
distant.

Mortier, relieved from his anxiety for the Emperor,
redoubled his efibrts to arrest the conflagration. His
men cheerfully rushed into every danger. Breathing
nothing but smoke and ashes; canopied by flame and
smoke and cinders ; surrounded by walls of fire, that
i'ocked to and fro, and fell, with a crash, amid the
blazing ruins, carrying down with them red-hot roofs of
iron, — he struggled against an enemy that no boldness
could awe or courage overcome.

Those brave troops had often heard without fear the
tramp of thousands of cavalry sweeping to battle ; but
now tliey stood in still terror before the march of the con-
flagration, under whose burning footsteps was heard the

Fii^H Reader.

incessant crash of falling houses, palaces, and churches.
The continuous roar of the raging hurricane, mingled
with that of the flames, was more terrible than tlie
thunder of artillery ; and before this new foe, in the
midst of this battle of the elements, the awe-struck
army stood affrighted and powerless.

When night again descended on the city, it presented
a spectacle, the like of which was never seen before, and
wliich baffles all description. The streets were streets of
fire, the heavens a canopy of fire, and the entire body of
the city a mass of fire, fed by a hurricane that sped the
blazing fragments in a constant stream through the air.
Incessant explosions, from the blowing up of stores of
oil, tar, and spirits, shook the very foundations of the
city, and sent vast volumes of smoke rolling furiously
toward the sky. ,

Huge sheets of canvas on fire came floating like mes-
sengers of death tlirough the flames ; the towers and
domes of the churches and palaces, glowing with a red
lieat over the wild sea below, then tottering a moment
on tlieir bases, were hurled by the tempest into the
connnon ruin. Thousands of wretches, before unseen,
were driven by tlie heat from the cellars and hovels, and
streamed in an incessant throng through the streets.

Children were seen carrying their parents ; the strong,
the weak; while thousands more were staggering under
the loads of plunder which they had .snatched from the
flames. This, too, would fre(|uently take fire in the
falliTig shower; and the miserable creatures would be
compelled to drop it and flee for their lives. O, it was a
scene of woe and fear inconceivable and indescribable!
A miglity and closely packed city of houses, churches,

The Burning of Moscow.

and palaces, wrapped from limit to limit in flames, whicli
are fed by a whirling hurricane, is a sight this world will
seldom see.

But this was within the city. To Napoleon, without,
the spectacle was still more sublime and terrific. Wlirn
the flames had overcome all obstacles, and had wrapped
everything in their red mantle, tliat great city looked
like a sea of rolling fire, swept by a tempest that drove
it into billows. Huge domes and towers, throwing ofl*
sparks like blazing fire-brands, now disappeared in their
maddening flow, as they rushed and broke high over
tlieir tops, scattering their spray of fire against tlie
clouds. The heavens themselves seemed to have cauglit
the conflagration, and the angry masses that swept it
rolled over a bosom of fire.

Columns of flames would rise and sink along the
surface of this sea, and huge volumes of black smoke
Huddeidy shoot into the air, as if volcanoes were working
below. The black form of the Kremlin alone towered
above the chaos, now wrapped in flame and smoke, again
emeririnir into view, and standing amid this scene of
desolation and terror, like Virtue in the midst of a burn-
ing world, enveloped but unscathed by the devouring
elements. '

Napoleoi) stood and gazed on the scene in silent awe.
Though neu 1y three miles distant, the windows and
walls of his apartment were so hot that lie could
scarcely bear his hand against them. Said lie, years
afterward, " It was the spectacle of a sea and billows of
fire, a sky and clouds of flame ; mountains of red rolling
flames, like innnense waves of the sea, alternately burst-
ing forth and elevating themselves to skies of fire, and

Fifth Rp:ader.

then sinking into the flame below. O, it was the most
grand, the most sublime, and the most terrific sight the
world ever beheld ! "

—J. T. Headley.

MARCO BOZZARIS.

At midnight, in his guarded tent,

The Turk lay dreaming of the hour
When Greece, her knee in suppliance tent,

Should tremble at his power.
In dreams, through camp and court he bore
The trophies of a conqueror ;

In dreams, bis song of triumph heard ;
Then wore his monarch's signet-ring ;
Then pressed that monarch's throne — a king ;
As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing,

As Eden's garden-bird.

At midnight, in the forest shades,

Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band.
True as the steel of their ti-ied blades,

Heroes in heart and hand.
There had the Persian's thousands stood.
There had the "lad earth drunk their blo<Kj,

In old Plata^a's day ;
And now, there breathed that haunted air
The sons of sires who conquered there.
With arms to strike, and soul to dare.

As quick, as far as they.

An hour passed on ; the Turk awoke ;

That bright dream was his last ;
He woke to hear his sentries shriek,
"To arms ! They come — the Greek ! the Greek ! "
He woke to die 'mid flame and smoke.

Marco Bozzaris.

And shout, and groan, and sabre-stroke,
And death-shots falling thick and fast

As lightnings from the mountain-cloud.

And heard, with voice as trumpet loud,
Bozzaris cheer his band :

" Strike, till the last armed foe expires !

Strike, for your altars and your fires !

Strike, for the green graves of your sires —
God, and your native land ! "

Tliey fought, like brave men, long and well ;

They piled the ground with Moslem slain ;
They conquered, but Bozzaris fell.

Bleeding at every vein.
His few surviving comrades saw
His smile, when rang their proud hurrah,

And the red field was won ;
Then saw in death his eyelids close,
Calmly, as to a night's repose,

Like flowers at set of sun.

Come to the bridal chamber. Death !

Come to the mother when she feels
For the first time her first-born's breath :

Come when the blessed seals
Which close the pestilence are broke.
And crowded cities wail its stroke ;
Come in consumption's ghastly form,
The earthquake's shock, the ocean storm ;
Come when the heart beats high and wai'in

With banquet-song, and dance, and wine.
And thou art terrible : the tear,
T'he groan, the knell, the pall, the bier,
And all we know, or dream, or fear

Of agony, are tliine.

Fifth Reader.

But to the hero, when his sword

Has won the l)attle for the free,
Tliy voice sounds like a prophet's word,
And in its hollow tones are heard

The thanks of m'.llions yet to be.

Bozzaris ! with the storied brave

Greece nurtured in her glory's time,
Rest thee ! there is no prouder grave,

Even in her own proud clime.

We tell thy doom without a sigh.
For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's —
One of the few, the immortal names.

That were not born to die.

—Fitz-Greene Ilalleck.

THE ARCHERY CONTEST.

Whilst the council was sitting in Pampeluna the
White Company, having encamped in a neighboring
valley, close to the companies of La Nuit and of Black
Ortingo, were amusing themselves with sword-play,
wrestling, and sliooting at the shields, which they had
placed upon the hillside to serve them as butts. The
younger archers, with their coats of mail thrown aside,
their brown or flaxen hair tossing in the wind, and their
jerkins turned back to give free play to their brawny
chests and arms, stood in lines, each loosing his shaft in
turn, while Johnston, Aylward, Black Simon, and lialf-a-
score of the elders lounged up and down with critical
eyes, and a word of rough praise or of curt censure foi-
the marksmen. Behind stood knots of Gascon and

The Archery Contest.

TJiabant crosHbowmon from tlie companieR of Ortin^o
and of La Nuit, loaniii()j upon their unsightly weapons
and watching the practice of the Englislinien.

A sunburnt and bhick-eyed Brabanter liad stood near
tlie old archers, leaning upon a large crosslxjw and
listening to their talk, which had been carried ^n in that
liyhrid camp dialect which both nations could under-
stand. He was a squat, bull-necked man, clad in the
iron helmet, mail tunic, and woollen gambesson of his
class. A jacket with hanging sleeves, slashed wdth
v(flvet at the neck and wrists, showed that he was a man
of some consideration, an under-officer, or file-leader of
liis company.

" I cannot think," said he, " why you English should
ho so fond of your six-foot stick. If it amuse you to
hend it, well and good ; but why should I strain and
pull, when my little moulinet will do all for me, and
better than I can do it for myself ? " ,

" I have seen good shooting with the prod and with
the latch," said Ay 1 ward, "but, by my hilt! camarade,
with all respect to you and to your bow, I thiidc that is
hut a woman's weapon, which a woman can point and
loose as easily as a man."

" I know not about that," answered the Brabanter,
" but this I know, that thougli I have served for fourteen
years, I have never yet seen an Englishman do aught
with the long-bow which I could not do better with my
arlmlest. By the three kings ! I would even go further,
and say that I have done things with my arbalest which '
no Englishnifi n could do with his long-bow."

"Well said, mon gar.," cried Ay 1 ward. "A good cock
lias ever a brave call. Now, I liave shot little of late,

Fifth Reader.

but tliere is Jolniston lien; wlio will try a round with
you for the lioiior of the Company."

"And I will lay a gallon of Jurangon wine upon the
long-bow," said Black Simon, '' though I liad rather, for
my own drinking, that it were a quart of Twynham ale."

" I take lx3th your challenge and your wager," said the
man of Brabant, throwing oif his jacket and glancing
keenly about him with his black, twinkling eyes. "I
cannot see any fitting mark, for I care not to waste a
bolt ujjon these shields, which a drunken boor could not
miss at a village kermesse." ■ ^

" This is a perilous man," whispered an English man-
at-arms, plucking at Aylward's sleeve. " He is the best
marksman of all the crossbow companies and it was he
who brought down the Constable de Bourbon at Brignais.
I fear that your man will come by little honor with him."

"Yet I have seen Johnston shoot these twenty years,
and I will not flinch from it. How say you, old war-
hound, will you not have a flight shot or two with this
springald?" ,

" Tut, tut, Aylward," said the old bowman. " ^ly day
is past, and it is for the younger ones to hold wdiat we
have gained. I take it unkindly of thee, Samkin, that
thou shouldst call all eyes thus upon a broken bowman
who could once shoot a fair shaft. Let me feel that bow,
Wilkins ! It is a Scotch bow, I see, for the upper nock
is without and the lower within. By the black rood ! it
is a good piece of yew, well nocked, well strung, well
waxed, and very joyful to the feel. I think even now
that I might liit any large and goodly mark with a bow
like this. Turn thy quiver to me, Aylward. I love an
ash arrow pierced with cornelwood for a roving shaft."

The AuciiKiiY Contest.

"By my hilt! and so do 1," cried Aylvvard. "ThoHo
thiee gander-winged shafts arc sucli."

" So I see, comrade. It lias been my wont to choose a
saddle-backed feather for a dead shaft, and a swine-
hai-ked for a smooth flier. I will take the two of them.
Ah ! Samkin, lad, the eye grows dim and the hand less
Hini as the years pass."

" Come then, are you not ready ? " said the Hrabanter,
who had watched wdth ill-concealed impatience the slow
and methodic movements of his antagonist.

" I will venture a rover with you, or try long-butts or
hoyles," said old Johnston, "To my mind the long-bow
is a better weapon than the arbalest, but it may be ill for
me to prove it."

" So I think," quoth the other with a sneer. He drew
his moulinet from his girdle, and fixing it to the wind-
lass, he drew back the powerful double cord until it had
clicked into the catch. Then from his' quiver he drew a
sliort, thick quarrel, which he placed with the utmost
care upon the groove. Word had spread of what was
t^^oing forward, and the rivals were already surrounded,
not only by the English archers of the Company, but by
hundreds of arbalestiers and men-at-arms from the bands
of Ortingo and La Nuit, to the latter of which the
Hrabanter belonged.

" There is a mark yonder on the hill," said he ; " may-
hap you can discern it."

"I see something," answered Johnston, shading his
eyes with his hand ; " but it is a vory long shoot."

" A fair shoot — a fair shoot ! Stand aside, Arnaud,
lest you find a bolt through your gizzard. Now, com-

Fifth Header.

ra(l(^ I take no lli^^lit sliot, and J ^ivo you tlio vantage of
watching my shaft."

As he spoko lie raiaeJ liis arbalest to Ins slioukler and
was about to pull the trigger, when a large gray stork
Happed heavily into view skininnng over the brow of the
hill, and then soaring up into the air to pass the valley.
Its shrill and piercing cries drew all eyes upon it, and,
as it came nearer, a dark spot which circled above it
resolved itself into a peregrine falcon, which hovered
over its lu^ad, poising itself from time to time, and
watching its chance of closing wnth its clumsy (piarry.
Nearer and nearer came the two birds, all absorbed in
their own contest, the stork wlieeling upw^ards, the hawk
still fluttering above it, until they were not a hundred
paces from the camp. The Brabanter raised his w^eapon
to the sky, and there ca' ' the short, deep twang of his
powerful string. His bolt struck the stork just where
its wing meets the body, and the bii'd whirled aloft in a
last convulsive flutter before falling w^ounded and flap-
ping to the earth. A roar of applause burst from the
crossbowmen ; but at the instant that the bolt struck its
mark old Johnston, who had stood listlessly with arrow^
on string, bent his bow and sped a shaft through the
l)ody of the falcon. Whipping the other from his belt,
he sent it skinnning some few feet from the earth with
so true an aim that it struck and transfixed the stork for
the second time ere it could reach the gi'ound. A deep-
chested shout of delight burst from the archers at the
sight of this double feat, and Aylward, dancing vvith joy,
threw his arms round the old marksman and embraced
him with such vigor that their mail tunics clanged again.

"Ah! camarade," he cried, "you shall have a stoup

'^"•: -. ''■'^' I iMpn'i in imimti''^-=^¥XM^' ■* ',<^ .

TlIK AkL'IIKI{V r'oNTKST,

with mo for tliis ! What tlu^n, old do*;, would not the
hawk please thee, ])ut thoii must liavo the stork as well.
Oh, to my heart again ! "

"It is a pretty piece of yew, and well strung," sai<l
.Johnston with a twinkle in his (h;cp-set gray eyes.
" Kven an old broken ])owman mi«dit find the clout with
!i bow like this."

"You have done very well," remarked the Brabanter
in a surly voice. " But it seems to wut that you have not
yet show^n yourself to be a better marksman than J, for
I have struck that at which I aimed, and, by the three
kings ! no man Ciin do more."

" It would ill beseem me to claim to be a better marks-
man," answered Johnston, "for J have heard gi-eat things
of your skill. I did but wish to show that the long-lx)w
could do that which an arbah'st could not do, for you
could not with your moulinet have your string ready to
speed another shaft ere the bird drop to the earth."

"In that you have vantage," said the crossbowman.
" By Saint James ! it is now^ my turn to show you where
my wx'apon has the Ix'tter of you. I pray you to draw a
flight shaft with all yc^ur strength dow^n the valley, that
we may see the length of your shoot."

" That is a very strong prod of yours," said Johnston,
shaking his grizzled head as he glanced at the thick arch
and powM'rful strings of his rival's arbak^st. "I have
little doubt that you can overshoot me, anil yet I have
seen bowmen who could send a cloth-yard arrow further
than you could speed a quarrel."

" So I have heard," remarked the Brabanter ; " and yet
it is a sl:ran£ife thinu; that these wondnjus bow^men are
never where I chance to be. Pace out the distances with

I :'

;*: '

1 1

FI^TII Keadeh.

a wand at ovory five score, and do you, Arnaud, stand at
the fifth wand to carry back my Ijolts to me."

A line was ineasured down the valley, and Johnston,
drawin<!^ an arrow to the very head, sent it whistlin<^
over tlui row of wands.

"Bravely drawn! A rare shoot! shouted the by-
standers. " It is well up to the fourth nwuk."

" By my hilt ! it is over it," cried Aylwai-d. " I can
see where they have stooped to gather up the shaft."

" We shall hear anon," said Johnston (piietly, and
presently a young archer came running to say that the
arrow liad fallen twenty paces beyond the fourth wand.

" Four hundred paces and a score," cried Black Sinion.
"I' faith, it is a very long flight. Yet wood and steel
may do more than Hesh and blood."

The Biabanter stepped forward with a smile of con-
scious triumph, and loosed the cord of his weapon. A
shout burst from his comrades as they watched the swift
and lofty flight of the heavy bolt.

" Over tlu; fourth ! " groaned Aylward. " By my hilt !
I think that it is well up to the fifth."

" It is over the fifth 1 " cried a Gascon loudly, and a
conn-ade came running with waving arms to say that the
bolt had pitched eight paces beyond the mark of the five
hundred.

" Which weapon hath the vantage now ? " cried the
Brabanter, strutting proudly about with shouldered
arbalest, amid the applause of his companions.

" You can overshoot me," said Johnston gently.

" Or any other man who ever bent a long-bow," cried
his victorious adversary.

TlIK Ahciikkv Contkst.

" Nay, not so fant," .said a Im^u arclicr, whoHo ini^lity
HhoiilderH and red head towered lii^li alx)ve the tlirong of
liiH coniradeH. " I must liave a word witli you ere you
crow HO loudly. Where is my little popper ? By sainted
Dick of Hampole! it will be a strani^e thin<^' if I cannot
outshoot that thin^ of thinc', which to my eyes is more-
like a rat-trap than a Ixnv. WHl you try another flight,
or do you stand by your last ? "

" Five hundred and eight paces will serve my turn,"
answered the Brabanter, looking askance at this new
opponent.

" Tut, Jolni," whispered Aly ward, " you never were a
marksman. Why must you tluust your spoon into this
dish ? "

" Easy and slow, Aylward. There are very many
things wdiich I cannot do, but there are also one or two
which I have the trick of. It is in my mind that I can
beat this slioot, if my bow will but hold together."

" Go on, old babe of the woods ! " " Have at it,
Hampshire ! " cried the archers, laughing.

" By my soul ! you may grin," cried John. " But I
learned how to make the long shoot from old Hob Miller
of Milford." He took up a gi-eat black bow, as he
spoke, and sitting down upon the ground he placed his
two feet on eitlier end of the stave. With an arrow
iitted, he then pulled the string towards him with both
hands until the head of the shaft was level with the
wood. The great bow creaked and groaned, and the
cord vibrated with the tension.

" Who is this fool's-head who stands in the way of my
shoot ? " said he, craning up his neck from the ground.

.t!

Fifth Reader.

" He stand.s on tlic furthor side of my mark," answered
the Brabanter, " so he lias little to fear from you."

" Well, the saints assoil him ! " cried John. " Though
I think he is over-near to be scathed." As he spoke he
raised his two feet, with the bow-stave upon their soles,
and i.is cord twangeo with a deep rich hum which might
be heard across the valley. The measurer in the distance
fell flat upon his face, and tiien, jumping up again, he
began to run in the opposite direction.

" Well shot, old lad ! It is indeed over his head," cried
the bowmen.

" It is but a trick," quoth John. " Many a time have
I won a gallon of ale by covering a mile in three flights
down Wilverley Chase."

"It fell a hundred and thirty paces beyond the fifth
mark," shouted an archer in the distance.

" Six hundred and thirty paces ! but that is a shoot !
And yet it says nothing for your weapon, my big
comrade, for it was by turning yourself into a crossbow
that you did it."

" By my hilt ! there is truth in that," cried Aylward.
" And now, friend, I will myself show you a vantage
of the long-bow. I pray you to speed a bolt against
yonder shield with all your force. It is an inch of elm
with bull's hide over it."

" 1 scarce shot as many shafts at Brignais," growled
the man of Brabant ; " though I found a better mark
there than a cantle of bull's hide. But what is this.
Englishman ? The shield hangs not one hundred pa«es
from me, and a blind man could strike it." He screwed
up his string to the furthest pitch, and shot his quarrel
at the dangling shield. Aylward, who had drawn an

■:>A<<-«»:<i i0mi 'f i* t m ...

RoSAJiELLE.

arrow from lii.s quiver, carefully greased the liearl of it,
and sped it at the same mark.

" Run, Wilkins," quoth he, " and fetch me the shield."

Long were the faces of the Englishmen and broad the
laugh of the crossbowmen as the heavy mantlet was
carried towards them, for there in the centre was the
tliick Brabant bolt driven deeply into the wood, while
there was neither sign nor trace of the cloth-yard shaft.

" By the three kir.gs ! " cried the Brabanter, " this time
at least there is no gainsaying which is the better
weapon, o»- which the truer hand that held it. You
have missed the shield. Englishman."

" Tarry a bit ! tarry a bit, mon gar. ! " quoth Ay 1 ward,
and turning round the shield he showed a round clear
hole in the wood at the back of it. " My shaft has
passed through it, camarade, and I trow the one which
^oes through is more to be feared than that which bides
on the way."

— " The White Company," Conan Doyle (by arrangement with the Publishers).

ROSABELLE.

-J ;

O listen, listen, ladies gay !

No haughty feat of arms I tell :
Soft is the note, and sad the lay,

That mourns the lovely Rosabelle.

— " Moor, moor the barge, ye gallant crew !

And, gentle ladye, deign to stay !
Rest thee in Castle Ravensheuch,

Nor tempt the stormy firth to-day.

: ,) ■

Fifth Reader.

" The blackening wave is edged with wliite ;

To iiicli and rock tlie sea-mews fly ;
The fishers liave h(;ard the Water S})rite,

Whose screams forebode that wreck is nigh

*' Last night the gifted Seer did view

A wet shroud swathed round ladye gay ;

Then stay thee, Fair, in Ravensheucli ;
Why cross the gloomy firth to-day 1 "—

" 'Tis not because 1-A)rd Lindesay's lunr
To-night at lioslin leads the ball,

But that my iadye-mother there
Sits lonely in her castle-hall.

" 'Tis not because the ring they ride,
And Liiidesay at the ring rides well.

But that my sire the wine Avill cliide,
If 'tis not filled by ilosabelle." —

O'er Iloslin all that dreary night

A wondrous blaze was seen to gleam ;

'Twas broader than the watch-fire light,
And redder than the bright moon-beam.

W»

It glared on lloslin's castled rock,
It ruddied all the copse-wood glen ;

'Twas seen from Di'yden's groves of oak,
Anci seen from caverned llawthornden.

Seemed all on fire that chapel j)r-oud.
Where Boslin's chiefs uncofiined lie;

Each Baron, for a sable shroud,
Sheathed in his iron panoply.

^ii;

Raleigh and the Queen.

Seemed all on fire within, arouiul,

Deep sacristy and altar's pale ;
Shone every pillar foliage-bound,

And glimmered all the dead men's mail.

Blazed battlement and pinnet high.

Blazed every rose-carved buttn'ss fair —

So still they blaze, when fate is nigh
The lordly line of ^-gh St. Clair!^

There are twenty of Roslin's barons bold
Lie buried within that proud chapel le ;

p]ach one the holy vault doth ht)ld —
But the sea holds lovely Rosabelle !

And each St. Clair was buried there.

With candle, with book, and with knell ;

But the sea-caves rung, and the wild wind sang,
The dirge of lovely Rosabelle.

—Sir Walter Scott.

RALEIGH AND THE QUEEN.

At this moment the gates opened, and ushers began to
issue forth in array, preceded and Hanked by the band of
Gentlemen Pensioners. After this, amid a crowd of lords
and ladies, yet so disposed around her that she could see
and be seen on all sides, came Elizabeth herself, then in
the prime of womanhood, and in the full glow of wliat in
a sovereign was called beauty, and who would in the
lowest rank of life liave been truly judged a noble figure,
joined to a sti'iking and connnanding physiognomy. She
leant on the arm of Lord Hunsdon, whose relation to her

Fifth Reader.

by her mother's side often procured liim siicli distin*
guislied marks of Elizabeth's intimacy.

The young cavalier we have so often mentioned had
probably never yet approached so near the person of his
sovereign, and he pressed forward as far as the h'ne of
warders permitted, in order to avail himself of the
present opportunity. His companion, on the contrary,
cursing his imprudence, kept pulling him backwards, till
Walter shook him off impatiently, and letting his rich
cloak drop carelessly from one shoulder ; a natural action,
which served, however, to .display to the best advjintage
his well-proportioned person. Unbonneting at the same
time, he fixed his eager gaze on the queen's approacli,
with a mixture of respectful curiosity, and modest yet
ardent admiration, which suited so well with his fine
features, that the warders, struck with his rich attire
and noble countenance, suffered him to approach the
ground over which the queen was to pass, somewhat
closer than was permitted to ordinary spectators. Thus
the adventurous youth stood full in Elizabeth's eye —
an eye never indifferent to the admiration which she
deservedly excited among her subjects, or to the fair
proportions of external form which clianced to distin-
guish any of her courtiers. Accordingly, she fixed her
keen glance on the youth, as she approached the place
where lie stood, with a look in which surprise at his
boldness seemed to be unmingled with resentment, while
a trifling accident happened which attracted her atten-
t,ion towards him yet more strongly. The night had
tieen rainy, and just where the young gentleman stood,
11 smftli quantity of mud interrupted the queen's passage.
As she hesitated to pass on, tlie gallant, throwing his

te»».?«feiWVl#^;>^f ,S;V..,<V

Ralekjh axd thp: Qt^eex.

cloak from his Hliouldcrs, laid it on the niiry spot, so as
tojnsure her stepping over it dry-shcMl. Elizabetli looked
at the young man, who accompanied this act of devoted
courtesy with a profound reverence and a blush that
overspread his whole countenance. Tlie (jueen was con-
fused, and blushed in her turn, nodded her head, hastily
pjussed on, and embarked in her barge without saying a
word.

" Come along. Sir Coxcomb," said Blount ; " your gay
cloak will need the brush to-day, I wot. Nay, if you
had meant to make a foot-cloth of your mantle, better
have kept Tracy's old drap-de-bure, which despises all
colors."

"This cloak," said the youth, taking it up and folding
it, "shall never be brushed while in my possession."

" And that will not be long, if you learn not a little
more economy — we shall have you in ciierpo soon, as the
Spaniard sjiys."

Their discoui-se was here interrupted by one of the
Band of Pensicmers.

" I was sent," said he, after looking at them attentively,
" to a gentleman who hath no cloak, or a nuiddy one. —
You, sir, I think," addressing the younger cavalier, " are
the man ; you will please to follow me."

" He is in attendance on me," said Blount, — " on me,
the nolole Earl of Sussex's master ol' horse."

" I have nothing to say to that," answered the mes-
senger; "my orders are directly from her Majesty', and
concern this gentleman only. '

So saying, he walked away, followed by Waiter, leaving
the others behind, Blount's eyes almost starting from liis

Fifth Reader.

head with the excess of liis astonishment. At length he
gave vent to it in an exclamation, — " Who the good jere
would have thought this!" And, shaking i s head with
a mysterious air, he walked to his own boat, embarked,
and returned to Deptford.

The young cavalier was, in the meanwliile, guided to
the water-side by the Pensioner, who sliowed him con-
siderable respect; a circumstance which, to persons in
his situation, may be considered as an augury of no
small consequence. He usliered him into one of the
wherries which lay ready to attend the queen's barge,
which was already proceeding up the river, with the
advantage of that flood-tide of which, in the course of
their descent, Blount had complained to his associates.

The two rowers used their oars with such expedition
at the signal of thr Ger'leman Pensioner, that they very
soon brought their little skifF under the stern of the
queen's boat, where she sat beneath an awning, attended
by two or three ladies, and the nobles of her houseliold.
She looked more than once at the wlierry in which tlie
young adventurer was seated, spoke to those around her,
and seemed to laugh. At length one of the attendants,
by the queen's order, apparently, made a sign for the
wherry to come alongside, and the young man was
desired to step from his own skiff into the queen's barge,
which he performed with graceful agility at the fore
part of the boat, and was brought aft to the queen's
presence, the wherry at the same time dropping into the
rear. The youtli underwent the gaze of majesty, not the
less gracefully that his self-possession was mingled with
embarrassment. The nniddied cloak still hung upon his
arm, and formed the natural topic with which the queen
introduced the converstition.

>/■■*;*•»•^&:,<ltr^,:^^■i^^'J.4^

Raleigh and the Queen.

"You have tliis day spoiled a gay mantle in our
service, young man. We thank you for your service,
though the manner of ofiering it was unusual, and some-
thing bold."

"In a sovereign's need," answered the youth, "it is
each liegeman's duty to be bold."

"That was well said, my lord," said the queen, tui-ning
to a grave person who sat by her, and answered with
a grave inclination of the head, and sonuithing of a
mumbled assent. "Well, young man, your gallantry
shall not go unrewarded. Go to the wardrobe keeper,
and he shall have orders to supply the suit which you
have cast away in our service. Thou slialt have a suit,
and that of the newest cut, I promise thee, on the word
of a princess."

"May it please your Grace," said Walter, hesitating,
"it is not for so humble a servant of your Majesty to
measure out your Ix^unties; but if it became me to
choose " —

"Thou wouldst have gold, I warrant me," said the
queen, interrupting him ; " fie, young man ! I take shame
to say that, in our capital, such and so various are the
means of thriftless folly, that to give gold to youth is
giving fuel to fire, and furnishing them with th(3 means
of self-destruction. If I live and reign, these meanH of
unchristian excess shall be abridged. Yet thou maycsst
be poor," she added, " or thy parents may be— It shall be
gold, if thou wilt, but thou shalt answer to me iuv the
use on't." [ ^

Walter waited patiently until the queen had done, and
then modestly assured her that gold was still less in his
wish than the raiment her Majesty had before offered.

Fifth "Rkader.

"How, hoy!" 8.alfl the qncon, "neither ^olfl nor
<^{irni('nt ^ What is it tliou wouldst liave of me, then ?"

" (^nly pennisHion, nuidani — if it is not askint^ too ]\'i<r]\
an honor — permission to wear tlie cloak wliich did you
this triflint( s(a-v'iee."

"Permission to wear thine own cloak, thou willy hoy?"
•said the queen.

" It is no longer mine," said Walter ; " when your
Majesty's foot touched it, it hecame a fit mantle for a
prince, hut far too rich a one for its former owner."

The (pieen a<(ain ])lnshed ; and endeav^ored to cover, hy
laughing, a slight degree of not unpleasing surprise and
confusion.

" Heard you ever the like, my lords ? The youth's
head is turned with reading romances. — I nuist know
something of him, that I may s(md him safe to his
friends. — What is thy name and hirth ? "

"Ualeigh is my name, most gracious Queen, the
youngest son of a large hut honorahle family of
Devonshire."

" Raleigh ? " said Elizabeth, after a moment's recollec-
tion ; " have we not heard of your service in Ireland ? "

" I have been so fortunate as to do some service
there, madam," replied Raleigh, "scarce, however, of
consequence sufficient to reach your (Jrrtce's ears."

"They hear farther than you think of," said the queen
graciously, " and have heard of a youth who defended a
ford in 81iannon against a whole band of wild Irish
rebels, until the stream ran purple with their blood and
liis own." —

"Some blood I may have lost," said the youth, looking
down, " but it was where rny best is due ; and that is in
your Mjijesty's service."

The Deacon's Masterpiece.

The queen pauHcd, {uid then stiid liastily, "You are
very young to have fouglit so well, and to .sp«»ak so well.
But you nuLst not escape your penance for turning back
Masters — the poor man hath caught cold on the river;
for our order reached him when he was just returned
from certain visits in London, and he held it matter of
loyalty and conscience instantly to set forth again. So
hark ye, Master Raleigh, see tliou fail not to wear thy
muddy cloak, in token of penitence, till our pleasiu*e be
further known. And here," she added, giving him a
jewel of gold in the form of a chessman, " I give thee
this to wear at the collar."

Raleigh, to whom nature had taught intrdtively, as it
were, those courtly arts which many scarce accpiire frt^m
long experience, knelt, and, as he took from her hand
the jewel, kissed the fingers which gave it.

— Sir Walter Scott.

MHi

THE DEACON'S MASTERPIECE:

OR, "THE WONDERFUL ONE-HOSS SHAY."

Have you hoard of the wonderful one-hos.s shay

That was built in such a logical way,

It ran a huiuInMl years to a day,

And then, of a sudden, it — ah, but stay,

I'll tell you what happened witlnjut delay.

Scaring the parson into llts.

Frightening people out of their wits —

Have you ever heard of that, I say ?

FitTH Reader.

Seventeen hundred and fifty-five.

Qporyiiis Secniidiis wa»s then alive —

Snufty old drone from the German hive.

That was the year when Lisbon town

Saw the earth open and gulp Iut down,

And Braddock's army was done so brown,

L(;ft without a scalp to its crown.

It was on the terrible Earth(iuake<lay

That the Deacon finished the one-hoss shay.

Now, in building of chaises, I'll tell you what,

There is always somewhere a weakest spot —

In hub, tirf^, felloe, in spring or thill.

In panel, or crossbar, or floor, or sill,

In screw, bolt, thoroughbrace— lurking still.

Find it somewhere you must and will — -

AlK)ve or below, or within or without —

And that's the reason, l)eyond a doubt,

A chaise breaks clown, but doesn't wear out.

But the Deacon swore (as Deacons do.
With an " I dew vum," or an ' ■ I tell yeou "),
He would build one shay to lieat the taown
'n' the keounty 'n' all the kentry raoun' ;
It should be so built that it coiddn* l)reak daown :
" Fur," said the Deacon, " 'tis mighty plain
Thut the weakes' place mus' stan' the strain ;
'n' the way to fix it, uz I maintain.

Is only jest
T' make that place uz strong uz the rest."

So the Deacon inquired of the village folk
Where he could find the strongest oak,
That couldn't be split nor bent nor broke —
That was for spokes and floor and sills ;

...t«j»> ■'iffi'y,,,^

The Deacon's ^fASTERiTECK.

8.1

He sont for lanrfsvood to make tlie tlulls ;

The crosslmrs were ash, from the straii;ht»«st trees ;

The panels, of white- wood, that cuts Uk(? cheese,

But lasts like iron for things like these ;

The hubs of logs from the "Settler's eilum,"

Jjast of its timber — they couldn't sell "em.

Never an axe had sc^n their chips,

And the wedges Mew from lietween their lips,

Their blunt ends frizzled like celery-tips ;

Stej) and pro[)-iron, l3olt and scrt^w,

8pring, tire, axle, and linchpin, t(K),

Steel of the finest, bright and blue ;

Thoroughbrace bison-skin, thick and wide ;

Boot, top, dasher, from tough old hide

P\)und in the pit when the tanner died.

That was the way he "put her through." —

"There !" said the Deacon, "naow she'll dew."

Do ! I tell you, I rather guess

She was a wonder, and nothing less !

Colts grew horses, l^eards turned gray,

] )eacon and Deaconess dropped away.

Children and grandchildren — where werfs tli;»y?

J Jut there st(M)d the stout old one-hoss shay

As fresh as on Lisbon-earthquake-day !

Eighteen hundred : it came and f( >und
The Deacon's masterpiece strong and sound.
Eighteen hundred increased by ten —
"Hahnsum kerridge " they called it then.
Eighteen hundred and twenty came —
Running as usual ; much the same.
Thirty and forty at last arrive.
And then come fifty and fifty-five,

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Photographic

Sciences
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23 WEST MAIt<4 STREET

WEBSTER, NY. 14580

(716) 872-4503

FibTH Reader.

Little of all we value here

Wake.s on the morn of its hundredth year

Without both feeling and looking queer.

In fact, tliere's nothing that keeps its youth, .

So far as I know, but a tree and truth.

(This is a moral that runs at large ;

Take it. — You're welcome. — No extra charge.)

First of November — the Earthquake-day. —
There are traces of age in the one-hoss shay,
A general flavor of mild decay.
But nothing local, as one may say.
There couldn't be, for the Deacon's art
Had made it so like in every part „
That there wasn't a chance for one to start.
For the wheels were just as strong as the thills,
And the floor was just as strong as the sills, '
And the panels just as strong as the floor.
And the whippletree neither less nor more.
And the back-crossbar as strong as the fore,
And spring and axle and hub encore.
And yet, as a whole, it is past a doubt
In another hour it will be worn out !

First of November, 'Fifty-five !
Thi"^ morning the parson takes a drive.
Now, small boys, get out of the way !
Here comes the wonderful one-hoss shay,
Drawn by a rat-tailed, ewe-necked bay.
"Huddup!" said the parson. — Off went they.

The parson was working his Sunday text —
Had got iojifthly^ and stopped perplexed
At what the — Moses— was condng next.
All at once the horse stood still,

The Winter Lakes.

Close by the raeot'n'-houso on the hill.
— First a shiver, and then a thrill,
Then something decidedly like a spill.
And the parson was sitting upon a. rock,
At half-past nine by the meet'n'-house clock-
Just the hour of the Earthquake-shock I
— What do you think the parson found.
When he got up and stared around ?
The poor old chaise in a heap or mound.
As if it had been to the mill and ground !
You see, of course, if you're not a dunce,
How it went to pieces all at once —
All at once, and nothing first —
Just as bubbles do when they burst.

End of the wonderful one-hoss shay.
Logic is logic. That's all I say.

—Oliver Wendell Holrnes.

THE WINTER LAKES.

Out in a world of death, far to the northwai-d lying,

Under the sun and the moon, under the dusk and the day ;

Under the glimmer of stars and the purple of sunsets dying,
Wan and waste and white, stretch the great lakes away.

Never a bud of spring, never a laugh of summer,

Never a dream of love, never a song of bird.
But only the silence and white, the sliores that grow chiller
and duml)er.
Whenever the ice-winds sob, and the gritjfs of winter are
heard.

J ^:;i j i-^;

i;ii

FitTJi Reader.

ill

■ 1 [

Crags that are black and wet out of the gray lake looming
Under the sunset's flush, and the pallid faint glimmer of
dawn,

Shadowy, ghost-like shores, where midnight surfs are l)(M)ming
Thunders of wintry woe over the spaces wan.

Lands that loom like spectras, whited regions of winter,
Wastes of desolate woods, deserts of water and shore,

A world of winter and death, Avithin these regions who enter,
Lost to summer and life, go to return no more.

Moons that glimmer alK)ve, waters that lie white under.
Miles and miles of lake far out under the night,

Foaming crests of waves, surfs that shoreward thunder.
Shadowy shapes that flee, haunting the spaces white.

Lonely hitidon hays, moon-lit, ice-rimmed, winding.

Fringed !)y forests and crags, haunted by shadowy shores ;
Hushed from the outward strife, where the night surf is
grinding.
Death and hate on the rocks, as sandward and landward it
I'oars.

— iVillm^n Wilfred Campbell (by permission of the Author)

THE CAPTAINS AT PLYMOUTH.

ill

(1 .

Wliat if the spectators who last summer ^azed with
just pride upon the noble port of Plymouth, its vast
breakwater spanning the Sound, its arsenals and docks,
its two estuaries filled with gallant ships, and watched
the great screw-liners turning w^ithin their own length
by force invisible, or threading the crowded fleets with
the ease of the tiniest boat ; — what if, by some magic
turn, the nineteenth century, and all the magnificence of

jr,

The Caitains at Plymouth.

its wealtli and Hcieiict% liad vanislu'd — as it may vanish
hereafter — and tluy had found tluMiiselves tln-cnvn back
three hundred years into tlie pleasant summer days of
1588?

Mount Edgecombe is still there, beautiful as ever : l)ut
where are the docks, and where is Devonport ? No vast
dry-dock roofs rise at the water's edge. Drake's island
carries but a paltry battery, just raised by tlie man
whose name it bears ; Mount Wise is a lone gentleman's
house among fields ; the citadel is a pop-gun fort, which
a third-class steamer would shell into rubble for an
afternoon's amusement. And the shipping, where are
they ? The floating castles of the Hamoaze Jiave dwin-
dled to a few crawlino- lime-hoys ; and the Catwater is
packed, not as now, v/ith merchant craft, but with tlu;
ships who will to-morrow begin the greatest sea-iight
which the world has ever seen.

There they lie, a paltry squadron enough in modern
i^yes ; the largest of them not equal in size to a six-and-
thirty gun frigate, carrying It^ss w(3ight of metal than
one of our new gunboats, and able to employ even that
at not more than a quarter of our modern range. Would
our modern spectaton^, just come down by rail for a few
hours, to see the cavalry end)ark, a.id return to-morrow
in time for dinner, have looked down upon that petty
port, and petty fleet, with a contemptuous smile, and
begun some flippant speech about the progi'ess of intel-
lect, and the triumphs of science, and our benighted
ancestors { They would have done ho, doubt it not, if
they belonged to the many who gaze on those very
triumphs as on a raree-show to feed their silly w^onder,
or use and enjoy them withcmt thankfulness or under-
7

,.!i!

; 1

Fii-TH Reader.

.standing, as the ox eats the clover thrust into his rack,'
without knowing or caring how it grew. But If any of
them were of the class by whom those very triumphs
have been achieved ; the thinkers and the workers, who,
instead of entering lazily into other men's lalx)rs, as the
mob does, labor themselves ; who know by hard experi-
ence the struggles, the self-restraints, the disappoint-
ments, the slow and staggering steps, by which the
discoverer reaches to his prize ; then the smile of chose
men would not have been one of pity, but rather of filial
love. For they would have seen in those outwardly
paltry armaments the potential germ of that mightier
one which now loads the Black Sea waves ; they would
have been aware, that to produce it, with such materials
and knowledge as then existed, demanded an intellect, an
energy, a spirit of progress and invention, equal, if not
superior, to those of which we now so loudly boast.

But if, again, he had been a student of men rather
than of machinerv, he would have found few nobler
companies on whom to exercise his discernment, than he
might have seen in the little terrace bowling-green
behind the Pelican Inn, on the afternoon of the nine-
teenth of July. Chatting in groups, or lounging over
the low wall which commanded a view of the Sound and
the shipping far below, was gathered almost every
notable man of the Plymouth fleet, the whole posse
comitatus of "England's forgotten worthies." The
Armada has been scattered by a storm. Lord Howard
has been out to look for it, as far as the Spanish coast ;
but the wind has shifted to the south, and fearing lest
the Dons should pass him, he has returned to Plymouth,
uncertain whether the Armada will come after all or not.

The Captains at Plymouth.

Slip on for a while, like Prince Hal, the drawer's apron ;
come in through the rone-clad door which opens from
the tavern, with a tray of long-necked Dutch glasses,
and a silver tankard of wine, and lo(3k round you at
the gallant captains, who are waiting for the Spanish
Armada, as lions in their lair might wait for the passing
herd of deer.

See those five talking earnestly, in the centre of a
ring, which longs to overhear, and yet is too respectful
to approach close. Those soft long eyes and pointed
chin you recognize already ; they are Walter Raleigh's.
The fair young man in the flame-colored doublet, whose
arm is round Raleigh's neck, is Lord Sheffield ; opposite
them stands, by the side of Sir Richard Grenvile, a man
as stately even as he. Lord Sh ffield's uncle, the Lord
Charles Howard of Effingham, Lord High Admiral of
England ; next to him is his son-in-law, Sir Robert
Southwell, captain of the Elizaheth Jmias ; but who is
that short, sturdy, plainly-dressed man, who stands with
legs a little apart, and hands behind his back, looking up,
with keen grey eyes, into the face of each speaker ? His
cap is in iiis hands, so you can see the bullet head of
crisp brown hair and the wrinkled forehead, as well as
the high cheek bones, the short square face, the broad
temples, the thick lips, which are yet firm as granite.
A coarse plebeian stamp of man : yet the whole figure
and attitude are that of boundless determination, self-
possession, energy ; and when at last he speaks a few
blunt words, all eyes are turned respectfully upon him ;
— for his name is Francis Drake.

A burly, grizzled elder, in greasy, sea-stained garments,
contrasting oddly with the huge gold chain about his

Fii-TH Rkadkk.

neck, waddles up, as if ho had been born, and had livcul
ever.since, in a gale of wind at sea. The upper lialf of
his sharp dogt^ed visage seems of briek-red leather, the
lower of badger's fur ; and as he claps Drake on the l>ack,
and, with a broad Devon twang, shouts, " Be you a
coming to drink your wine, Francis Drake, or be you
not ? — solving your presence, my Lord ; " the Lord Higli
Admiral only laughs, and bids Drake go and drink his
wine ; for John Hawkins, Admiral of the port, is the
Patriarch of Plymouth seamen, if Drake be their hero,
and says and does pretty nuich what he likes in any
company on earth ; not to mention that to-day's prospect
of an Armageddon fight has shaken him altogether out
of his usual crabbed reserve, and made him overflow
with locjuacious good-humor, even to his rival Drake.

So they push through the crowd, wherein is many
another man whom one would gladly have spoken w ith
face to face on earth. Martin Frobisher and John Davis
are sitting on that bench, smoking tobacco from long
silver pipes ; and by them are Fenton and Withrington,
who have both tried to follow Drake's path round the
world, and failed, though by no fault of their own. The
man who pledges them better luck next time, is George
Fenner, known to " the seven Portuga,ls," Leicester's pet,
and captain of the galleon which Elizabeth bought of
him. That short prim man in the huge yellow ruff, with
sharp chin, minute imperial, and self-satisfied smile, is
Richard Hawkins, the Complete Seaman, Admiral John's
hereafter famous and hapless son. The elder who is
talking with him is his good uncle William, whose
monument still stands, or should stand, in Deptford
Church.

To THE Dandelion.

There is John Drake, Sir Francis' brother, ancestor of
tlie present stock of Drakes ; and there is George, his
nephew, a man not overwise, who lias been round the
world with Amyas ; and there is Amyas himself, talking
to one who answers him with fierce cui*t sentences.
Captain Barker, of Bristol, brother of the hapless Andrew
Barker who found John Oxenham's guns, and, owing to
a mutiny among his men, perished by the Spaniards in
Honduras, twelve years ago. Barker is no v. captain of
the Victory, one of the Queen's best ships ; and he has
his accounts to settle with the Dons, as Amyas has ; so
they are both growling together in a corner, while all
the rest are as merry as the flies upon the vine above
their heads.

— " Westward Ho ! " Charles Kiiigsley (by permission of the Publishers).

TO THE DANDELION.

Dear common flower, that grow'st beside the way,
Fringing the dusty road with harmless gold,

First pledge of blithesome May,
Which children pluck, and, full of pride, uphold.

High-hearted buccaneers, o'erjoyed that they
An Eldorado in the grass have found.

Which not the rich earth's ample round
May match in wealth — thou art more dear to me
Than all the prouder summer-blooms may l)e.

Gold such as thine ne'er drew the Spanish prow
Through the primeval hush of Indian seas, ,

Nor wrinkled the lean brow
Of age, to rob the lover's heart of ease ;

'Tis the spring's largess, which she scatters now

Fifth Header.

To rich and poor alike, witli lavish hand,

Though most hoarts never understand
To take it at GckI'h value, but pass by
The offered wealth with unrewarded eye.

Thou art my tropics and mine Italy ;
To look at thee unlocks a warmer clime ;

The eyes thou givest me
Are in the hea,rt, and heed not space or time :

Not in mid June the golden-cuirasst^d l)ee
Feels a more summer-like warm ravishment
In the white Hly's breezy tent.
His fragrant Sybaris, than I, when first
From the dark green thy yellow circles burst.

Tlien think I of deep shadows on the grass —
Of meadows where in sun the cattle graze,

Where, as the breezes pass.
The gleaming rushes lean a thousand ways —

Of leaves that slumber in a cloudy mass,
Or whiten in the wind — of waters blue

That from the distance sparkle through
Some woodland gap — and of a sky above,
Where one white cloud like a stray lamb doth move.

My childhood's earliest thoughts are linked with thee ;
The sight of thee calls back the robin's song.

Who, from the dark old tree
Beside the door, sang clearly all day long

And I, secure in childish piety,
Listened as if I heard an angel sing

With news from heaven, which he could bring
Fresh every day to my untainted ears,
When birds and flowers and I were happy peei's.

The Voyage.

How like a prodigal doth Nature seem,
When thou, for all thy grtld, so common art !

Thou teachest me to deem
More sacredly of every human heart,

Since each reflects in joy its scanty gleam
Of heaven, and could some wondrous secret show,
Did we but pay the love we owe,
And with a child's undoubting wisdom Ux)k
On all these living pages of God's lMK)k.

— JameH Huaaell Lmcell.

THE VOYAGE.

To an Ameiican visiting Europe, the long voyage he
has to make is an excellent preparative. The temporary
absence of worldly scenes and employments produces a
state of mind peculiarly fitted to receive new and vivid
impressions. The vast space of waters that separates
the hemispheres is like a blank page in existence. There
is no gradual transition by which, as in Europe, the
features and population of one country blend almost
imperceptibly with those of another. From the moment
you lose sight of the land you have left all is vacancy,
until you step on the opposite shore, and are launched at
once into the bustle and novelties of another world.

In travelling by land there is a continuity of scene,
and a connected succession of persons and incidents, that
carry on the story of life, and lessen the effect of absence
and separation. We drag, it is true, "a lengthening
chain " at each remove of our pilgrimage : but the chain
is unbroken ; we can trace it back link by link ; and we

Firrn Kkadeh.

i'eul tluit the lant of tlu'iii still t^rapplcH uh to home. But
a \\h\v sea voyage severs lis at once. It niaki'S us coii-
seious of })ein<; cast loose from the secure anchora*^e of
settled life, ami sr-nt adrift upon a doubtful world. It
interposes a gulf, not merely imaginary, but real, be-
tween us and our lujines — a gulf, subject to tempest,
and fear, and uncertainty, that makes distance palpable,
and return precarious.

Such, at least, was the case with myself. As I saw
the last blue line of my native land fade away like a
cloud in the horizon, it seemed as if I had closed one
volume of the world and its concerns, and had time for
meditation, before I opened another. That land, too,
now vanishing from my view, which contained all that
was most dear to me in life ; what vicissitudes might
occur in it — what changes might take place in me, bef(jre
I should visit it again ! Who can tell, when he sets
forth to wander, whither he may be driven by the uncer-
tain currents of existence ; or when he may return ; or
whether it may be ever his lot to re-visit the scenes of his
childhood ^

I said, that at sea all is vacancy ; I should correct the
expression. To one given to day dreaming, and fond of
losing himself in reveries, a sea voyage is full of subjects
for meditation ; but then they are the wonders of the
deep and of the air, and rather tend to abstract the
mind from worldly themes. I delighted to loll over the
({uarter-railing or climb to the main-top, of a calm day,
and muse for hours together on the traiKjuil bosom of a
summer's sea ; — to gaze upon the piles of golden clouds
just peering above the horizon ; fancy them some fairy
realms, and people them with a creation of my own ; — to

Phk Voyaoe.

J»7

watcli the gentle undulatiii^ billowH, rollin<jj their silver
vdhimes, as if to die away on tho.st^ liappy shores.

There was a delicioilH sciiHatioii of mingled security
and awe with wliich I looked down fnjni my f^iddy
lieight on tlie monsters of the deep at their nneoutli
t^ambols: shoals of porpoises tund>ling al>out the 1k)W of
the ship* the grampus, slowly heaving his hu<;e form
above the surface ; or the ravenous shark, dartin*;, like a
spectre, through the blue waters. My imagination v/ouid
conjure up all that I had heard or read of the watery
world beneath me ; of the finny herds that roam its
fathondess valleys ; of the shapeless monsters that lurk
among the very foundations of the earth, and of those
wild phantasms that swell the tales of fishermen and
sailors.

Somet^'^es a distant sail, gliding along the edge of the
ocean, would be another theme of idle speculation. How
interesting this fragment of a world, hastening to rejoin
tlie great mass of existeiice. What a glorious monument
of human invention, tliat has thus triumphed over wind
and wave ; has brought the ends of the worhl into com-
munion ; has established an interchange of blessings,
pouring into the sterile regions of the north all the
luxuries of the south ; has diffused the light of know-
ledge and the charities of cultivated life ; and has thus
bound together those scattered portions of the human
race between which nature seemed to have thrown an
insurmountable barrier.

We one day descried some shapeless object drifting at
a distance. At sea, everything that breaks the monotony
of the surrounding expanse attracts attention. It proved
to be the mast of a ship that must have been completely

Fifth Reader.

wrecked ; for there were the remains of handkerchiefs
by which some of the crew had fastened themselves to
thia spar, to prev(3nt their being waslied off by the waves.
Inere was no trace by v/hich the name of the ship could
be ascertained. The wreck had evidently drifted about
for many months; clusters of shell-fish had fastened
about it, and long sea-weeds flaunted at its sid6s. Bui
where, thought I, is the crew ? Their struggle has long
been over — they have gone down amidst the roar of the
tempest — tlieir bones lay whitening among the caverns
of the deep. Silence, oblivion, like the waves, have
closed over them, and no one can tell the story of their
end. What sighs have been wafted after that ship!
what prayers offered up at the deserted fireside of home !
How often has the mistress, the wife, the mother, pored
over the daily news, to catch some casual intelligence of
this rover of the deep ! How has expectation darkened
into anxiety — anxiety into dread — and dread into
despair ! Alas ! not one memento sLall ever return for
love to cherish. All that shall ever be known is thai
she sailed from her port, "and was never heard of
more !"

The sight of this wreck, as usual, gave rise to many
dismal anecdotes. This was particularly the case in the
evening, when the weather, which had hitherto been fair,
began to look wild and threatening, and gave indications
of one of those sudden storms that will sometimes break
in upon the serenity of a summer voyage. As we sat
round the dull light of a lamp in the cabin that made
the gloom more ghastly, every one had his tale of ship-
wreck and disaster. I was particularly struck with a
short one related by the cajjtaiu :

ni*j

dis

foi-

ac*(

The Voyage.

" As I was once sailing," said lie, " in a fine stout ship
across the banks of Newfoundland, one of those heavy
fogs that prevail in those parts rendered it impossible
for us to see far ahead, even in the day-time ; but at
night the weather was so thick that we could not
distinguish any object at twice the length of the ship.
I kept lights at the mast-head, and a constant watch
forward to look out for fi.ihing smacks, wliich are
accustomed to lie at anchor on the banks. The wind
was blowing a smacking breeze, and we were going at a
great rate through the water. Suddenly the watch gave
the alarm of * a sail ahead ! ' — it was scarcely uttered
before we were upon her. She was a small schooner, at
iinchor, with a broadside toward us. The crew were all
asleep, and had neglected to hoist a light. We struck
her just amidships. The force, the size, the weight of
our vessel, bore her down below the waves ; we passed
over her and were hurried on our course. As tiie crash-
ing wreck was sinking beneath us, I had a glimpse of
two or three half-naked wretches, rushing from her
cabin ; thoy just started from their beds to be swallowed
shrieking by the waves. I heard their drowning cry
mingling with the wind. The blast that bore it to our
ears swept us out of all farther hearing. I shall never
forget that cry I It was some time before we could put
the ship about, she was under such headway. We
returned as nearly as we could guess to the place where
the smack had anchored. We cruised about for several
hours in tlie dense fog. We fired signal-guns, and
listened if we might hear the halloo of any survivors;
but all was silent — we never saw or heard anything
of them more."

':li

! I

100

FiFHi Reader.

I confess these stories for a time put an end to all my
fine faijcies. The storm increased with the night. The
sea was lashed into tremendous confusion. There was a
fearful, sullen sound of rushing waves and broken surges.
Deep called unto deep. At times the black volume of
clouds overhead seemed rent asunder by flashes of light-
ning that quivered along the foaming billows, and made
the succeeding darkness doubly terrible. The thunders
bellowed over the wild waste of waters, and were echoed
and prolonged by the mountain waves. As I saw the
ship c^taggering and plunging among these roaring
caverns, it seemed miraculous that she regained her
balance, or preserved her buoyancy. Her yards would
dip into the water ; her bow was almost buried beneath
the waves. Sometimes an impending surge appeared
ready to overwhelm her, and nothing but a dexterous
movement of the helm preserved her from the shock.

When I retired jO my cabin, the awful scene still
followed me. The whistling of the wind through the
rigging sounded like funereal wailing^. The creaking of
the masts, the straining and groaning of bulkheads, as
the ship labored in the weltering sea, were frightful.
As I heard the waves rushing along the side of the ship,
and roaring in my very ear, it seemed as if Death were
raging round this floating prison, seeking for his prey :
the mere starting of a nail, the yawning of a seam,
might give him entrance.

A fine day, however, with a tranquil sea and favoring
breeze, soon put all these dismal reflections to flight. It
is impossible to resist the gladdening influence of fine
w^eather and fair wind at sea. When the ship is decked
out in all her canvas, every sail swelled, and careering

inij

fori

tinl

The Voyage.

101

^^ayly over tlie cinliiig waves, liow lofty, how gallant,
she appears — how she seeins to lord it over the deep ! 1
might fill a volume with tlie reveries of a sea voyage ;
for with me it is almost a continual reverie — but it is
time to get to shore. ^ - ' •

It was a fine sunny morning when the thrilling cry
of "land!" was given from the mast-head. None but
those who have experienced it can form an idea of
the delicious throng of sensations which rmm into an
American's bosom when he first comes in sight of Emope.
There is a volume of associations with the very name.
It is the land of promise, teeming of everything of wliich
his childhood has heard, or on which his studious years
have pondered.

From that time until the moment of arrival it was all
feverish excitement. The ships of war that prowled
like guardian giants along the coast ; the headlands of
Ireland, stretching out into the channel ; the Welsh
mountains, towering into the clouds ; all were objects
of intense interest. As we sailed up the Mersey I re-
connoitred the shores with a telescope. My eye dwelt
with delight on neat cottages, with their trim shrub-
beries and green grass plots. I saw the mouldering
ruins of an abbey overrun with ivy, and the taper spire
of a village church rising from the brow of a neighbor-
ing hill — all were characteristic of England.

The tide and wind w ere so favorable that the ship was
enabled to come at once to the pier. Tt was thronged
with people; some idle lookers-on, others eager expect-
ants of friends or relatives. I could distinguish the
merchant to whom the ship was consigned. I knew him
by his calculating brow and restless air. His hands

102

Fifth Reader.

<*?.:

were thrust into hi.s pockets ; he was whistling thouglit-
fully, and walking to and fro, a small space having been
accorded him by the crowd, in deference to his temporary
importance. Tliere were repeated cheerings and saluta-
tions interchanged between tlie shore and the ship, as
friends happened to recognize each other. I particularly
noticed one young woman of humble dress, but interest-
ing demeanor. She was leaning forward from among
the crowd ; her eye hurried over the ship as it neared
the sliore, to catch some wished-for coinitenance. She
seemed disappointed and agitated ; when I heard a faint
voice call her name. — It was from a poor sailor who had
been ill all the voyage, and had excited the sympathy of
every one on board. When the weather was fine, his
messmates had spread a mattress ior him on deck in the
shade, but of late his illness had so increased that he had
taken to his hammock, and oidy breathed a wish that he
nught see his wife before he died. He had been helped
on deck as we came up the river, and was now leaning
against tlie shrouds, with a countenance so wasted, so
pale, so ghastly, that it was no wonder even the eye of
affection did not recognize him. But at the sound of his
voice, her eyes darted on his features ; it read at once a
whole volume of sorrow ; she clasped her hands, uttered
a faint shriek, and stood wringing them in silent agony.

All now was hurry and bustle. The meetings of
acquaintances — the greetings of friends — the consulta-
tions of men of business. I alone was solitary and idle.
I had no friend to meet, no cheering to receive. I
stepped upon the land of my forefathers — but felt that
I was a stranger in the land.

m-Washinffton Irving,

The Watek-Fowl.

103

THE WATER-FOWL.

Whither, midst falling dew,
While glow the heavens with the last steps of day,
Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue

Thy solitary way?

Yainly the fowler's eye
Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong,
As, darkly painted on the crimson sky, ,

Thy figure floats along. ^ , ; .

There is a Power whose care
Teaches thy way along that pathless coast, —
The desert and illimitable air, —

Lone wandering, but not lost.

All day thy wings have fanned,
At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere ;
Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land.

Though the dark night is near. '

And soon that toil shall end ;
Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest.
And scream among thy fellows ; reeds shall hend

Soon o'er thy sheltered nest.

Thou'rt gone ; the abyss of heaven
Hath swallowed up thy form ; yet on my heart , ; .
Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given,

And shall not soon depart.

He, who from zone to zone,
Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,
In the long way that I must tread alofie,

Will lead my steps aright.

— Williain CuUen Bryant.

104

Fifth Reader.

CROMWELL'S EXPULSION OF THE LONG

PARLIAMENT.

At this eventful moment, big with the most important
consequences both to liiiuHelf and his country, whatever
were the workings of Cromwell's mind, he had the art to
conceal them from the eyes of the beholders. Leaving
the military in the lobby, he entered the Parliament
House, and composedly seated himself on one of the
outer benches. His dress was a plain suit of black cloth,
with gray worsted stockings. For a wliile he seemed to
listen with interest to the debate ; but when the Speaker
was going to put the question, he whispered to Harrison,
" This is the time ; I must do it " ; and, rising, put off his
hat to address the House.

At first his language was decorous, and even laudatory.
Gradually he became more warm and animated. At last
he assumed all the vehemence of passion, and indulged
in personal vituperation. He charged the members with
self-seeking and profaneness, with the frequent denial of
justice, and numerous acts of oppression; with idolizing
the lawyers, the constant advocates of tyranny; with
neglecting the men who had bled for them in the field,
that they miglit gain the Presbyterians, who had aposta-
tized from the cause ; and with doing all this in order to
perpetuate their own power, and to replenish their own
purses. But their time was come ; the Lord had dis-
owned them ; He had chosen more worthy instruments
to perform His work.

Here the orator was interrupted by Sir Peter Went-
worth, who declared that he had never heard language

lia

EXPUI^SION OF THE J^ONG PaKLIAMKNT.

105

HO nn parliamentary — language, too, the more offensive,
because it was addressed to them by their own servant,
whom tliey had made what he was. At tliese words,
Cromwell put on his hat, and, sprin<^ing from his place,
exclaimed, " Come, come, sir, I will put an end to your
prating!" For a few seconds, apparently in the most
violent agitation, he paced forward and backward, and
then, stamping on the floor, added, "you are no par-
liament ! I say you are no parliament ! Bring them
in, bring them in ! " Instantly the door opened ; and
Colonel Worsley entered, followed by more than twenty
musketeers. '

"This," cried Sir Henry Vane, "is not honest; it is
against morality and common honesty." "Sir Henry
Vane ! " replied Cromwell : " O, Sir Henry Vane ! The
Lord deliver me ^*om Sir Heiuy Vane ! He might have
prevented this. But he is a juggler and has not connnon
honesty himself ! " From Vane he directed his discourse
to Whitelock, on whom he po\n*ed a torrent of abuse;
then pointing to Chaloner, "There," he cried, "sits a
drunkard " ; and afterwards selecting different members
in succession, he described them as dishonest and corrupt
livers, a shame and scandal to the profession of the
gospel. Suddenly, however, checking himself, he turned
to the guard, and ordered them to clear the house. At
these words. Colonel Harrison took the Speaker by the
hand, and led him from the chair ; Algernon Sydney Was
next compelled to quit his seat ; and the other memberi^,
eighty in number, on the approach of the military, rose
and moved towards the door. - t

Cromwell now resumed liis discourse. " It is you," he
exclaimed, " that have forced me to do this. I have
8

I 1

106

Fifth Reader.

-W

iT'

•1 '

sought tho Lord both day and night, that He wouM
ratlicr slay nie than put nie on the doing of this work."
Alderman Allan took advantage of these words to
observe that it was not yet too late to undo what had
been done ; but Cromwell instantly charged him with
peculation, and gave him into custody. When all were
gone, fixing his eye on the mace, "What," said he, "shall
we do with this fool's bauble ? Here, carry it away."
Then, taking the act of dissolution from the clerk, he
ordered the doors to be locked, and, accompanied by the
military, returned to Whitehall.

That afternoon the members of the Council assembled
in their usual place of meeting. Bradshaw had just
taken the chair, when the Lord-General entered, and
told them that if they were there as private individuals,
they were welcome ; but if as the council of state, they
must know that the parliament was dissolved, and with
it also the council. "Sir," replied Bradshaw, with the
spirit of an ancient Roman, " we have heard what you
did at the house this morning, and before many hours all
England will know it. But, sir, you are mistaken to
think that the parliament is dissolved. No power under
heaven can dissolve them but themselves ; therefore, take
you notice of that."

After this protest they withdrew. Thus, by the
parricidal hands of its own children, perished the Long
Parliament, which, under a variety of forms, had, for
more than twelve years, defended and invaded the
liberties of the nation. It fell without a struggle or a
groan, unpitied and unregretted. The members slunk
away to their homes, where they sought by submission
to purchase the forbearance of their new master; and

The 1*rairies.

107

tlieir partiHans — if partisaiiH they h>u\ — resorvorl thein-
sclves in Hilonce fur a day of retribution, whicli caine not
before Cromwell slept in bis grave.

—John Lingard.

THE PRAIRIES.

' a

These are the gardens of the desert, these

The unshorn fields, boundless and l)eautiful,

For which the speech of England has no name ;

The Prairies. I l)ehold thera for the first.

And my heart swells, while the dilated sight

Takes in the encircling vastness. Lo ! they stretch

In airy undulations, far away,

As if the ocean, in his gentlest swell,

Stood still, with all his rounded billows fixed

And motionless for ever. Motionless!

No, they are all unchained again. The clouds

Sweep over with their shadows, and, l)eneath,

The surface rolls and fluctuates to the eye ;

Dark hollows seem to glide along, and chase

The sunny ridges.

Breezes of the South !
Who toss the golden and the flame-like flowers, ..
And pass the prairie-hawk, that, poised on liigh,
Flaps his broad wings, yet moves not ! ye have played
Among the palms of Mexico, and vines
Of Texas, and have crisped the limped brooks
That from the fountains of Sonora glide ,

Into the calm Pacific, have ye fanned i _ - . f

A nobler or a lovelier scene than this ?
Man hath no part in all this glorious work :
The hand that built the firmament hath heaved

(08

Fii'TH Kladkk.

l! V

I! '

And Kmoothfxl thoso vcM'dant .swells, and sown their slopes

With hciha^c^ plunted them with island proves,

And hedged them round with forests. Fitting floor

For this magnificent temjjle of the sky,

With flowers wliose glory and whose multitude

Rival the constellations ! The great heavens

Seem to stoop down upon tlie scene in love ;

A nearer vault, and of a tenderer ])lue,

Than that whicli bends alxjvc^ th(^ eastern hills.

As o'er the verdant waste I guide my nteeA,
Among the high, rank grass that sweeps his sides,
The hollow l)eating of his footsteps seems
A sacrilegious sound. I think of those
Upon whose rest he tramples. Are they here,
The dead of other days ? And did the dust
Of these fair solitudes once stir with life,
And burn with passion ? Let the mighty mounds
That overlook the rivers, or that rise
In the dim forest, crowded with old oaks.
Answer.

A race that long has passed away
Built them ; a disciplined and populous race
Heaped, with long toil, the earth, while yet the Greek
Was hewing the Pentelicus to forms
Of symmetry, and rearing on its rock ^
The glittering Parthenon. These ample fields
Nourished their harvests, here their herds were fed, ^
When haply by their stalls the bison lowed, ' : '
And lx)wed his maned shoulder to the yoke. " *

All day this desert murmured with their toils,
Till twilight blushed, and lovers walked and wooed
In a forgotten language, and old tunes.
From instruments of unremembered form,
Gave the soft winds a voice.

The Prairies.

109

Tlie rod man came,
The roamiiifif liunt^r tribes, warlike and fierce.
And tlie mound builders vanished from the earth.
The solitude of centuries untold
Has settled where they dwelt. The prairie-wolf
Hunts in their mea/lows, and his fresh-du«^ den
Yawns by my path. The gopher mines the ground
Where stood their swarming cities. All is goiu» ;
All, — save the piles of earth that hold their Inmes ;
The platforms where they worshipped unknown go<ls
The barriers which they ])uilded from the soil
To keep the f<K3 at bay, till o'er the walls
'i'he wild Ixileaguerers broke, and, one by one
The stnmgholds of the plain were forced, and heaped
With corpses. ..

The brown vultures of the wood
Flocked to these vast uncovered sepulchres,
And sat, unscared and silent, at their feast. -^
Haply, some solitary fugitive.
Lurking in marsh and forest, till tlu^ sense
Of desolation and of fear l)ecame
Bitterer than death, yielded himself to die. , ,

Man's better nature triumphed. Kindly words
Welcomed and s(wthed him ; rude c<m<juerors
Seated the capt;ve with their chiefs ; he chose
A bride among their maidens, and, at length, . ;
Seemed to forget — yet ne'er forgot — the wife
Of his first love, and her sweet little ones ...

Butchered, amid their shrieks, with all his race. ,•

Thus change the forms of being. Thus arise
Races of living things, glorious in strength.
And perish, as the quickening breath of God
Fills them, or is withdrawn. The red man, too.
Has left the blooming wilds he ranged so long.

.;-?^-:«-v-

Finn Header.

#i:l5

And, noaror to tho Rocky MountairiH, soujirlit
A wider huntinj(-|;r and. 'I'ho l)eavt»r huilds
No longer by these Ht reams, l)ut far away,
On waters whose })lu(5 surface ne'er gavo l)a('k
The white man's face; among Missouri's s])rings,
And p(M)ls whose issues swell the Oregon,
He rears his little Venice. In these plains
The hison foods no more. Twice twenty leagues
Beyond remotest smoke of hunter's camp,
lioams the majestic brute, in herds that shake
The earth with thundering steps ; yet here I meet
His ancient footprints stamped l)eside the jmk)1.

Still this great solitude is quick with life.
Myriads of insects, gaudy as the Howors
They flutter over, gentle (juadrupeds.
And birds that scarce have learned the fear of man,
Are here, and sliding reptiles of the ground,
Startlingly })eautiful. The gracef'.il deer
Bounds to the w(kkI at my approach. The bee,
A more adventurous colonist than man,
With whom he came across the eastern deep.
Fills the savannas with his murmurings,
And hides his sweets, as in the golden age.
Within the hollow oak. I listen long
To his domestic hum, and think I hear
The sound of that advancing multitude
Which soon shall fill the deserts. From the ground
Comes up the laugh of children, the soft voice
Of maidens, and the sweet and solemn hymn
Of Sabbath worshippers. The low of herds , , ,; a r;
Blends with the rustling of the heavy grain .; ;^^ , ^

Over the dark-brown furrows. All at once ,->, f t v^^

A fresher wind sweeps by, and breaks my dream.
And I am in the wilderness alone. - wniiavi Cuiien Bryant.

Rip Van Winkle.

Ill

RI^ VAN WINKLE.

Whoever lias uuule a voya^'c up the Hudson, must
remember the Kaatskill Mountains. Tliey are a dis-
membered branch of the great Appahichian family, and
are seen away to the west of the river, swelling up to a
noble height, and lording it over the surrounding country.
Every change of season, every change of weatlier, indeed
every hour of the day, produces some change in the
magical hues and shapes of these mountains ; and they
are regarded by all the good wives, far and near, as
perfect barometers. When tlie weather is fair and
settled, they are clothed in blue and purple, and print
their bold outlines on the clear evening sky ; but some-
times, when the rest of the landscape is cloudless, they
will gather a hood of gray vapors about their sunnnits,
which, in the last rays of the setting sun, will glow and
light up like a crown of glory.

At the foot of these fairy mountains, the voyager may
have descried the light smoke curling up from a village,
whose shingle-roofs gleam among the trees, just where
the blue tints of the upland melt away into the fresh
green of the nearer landscape. It is a little village, of
gi'eat antiquity, having been founded by some of the
Dutch colonists, in the early times of the province, just
about the beginning of the government of the good Peter
Stuyvesant (may ho rest in peace !), and there were some
of the houses of the original settlers standing within a
few years, built of small yellow bricks brought from
Holland, having latticed windows and gable fronts,
surmounted with weather-cocks.

112

Fifth Reader.!

In that same villatre, and in one of these very houses
(which, to tell the precise truth, was sadly tinie-worn
and wcc'ither-beaten), there lived many years .'=iince, while
the country was yet a province of Great Britain, a
simple, good-i.atured fellow, of the name of Rip Van
Winkle. He was a descendant of the Van Winkles who
figured HO gallantly in the chivalrous days of Peter
Stuyvesant, and accompanied him to the siege of Fort
Christina. He inherited, however, but little of the
martial character of his anc<*stors.

I hitve observed that he was a simple, good-natured
man ; he was, moreover, a kind neighbor, and an obedient
hen-pecked liusband. Indeed, to the latter circumstance
might be owing that meekness of spirit which gained
him such universal popularity; for those men are most
apt to be obseiiuious and conciliating abroad, who are
under the discipline of shrews at liome. Their tempers,
doubtless, are rendered pliant and malleable in the fiery
furnace of domestic tribulation, and a curtain lecture is
worth all the sermons in tlie world for teachincr the
virtues of patience and long-suffering. A termagant
wife may, therefore, in some respects, be considered a
tolerable blessing ; and if so. Rip Van Winkle was thrice
blessed.

Certain it is, that he was a great favorite among all
the good wives of the village, who, as usual with the
amiable sex, took his part in all family squabbles; and
never failed, whenever they talked those matters over in
tlieir evening gossipings, to lay all tlie blame on Dame
V>in Winkle, The children" of the village, too, would
shmit with joy whenever he approached. He assisted at
their sports, made their playthings, taught them to fly

Bip Xak Winkle.

kites and shoot marbles, and told them lon^ stories of
ghosts, witches, and Indians. Wlienever he went dodging
about the village, he was surrounded by a troop of them
hanging on his skirts, clambering on his back, and play-
ing a thousand tricks on him with impunity ; and not a
dog would bark at him through.out the neighborhood.

The great error in Rip's composition v as an insuper-
able aversion to all kinds of profitable labor. It could
not. be from the want of assiduity or perseverance; for
he would sit on a wet rock, with a rod as long and heavy
as a Tartar's lance, and fish all day without a murnmr,
even though he should not be encouraged by a single
nibble. He would carry a fowling-piece on his shoulder
for hours together, trudging through woods and swamps,
and up hill and down dale, to shoot a few S({uirrels or
wild pigeons. He would never refuse to assist a neighbor,
even in the roughest toil, and was a foremost man at all
country frolics for husking Indian corn or building stone
fences. The women o^ the village, too, used to employ
him to run their errands, and to do such little odd jobs
as their less obliging husbands would not do for them.
In a word, Rip was ready to attend to anylx)dy's business
but his own ; but as to doing family duty, and keeping
his farm in order, he found it impossible.

In fact, he declared it was of no use to work on his
farm ; it was the most pestilent little piece of ground in
the whole country ; everything about it went wrong,
and would go wrong, in spite of him. His fences were
continually falling to pieces ; his cow would either go
astray, or get among the cabbages; weeds were sure to
grow quicker in his fields than anywhere else ; the rain
always made a point of setting in just as he had some

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114

Fifth Reader.

out-door wcrl: to do; so that though his patrimonial
estate had d^vindled away under his management, acre
by acre, until there was little more left than a mere
patch of Indian corn and potatoes, yet it was the worst
conditioned farm in the neiijhborhood.

His children, too, were as ragged and wild as i£ they
belonged to nobody. His sor^ Rip, an urchin begotten in
liis own likeness, promised to inherit the habits, with the
old clothes of his father. He was generalljT- seen tropp-
ing like a colt at his mother's heels, equipped in a pair
of his father's cast-oii galligaskins which he had much
ado to hold up with one hand, as l> line lady does her
train in bad weather.

Rip Van Winkle, however, was one of those happy
mortals, of foolish, well-oiled dispositions, who take the
world easy, eat white bread or brown, whichever can be
got with least thought or trouble, and would rather
starve on a penny than work for a pound. If left to
himself, he would have whistled life away in perfect
contentment ; but his wife kept continually dinning in
his ears about his idleness, his carelessness, and the ruin
he wac bringing on his family. Morning, noon, and
night, her tongue was incessantly going, and everything
he said or did was sure to produce a torrent of household
eloquence. Rip had but one way of replying to all
lectures of the kind, and that, by frequent use, had
grown into a habit. He shnigged his shoulders, shor,k
his head, cast up his eyes, but said nothing. This, how-
ever, always provoked a fresh volley from his wife ; so
that ho was fain to draw off his forces, and take to the
outside *of the house — the only side which, in truth,
belongs to a hen-pecked husband.

Kip Van Winkle.

115

Rip's sole domestic adherent was his doer Wolf, who
was as much lien-pecked as his master; for Dame Van
Winkle regarded them as companions in idleness, and
even looked upon Wolf with an evil eye, as the cause of
his master's going so often astray. True it is, in all
points of spirit befitting an honorable dog, he was as
courageous an animal as ever scoured the woods — but
what courage can withstand the ever-during and all-
besetting terrors of a woman's tongue ? The moment
Wolf entered the house, his crest fell, his tail drooped to
the ground or curled between his legs, he sneaked about
with a gallows air, casting many a sidelong glance at
Dame Van Winkle, and at the least flourish of a broom-
stick or ladle, he would fly to the do'or with yelping
precipitation. . ,,. >^-.-,:-..-.,. ..•..,, .......v. ,,,.,.. .; .-■-:-,■•.;-.„., ,, ■ -,

Times grew worse and worse with Rip Van Winkle,
as years of matrimony rolled on ; a tart temper never
mellows with age, and a sharp tongue is the only edge
tool that grows keener with constant use. For a long
while he used to console himself, when driven from
home, by frequenting a kind of perpetual club of the
sages, philosophers, and other idle personages of the
village ; which held its sessions on a bench before a
small inn, designated by a rubicund portrait of His
Majesty George the Third. Here they usjd to sit in the
shade of a long lazy summer's day, talking listlessly
over village gossip, or telling endless sleepy stories about
nothing. But it would have been worth any statesman's
money to have heard tlie profound discussions that some-
times took place, when by chance an old newspaper fell
into their hands from some passing traveller. How
solemnly they would listen to the contents, as drawled

1^!

116

FiPTH Reader.

out by Derrick Van Buinmel, the schoolmaster, a dapper
learned little man, who was not to be daunted by the
most gigantic word in the dictionary ; a>id liow sagely
tluy would deli))erate upon public events some months
after they had taken place.

The opinions of this junto were completely controlled
by Nicholas Vedder, a patriarch of the village, and land-
lord of the inn, at the door of which he took his seat
from morning till night, just moving sufficiently to avoid
the sun and keep in the shade of a large tree ; so that
the neighlxjrs could tell the hour by his movements as
accurately as by a sun-dial. It is true he was rarely
heard to speak, but smoked his pipe incessantly. His
adherents, however (for every great man has his adher-
ents), perfectly understood him, and knew how to gather
his opinions. When anything that was read or related
displeased him, he was observed to smoke his pipe
vehemently, and to send forth short, frequent, and
angry puffs; but when pleased, he would inhale the
smoke slowly and tranquilly, and emit it in light and
placid clouds; and sometimes, taking the pipe from his
mouth, and letting the fragrant vapor curl about his
nose, would gravely nod his head in token of perfect
approbation.

From even this stronghold the unlucky Rip was
at length routed by his termagant wife, who would
suddenly break in upon the tranquillity of the assem-
blage, and call the members all to nought ; nor was that
august personage, Nicholas Vedder himself, sacred from
the daring tongue of this terrible virago, who charged
him outright with encouraging her husband in habits of
idleness.

Rip Van Winkle.

117

Poor Rip was at last reduced almost to despair ; and
his only alternative, to escape from the labor of the farm
and the clamor of his wife, was to take gun in hand and
stroll away into the woods. Here he would sometimes
seat himself at the foot of a tree, and share the contents
of his wallet with Wolf, with whom he sympathized as a
fellow-sufferer in persecution. " Poor Wolf," he would
say, " thy mistress leads thee a dog's life of it ; but never
mind, my lad, whilst I live thou shalt never want a
friend to stand by thee!" Wolf would wag his tail,
look wistfully in his master's face, and if dogs can feel
pity, I verily believe he reciprocated the sentiment with
all his heart.

In a long ramble of the kind, on a fine autumnal day,
Rip had unconsciously scrambled to one of the highest
parts of the Kaatskill Moum tains. He was after his
favorite sport of squirrel shooting, and the still solitudes
had echoed and re-echoed with the reports of his gun.
Panting and fatigued, he threw himself, late in the
afternoon, on a green knoll, covered with mountain
herbage, that crowned the brow of a precipice. From
an opening between the trees, he could overlook all the
lower country for many a mile of rich woodland. He
saw at a distance the lordly Hudson, far, far below him,
moving on its silent but majestic course, with the
reflection of a purple cloud, or the sail of a lagging
barque, here and there sleeping on its glassy bosom, and
at last losing itself in the blue highlands.

On the other side he looked down into a deep moun-
tain glen, wild, lonely, and shagged, the bottom filled
with fragments from the impending cliffs, and scarcely
lighted by the reflected rays of the setting sun. For

iiifi

U \ I

118

FitTH Reader.

somo time Rip lay musing on this scene ; evening was
gradually advancing; the mountains began to throw
their long blue shadows over the valleys; he saw that
it would be dark long before he could reach the vil-
lage, and he heaved a heavy sigh when he thought of
encountering the terrors of Dame Van Winkle.

As he was about to descend, he heard a voice irom
a distance hallooing, " Rip Van Winkle ! Rip Van
Winkle ! " He looked round, but could see nothing but
a crow winging its s: litary flight across the mountain.
He thought his fancy must have deceived him, and
turned again to descend, when he heard the same cry
ring through the still evening air ; " Rip Van Winkle !
Rip Van Winkle ! " — at the same time Wolf bristled up
his back, and giving a low growl, skulked to his master's
side, looking fearfully down into the glen. Rip now felt
a vague apprehension stealing over him ; he looked
anxiously in the same direction, and perceived a strange
figure slowly toiling up the rocks, and bending under the
weight of something he carried on his back. He was
surprised to see any human being in this lonely and
unfre(i[uented place, but supposing it to be some one of
the neighborhood in need of his assistance, he hastened
down to yield it.

On nearer approach, he was still more surprised at the
singularity of the stranger's appearance. He was a
short, square-built old fellow, with thick, bushy hair,
and a grizzled bea,rd. His dress was of the antique
Dutch fashion — a cloth jtrkin strapped round the waist
— several pair of breeches, the outer one of ample
volume, decorated with rows of buttons down the sides,
and bunches at the knees. He bore on his shoulder a

Rip Van Winkle.

110

stout keg, that seemed full of liquor, and made signs for
Rip to approach and assist him with the load. Though
rather shy and distrustful of this new acquaintance, Rip
complied with his usual alacrity ; and mutually relieving
each other, they clambered up a narrow gully, appar-
ently the dry bed of a mountain torrent. As they
ascended, Rip every now and then heard long rolling
peals, like distant thunder, that seemed to issue out of a
deep ravine, or rather cleft, between lofty rocks, toward
which their rugged path conducted. He paused for an
instant, but supposing it to be the muttering of one of
those transient thunder- showers which often take place
in mountain heights, he proceeded. Passing through the
ravine, they came to a hollow, like a small amphitheatre,
surrounded by perpendicular precipices, over the brinks
of which impending trees shot their branches, so that
you only caught glimpses of the azure sky and the
bright evening cloud. During the whole time. Rip and
his companion had labored on in silence ; for though the
former marvelled greatly what could be the object of
carrying a keg of liquor up this wild mountain, yet
there was something strange and incomprehensible
about the unknown, that inspired awe, and checked
familiarity.

On entering the amphitheatre, new objects of wonder
presented themselves. On a level spot in the centre
was a company of odd-looking personages playing at .
nine-pins. They were dressed in a quaint outlandish
fashion ; some wore short doublets, others jerkins, with
long knives in their belts, and most of them had enor-
mous breeches, of similar style with that of the guide's.
Their visages, too, were peculiar : one had a large head,

120

Fifth Reader.

broafl faco, and Hrnall piggish eyes ; the face of another
.seemed to consiHt entii'ely of nose, and was snnnounted
by a white sugar-loaf hat, set off with a little red cock's
tail. They all had beards, of various shapes and colors.
There was one who seemed to be the commander. He
was a stout old gentleman, with a weather-beaten coun-
tenance ; he wore a lace doublet, broad belt and hanger,
high-crowned hat and feather, red stockings, and high-
heeled shoes, with roses in them. The whole group
reminded Rip of the figures in an old Flemish painting,
in the parlor of Dominie Van Schaick, the village parson,
and which had been brought over from Holland at the
time of the settlement.

What seemed particularly odd to Rip, was, that though
these folks were evidently amusing themselves, yet they
maintained the gravest faces, the most mysterious silence,
and were, withal, the most melancholy party of pleasure
he had ever witnessed. Nothing interrupted the still-
ness of the scene but the noise of the balls, which,
whenever they were rolled, echoed along the mountains
like rumbling peals of thunder.

As Rip and his companion approached them, they
suddenly desisted from their play, and stared at him
with such fixed statue-like gaze, and such strange, un-
couth, lack-lustre countenances, that his heart turned
within him, and his knees smote together. His com-
panion now emptied the contents of the keg into large
flagons, and made signs to him to wait upon the com-
pany. He obeyed with fear and trembling ; they quaffed
the liquor in profound silence, and then returned to their
^ame.

By degrees Rip's awe and apprehension subsided. He

Rip Van Winkle.

121

(!ven ventured, wlien no eye was fixed upon him, to taste
the beverage, which he foiuid liad niueli of the flavor of
excellent Holhmds. He was naturally a thirsty soul,
and was soon tempted to repeat the draught. One taste
provoked another; and he reiterated his visits to the
flagon so often, that at length his senses were over-
powered, his eyes swam in his head, his head gradually
declined, and he fell into a deep sleep.

On waking, he found himself on the green knoll
whence he had first seen the old man of the glen. He
rubbed h^'s eyes — it was a bright sunny morning. The
birds were hopping and twittering among the bushes,
and the eagle was wheeling aloft, and breasting the pure
mountain breeze. " Surely," thought Rip, " I have not
slept here all night." He recalled the occurrences l^efore
he fell asleep. The strange man with the keg of liquor
— the mountain ravine — the wild retreat among the
rocks — the woe-begone party at ]^ine-pins — the flagon —
" Oh ! that flagon ! that wicked flagon ! " tliought Rip —
'* what excuse shall I make to Dame Van Winkle ! "

He looked round for his gun, but in place of the clean,
well-oiled fowling-piece, he found an old firelock lying
by him, the barrel encrusted with rust, the lock falling
ofl*, and the stock worm-eaten. He now suspected that
the grave roysterers of the mountain had put a trick
upon him, and, having dosed him with licpior, had
robbed him of his gun. Wolf, too, had disappeared, but
he might have strayed away after a s(juirrel or partridge.
He whistled after him, and shouted his name, but all in
vain ; the echoes repeated his whistle and shout, but no
dog was to be seen.

He determined to revisit the scene of the last evening's
9

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122

Fifth Reader.

gambol, and if lie met with any of the party, to demand
liis dog and gun. As he rose to walk, he found himself
stiff in the joints, and wanting in his usual activity.
"These mountain beds do not agree with me," thought
Rip, " and if this frolic should lay me up with a fit of the
rheumatism, I shall have a blessed time with Dame Van
Winkle." With some difficulty he got down into the
glen : he found the gully up which he and his companion
had ascended the preceding evening ; but to his astonish-
ment a mountain stream was now foaming down it,
leaping from rock to rock, and filling the glen with bab-
bling murmurs. He, however, made shift to scramble
up its sides, working his toilsome way through thickets
of birch, sassafras, and witch-hazel, and sometimes
tripped up or entangled by the wild grape vines that
twisted their coils or tendrils from tree to tree, and
spread a kind of network in his path.

At length he reached to where the ravine had opened
through the cliffs to the amphitheatre ; but no traces of
such opening remained. The rocks presented a high im-
penetrable wall, over which the torrent came tumbling
in a sheet of feathery foam, and fell into a broad deep
basin, black from the shadows of the surrounding forest.
Here, then, poor Rip was brought to a stand. He again
called and whistled after his dog ; he was only answered
by the cawing of & flock of idle crows, sporting high in
air about a dry tree that overhung a sunny precipice ;
and who, secure in their elevation, seemed to look down
and scoff at the poor man's perplexities. What was to
be done ? The morning was passing away, and Rip felt
famished for want of his breakfast. He grieved to give
up his dog and gun ; he dreaded to meet hie wife ; but it

■4 .

Rip Van Winkle.

123

would not do to Htarve among the mountains. Ho shook
liis head, shouldered the rusty firelock, and, with a lieart
full of trouble and anxiety, turned his steps homeward.

As he approached the village, ho met a number of
people, but none whom he knew, which somewhat sur-
prised him, for he had thought himself }ic<iuainted with
every one in the country round. Tlieir dress, too, was
of a different fashion from that to which he was accus-
tomed. They all stared at him with equal marks of
surprise, and whenever they cast their eyes upon hinj,
invariably stroked their chins. The constant recurrence
of this gesture induced Rip, involuntarily, to do the
same, when, to his astonishment, he found his beard had
grown a foot long !

He had now entered the skirts of the village. A troop
of strange children ran at his heels, hooting after him,
and pointing at his gray beard. The dogs, too, not one
of which ho recognized for an old acquaintance, barked
at him as he passed. The very village was altered : it
was larger and more populous. There were rows of
houses which ho had never seen before, and those which
had been his familiar haunts had disappeared. Strange
names were over the doors — strange faces at the win-
dows — everything was strange. His mind now misgave
him ; he began to doubt whether both he and the world
around him were not bevitched. Surely this was his
native village, which he Had left but the day before.
There stood the Kaatskill Mountains — there ran the
silver Hudson at a distance — there was every hill and
dale precisely as it had always been — Rip was sorely
perplexed — "That ilagon last night," thought he, "has
addled my poor head sadly ! "

B*: !

124

Fifth Kkader.

It was with Home difficulty that lie foiind the way to
luH own hoiiHc, which he approached with Hilcnt awe,
expecting every in<3nient to hear the Hhrill voice of Dame
Van Winkle;. He found the hou.so gone to decay — the
roof fallen in, the windows shattered, and the doors of*'
the hinges. A half-starved dog, that looked like Wolf,
was skulking al)out it. llijJ called liim by name, but the
cur s'.uirled, showed his teeth, and passt^d on. This was
an unkinu cut indeed — "My very dog," sighed poor Kip,
" lias forgotten me ! "

He entered the house, which, to tell the truth. Dame
Van Winkle had always kept in neat order. It was
empty, forlorn, and apparently abandoned. This deso-
lateness overcame all his coiniubial fears — he called
loudly for liis wife and children — the lonely chambers
rang for a moment with his voice, and then all again
was silence.

He now hurried forth, and hastened to his old resort,
the village inn — but it too was gone. A large rickety
wooden building stood in its place, with gi-eat gaping
windows, 8on\e of them broken, and mended with old
hats and petticoats, and over the door was painted, " The
Union Hotel, by Jonathan Doolittle." Instead of the
great tree that used to shelter the quiet little Dutch inn
of yore, the; o now was reared a tall naked pole, with
something ov. the top that looked like a red night-cap,
and from it was fluttering a flag, on which was a singular
assemblage of stars and stripes — all this was strange and
incomprehensible. He recognized on the sign, however,
the ruby face of King George, under which he had
smoked so many a peaceful pipe; but even this was
singularly metamorphosed. The red coat was changed

Rip Van Winklk.

1 25

for one of blue nn<l l)uff, a sworrl was hold in tlio Iwind
instead of a sceptre, tlie licad was dceonited with a
cocked liat, and lUKlerncatli was painted in larg»' cluir-
jicters, Genkhal WAsiiiN(}T(>y,

Tliere was, as usual, a crowd of folk a)x)ut the door,
but none tliat Rip recollected. The very character of
the people seemed changed. There was a busy, bustling,
disputatious tone about it, instead of the accustomed
I)hlegin and drowsy tranquillity. H(^ looked in vaii" I'.r
the sage Nicholas Vedder, with his broad face, double
chin, and fair long pipe, utteiing clouds of tobacco-smoke,
instead of idle speeches; or Van Kunnnel, the sch(K)l-
master, doling foi-th the contents of an ancient news-
paper. In place of these, a lean, bilious-looking fellow,
with his pockets full of handbills, was haranguing
vehemently about rights of citizens — elections — members
of Congress — liberty — Bunker's Hill — heroes of ;eventy-
six — and other words that were a perfect Babylonish
jargon to the bewildered Van Winkle.

The appearance of Rip, with his long, gi-izzled beard,
liis rusty fowling-piece, his uncouth dress, and an arujy
of women and children that had gathered at his heels,
soon attracted the attention of the tavern politicians.
They crowded round him, eyeing him from head to foot
with gTeat curiosity. The orator bustled up to him, and
drawing him partly aside, inquired, "on which side he
voted ? " Rip stared in vacant stupidity. Another short
but busy little fellow pulled him by the arm, and rising
on tiptoe, inquired in his ear, " whether he was Federal
or Democrat." Rip was equally at a loss to comprehend
the question ; when a knowing, self-important old gentle-
man, in a sharp cocked hat, made his way through the

fW^

126

Fifth Reader.

crowd, putting them to tlie riglit and left with his elbows
as he passed, and planting hiniseir before Van Winkle,
with one arm akimbo, the other resting on his cane, his
keen eyes and sharp hat penetrating, as it were, into his
very soul, demanded in an austere tone, ' wliat brought
him to the election with a gun on his shoulder, and a
mob at his heels, and whether he meant to breed a riot
in the village ? "

— " Alas ! gentlemen," cried Rip, somewhat dismayed,
"I am a poor, quiet man, a native of the place, and a
loyal subject of the king, God bless him ! "

Here a general shout burst from the bystanders — " A
tory ! a tory ! a spy ! a refugee ! hustle him ! away witli
him ! " It was with great difficulty that the self-
important man in the cocked hat restored order; and
having assumed a tenfold austerity of brow^ demanded
again of the unknown culprit, what he came there for,
and whom he was seeking ? The poor man humbly
assured him that he meant no harm, but merely came
there in search of some of his neighbors, who used to
keep about the tavern.

" Well — who are they ? — name them."

Rip bethought himself a moment, and inquired,
" Where's Nicholas Vedder ? "

There was a silence for a little while, when an old
man replied, in a thin, piping voice, " Nicholas Vedder !
why, lie is dead and gone these eighteen years ! There
was a wooden tombstone in the churchyard that used to
tell all about him, but that's rotten and gone too."

" Where's Brom Butcher ? "

" Oh, he went off to the army in the beginning of the
w^ar; some say he was killed at the storming of Stony

i1 :

Rip Van Winkle.

127

Point — others say he was drowned in a squall at the foot
of Antony's Nose. I don't know — he never came back
again."

" Where's Van Bummel, the schoolmaster ? "

"He went off to the wars, too, was a great militia
genei'al, and is now in Congress."

Rip's heart died away at hearing of these sad changes
in his home and friends, and finding himself tlius alone
in the world. Every answer puzzled him, too, by treat-
ing of such enormous lapses of time, and of matters
which he could not understand : war — Congress — Stony
Point ! — he had no courage to ask after any more friends,
but cried out in despair, " Does nobody here know Rip
Van Winkle ? "

" Oh, Rip Van Winkle ! " exclaimed two or three. "Oh
to be sure ! that's Rip Van Winkle yonder, leaning
against the tree."

Rip looked, and beheld a precise counterpart of himself
as he went up the mountain ; apparently as lazy, and
certainly as ragged. The poor fellow was now com-
pletely confounded. He doubted his own identity, and
whether he was himself or another man. In the midst
of his bewilderment, the man in the cocked hat de-
manded who he was, and what was his name ?

" God knows," exclaimed he at his wits' end ; " I'm
not myself — I'm somebody else — that's me yonder — no —
that's somebody else, got into my shoes — I was myself
last night, but I fell asleep on the mountain, and they've
changed my gun, and everything's changed, and I'm
changed, and I can't tell what's my name, or who I am ! "

The bystanders began now to look at each other, nod,
wink significantly, and tap their fingers against their

128

Fifth Reader.

foreheads. There was a whisper, also, about securing
the gun, and keeping the old fellow from doing mischief ;
at the very suggestion of which, the self-important man
with the cocked hat retired with some precipitation. At
this critical moment a fresh, comely woman passed
through the throng to get a peep at tlie gray-bearded
man. She had a chubby child in her arms, which,
frightened at his looks, began to cry. " Hush, Rip,"
cried she, " hush, you little fool ; the old man won't hurt
you." The name of the child, the air of the mother, the
tone of her voice, all awakened a train of recollections in
his mind.

" What is your name, my good woman ? " asked he.

" Judith Gardenier."

" And your father's name ? "

" Ah, poor man. Rip Van Winkle was his name, but it's
twenty years since he went away from home with his
gun, and never has been heard of since — his dog came
home without him ; but whether he shot himself, or was
carried away by the Indians, nobody can tell. I was
then but a little girl."

Rip had but one question more to ask ; but he put it
with a faltering voice :

" Where's your mother ? "

*' Oh, she too had died but a short time since : slu;
broke a blood-vessel in a fit of jjassion at a New England
peddler."

There was a drop of comfort, at least, in this intelli-
gence. The honest man could contain himself no longer.
He caught his daughter and her child in his arms. "I
am your father!" cried he — "Young Rip Van Winlile

Rip Van Winkle.

129

once — old Rip Van Winkle now '—-Does nobody know
poor Rip Van Winkle ? "

All stood amazed, until an old woman, tottering out
from among the crowd, put her hand to her brow, and
^ peering under it in his face for a moment, exclaimed,
" Sure enough ! it is Rip Van Winkle — it is himself !
Welcome home again, old neighbor — Why, where have
you been these twenty long years ? "

Rip's story was soon told, for the whole twenty years
had been to him but as one night. The neighbors stared
when they lieard it; some were seen to wink at each
other, and put their tongues in their cheeks : and the
self-important man in the cocked hat, who, when the
alarm was over, had returned to the field, screwed down
the corners of his mouth, and shook his head — upon
which there was a general shaking of the head through-
out the assemblage.

It was determined, however, to take the opinion of old
Peter Vanderdonk, who was seen slowly advancing up
. the road. He was a descendant of the historian of that
name, who wrote one of the earliest accounts of the
province. Peter was the most ancient inhabitant of the
village, and well versed in all the wonderful events and
traditions of the neighborhood. He recollected Rip at
once, and corroborated his story in the most satisfactory
manner. He assured the company that it was a fact,
handed down from his ancestor the historian, that the
Kaatskill Mountains had always been haunted by strange
beings. That it was affirmed that the great Hendriok
Hudson, the first discoverer of the river and country,
kept a kind of vigil there every twenty years, with his
crew of the Halfmoon, being permitted in this way to

i : I

130

FiFiH Reader.

:;:|f

revisit the scenes of his enterprise, and keep a guardian
eye upon the river and the great city called by his name.
That liis father had once seen them in their old Dutch
dresses playing at nine-pins in a hollow of the mountain ;
and that he himself had heard, one summer afternoon,
the sound of their balls, like distant peals of thunder.

To make a long story short, the company broke up,
and returned to the more important concerns of the
election. Rip's daughter took him home to live with
her ; she had a snug, well-furnished house, and a stout
cheery farmer for a husband, whom Rip recollected for
one of the urchins that used to climb upon his back. As
to Rip's son and heir, who was the ditto of himself, seen
leaning against the tree, he was employed to work on
the farm, but evinced a hereditary disposition to attend
to anyt hing else but his business.

Rip now resumed his old walks end habits ; he soon
found many of his former cronies, though all rather the
worse for the wear and tear of time ; and preferred
making friends among the rising generation, with whom
he soon grew into great favor.

Having nothing to do at home, and being arrived s '^l
that happy age when a man can be idle with impunity,
he took his place once more on the bench, at the inn
door, and was reverenced as one of the patriarchs of the
village, and a chronicle of the old times "before the
war." It was some time before he could get into the
regular track of gossip, or could be made to comprehend
the strange events that had taken place during his
torpor. How tl\at there had been a revolutionary war —
that the country had thrown off the yoke of old England
— and that, instead of being a subject of his Majesty

Rip Van Winkle.

131

George the Third, he was now a free citizen of tlie
United States. Rip, in fact, was no politician ; the
changes of states and empires made but little impression
on him ; but there was one species of despotism under
which he had long groaned, and that was — petticoat
government. Happily, that was at an end ; he had got
his neck out of the yoke of matrimony, and could go in
and out whenever he ple>ise(i, without dreading the
tyranny of Dame Van Winkle. Whenever her name
was mentioned, however, he shook his he^d, shrugged
his shoulders, and cast up his eyos ; which might pass
either for an expression of resignation to his fate, or joy
at his deliverance. He used to tell his storj to every
stranger that arrived at Mr. Doolittle's hotel. He was
observed, at first, to vary on some points every time he
told it, which was, doubtless, owing to his having so
recently awakened. It at last settled down precisely to
the tale I have related, and not a man, woman, or child
in the neighborhood, but knew it by heart. SoiriC
always pretended to doubt the reality of it, and insisted
that Rip had been out of his head, and that this was one
point on which he always remained flighty. The old
Dutch inhabitants, however, almost universally gave it
full credit. Even to this day, they never hear a thunder-
storm of a summer afternoon about the Kaatskill, but
they say Hendrick Hudson and his crew are at their
game of nine-pins : and it is a common wish of all hen-
pecked husbands in the neighborhood, when life hangs
heavy on their hands, that they might have a ijuieting
draught out of Rip Van Winkle's flagon.

—Washington Irving.

132

Fifth Reader.

BURNS.

There have been loftier themes t!ian his,
And lonjL^er scrolls, and louder lyres,

And lays lit up with Poesy's
Purer and holier fires :

Yet read the names that know not death ;

Few nobler ones than Burns are there ;
And few have won a greener wreath

Than that which binds his hair.

His is that language of the heart

In which the answering heart would speak,
Thought, \^'ord, that bids the warm tear start,

Or the smile light the cheek ;

And his that music to whose tone

The common pulse of man keeps time,

In cot or castle's mirth or moan.
In cold or sunny clime.

And who hath heard his song, nor knelt
Before its spell with willing knee.

And listened, and believed, and felt,
The poet's mastery ?

O'er the mind's sea, in calm and storm.
O'er the heart's sunshine and its showers,

O'er Passion's moments, bright and warm.
O'er Reason's dark, cold hours ;

On fields where brave men " die or do,"
In halls where rings the banquet's mirth.

Where mourners weep, where lovers woo.
From throne to cottage hearth ?

Burns.

What sweet tears dim the eyes unshed,
What wild vows falter on tlie tongue,

When " Scots wha liae wi' Wallace bled,"
Or " Auld Lang Syne," is sung !

Pure hopes, that lift the soul alx)ve.

Come with his " Cotter's " hynm of praise,

And dreams of youth, and truth, and love
With " Logan's " banks and braes.

And when he breathes his master-lay
Of Alloway's witch-haunted wall,

All passions in our frames of clay
Come thronging at his call.

Imagination's world of air.

And our own world, its gloom and glee.
Wit, pathos, poetry, are there.

And death's sublimity.

And Burns — though brief the race he ran,
Though rough and dark the path he trod —

Lived, died; in form and soul a Man,
The image of his God.

Through care, and pain, and want, and woe,
With wounds that only death could heal.

Tortures the p(M)r alone can know,
The proud alone can feel ;

133

He kept his honesty and truth,
His independent tongue and pen.

And moved in manhood as in youth,
Pride of his fellow-men.

134 Fii?TH Reader.

Praise to the bard ! his words are driven,
Like flower-seeds by the far winds sown,

Where'er beneath the sky of heavea
The birds of fame have flown.

Praise to the man ! a nation stood
Beside his coflin with wet eyes, —

Her brave, her beautiful, her good, —
As when a loved one dies.

Such graves as his are pilgl-im-shrines.
Shrines to no code or creed confined —

The Delphian vales, the Palestines,
The Meccas, of the mind.

Sages, with Wisdom's garland wreathed.

Crowned kings, and mitiLed priests of power,

And warriors with their bright swords sheathed,
The mightiest of the hour ;

And lowlier names, whose humble home
Is lit by Fortune's dimmer star.

Are there — o'er wave and mountain come,
From countries near and far ;

Pilgrims, whose wandering feet have pressed
The Switzer's snow, the Arab's sand.

Or trod the piled leaves of the West,
My own green forest land.

All ask the cottage of his birth,

Gaze on the scenes he loved and sung,

And gather feelings not of earth
His fields and streams among.

The Bell of Atrl 135

They linger by the Doon's low trees,

And pastoral Nith, and wcxnled Ayr,
And round thy sepulchres, Dumfries 1

The poet's tomb is there.

But what to them the sculptor's art.

His funeral columns, wreaths, and urns ?

Wear they not graven on the heart
The name of Robert Burns ?

—Pitz-Greene Ilalleek.

THE BELL OF ATRI.

At Atri in Abruzzo, a small town

Of ancient Roman date, but scant renown,

One of those little places that have run

Half up the hill, beneath a blazing sun.

And then sat down to rest, as if to say,

" I climb no farther upward, come what may," —

The Re Giovanni, now unknown to fame.

So many monarchs since have borne the name,

Had a great bell hung in the market-place.

Beneath a roof, projecting some small space

By way of shelter from the sun and rain.

Then rode he through the streets with all his train,

And, with the blast of trumpets loud and long.

Made proclamation, that whenever wrong

Was done to any man, he should but ring

The great bell in the square, and he, the King,

Would cause the Syndic to decide thereon.

Such was the proclamation of King John.

How swift the happy days in Atri sped.

What wrongs were righted, need not here be said.

Suffice it that, as all things must decay,

136 Fifth Header.

The lienipen rope at length was worn away,
irnravelle<l at the end, and, strand by strand,
Loosened and wasted in the ringer's hand,
Till one, who noted this in passing by,
Mended the rope with braids of briony,
So that the leaves and tendrils of the vine
Hung like a votive garland at a shrine.

By chance it happened that in Atri dwelt
A knight, with spur on heel and sword in lx)lt,
Who loved to hunt the wild-lxjar in the woods.
Who loved his falcons with their crimson IkmkIs,
Who loved his hounds and liorses, and all sports
And prodigalities of camps and courts ;--
Loved, or had loved them ; for at last, grown old.
His only passion was the love of gold.

He sold his horses, sold his hawks and hounds,
Rented his vineyards and his garden-grounds,
Kept but one steed, his favorite steed of all.
To starve and shiver in a nakdu ^stall.
And day by day sat broodir^g in h.s chair.
Devising plans how best to hoard and spare.

At length he said : " What is the use or need
To keep at my own cost this lazy steed,
Eating his head off in my stables here.
When rents are low and provender is dear ?
Let him go feed upon the public ways ;
I want him only for the holidays."
So the old steed was turned into the heat
Of the long, lonely, silent, shadeless street ;
And wandered in suburban lanes forlorn,
Barked at by dogs, and torn by brier and thorn.

The Beix of Atri.

137

One afternoon, as in that sultry clime

It is the custom in the summor time,

With l)olted doors and window-shutters closed.

The inhabitants of Atri slept or dozed ;

When suddenly upon their senses fell

The loud alarm of the accusing l>ell !

The Syndic started from his deep repose,

Turned on his couch, and listened, and then arose

And donned his robes, and with reluctant pace

Went panting forth into the market-place,

Where the great l>ell upon its cross-ljeams swung,

Reiterating with persistent tongue.

In half-articulate jargon, the old song :

" Some one hath done a wrong, hath done a wrong ! "

But ere he reached the belfry s light arcade
He saw, or thought he saw, beneath its shade,
No shape of human form of woman boin.
But a poor steed dejected and forlorn.
Who with uplifted liead and eager eye
Was tugging at the vines of briony.
" Domeneddio ! " cried the Syndic straight,
"This is the Knight ^'f Atri's steed of state !
He calls for justice, V)eing sore distressed,
And pleads his cause as loudly as the best."

Meanwhile from street and lane a noisy crowd

Had rolled together like a summer cloud,

And told the story of the wretched beast

In five-and-twenty different ways at least,

With much gesticulation and appeal

To heathen gofls, in their excessive zeal.

The Knight was called and questioned ; in reply

Did not confess the fact, did not deny ;

Treated the matter as a pleasant jest,
10

ViH Fifth Reader.

Ami set at naught tho Syndic and tlie rest,

Maintaining, in an angry undertone,

That he should do what pleased him with his own.

And thereupon the Syndic graveb' read
The proclamation of tho King ; then said :
" Pride goeth forth on horseback grand and gay.
But Cometh ])ack on foot, and begs its way ;
Fame is the fragrance of heroic deeds,
Of flowers of chivalry and not of weeds !
These are familiar proverbs ; but I fear
They never yet have reached your knightly ear.
What fair renown, what honor, what repute
I Can. come to you from starving this poor brute ?
He who serves well and speaks not, merits more
Than they who clamor loudest at the door.
Therefore the law decrees that as this steed
Served you in youth, henceforth you shall take heed
To comfort his old age, and to vide
Shelter in stall, and food and l.^-^ oeside."

The Knight withdrew abashed ; the people all
Led home the steed in triumph to his stall.
The King heard and approved, and laughed in glee,
And cried aloud : " Right well it pleaseth me !
Church-bells at best but ring us to the door ;
But go not in to mass ; my bell doth more :
It cometh into court and pleads the cause
Of creatures dumb and unknown to the laws ;
And this shall make, in every Christian clime,
The Bell of Atri famous for all time."

— Henry W. Longjelhw,

Thk Story of Muhammad Din.

139

THE STORY OF MUHAMMAD DIN.

The polo-ball was an old one, scarred, chipped, and
dinted. It stood on the niantel-piece among the pipe-
Htenis which Imam Din, kldtinatgar, was cleaning f(jr me.

" Does the Heaven-born want this ball ? " said Imam
Din, deferentially.

The Heaven-bom set no particular store by it ; but of
what use was a polo-ball to a khitmatgdr ?

" By your Honor's favor, I have a little son. He has
seen this ball, and desires it to play with. I do not want
it for myself."

No one would for an instant accuse portly old Imam
Din of wantin<'- to play with polo-balls. He carried out
the battered thing into the veranda; and there followed
a hurricane of joyful scjueaks, a patter of small feet, and
the thud-thud-thud of the ball rolling along the ground.
Evidently the little son had been waiting outside the
door to secure his treasure. But how had he managed
to see that polo-ball ?

Next day, coming back from office half an hour earlier
than usual, I was aware of a small figure in the dining-
room — a tiny, plump figure in a ridiculously inade(juate
shirt which came, perhaps, half-way down the tubby
stomach. It wandered round the room, thumb in mouth,
crooning to itself as it took stock of the pictures.
Undoubtedly this was the " little son."

He had no business in my room, of course ; but was so
deeply absorbed in his discoveries that lie never noticed
me in the door-way. I stepped into the room and

140

Fifth Reader.

■m

startled him nearly into a fit. He sat down on the
ground with a gasp. His eyes opened, and his mouth
followed suit. I kneAV^ what was coming, and fled, fol-
lowed by a long, dry howl which reached the servants'
quarters far more quickly than any command of mine
had ever done. In ten seconds Imam Din was in the
dining-room. Then despairing sobs arose, and I returned
to find Imam Din admonishing the small sinner, who was
using most of his shirt as a hand-kerchief.

" This boy," said Imam Din, judicially, " is a huchnaf^h,
a big hudmash. He will, without doubt, go to the
jailkhana for his behavior." Renewed yells from the
penitent, and an elaborate apology to myself from
Imam Din.

" Tell the baby," said I, " that the sahib is not angry,
and take him away." Imam Din conveyed my forgive-
ness to the offender, who had now gathered all his shirt
round his neck, stringwise, and the yell subsided into a
sob. The two set off* for the door. " His name," said
Imam Din, as though the name was part of the crime,
" is Muhammad Din, and ho is a hv/iTtiash." Freed from
present danger, Muhanmiad Din turned round, in his
father's arms, and said gravely : " It is true that my
name is Muhammad Din, tahih, but I am not a htuhnaHh.
I am a man ! "

From that day dated my acquaintance with Muham-
mad Din. Never again did he come into my dining-
room, but on the neutral gi'ound of the compound we
greeted each other with much state, though our conver-
sation was conflned to " Talaam, tahih " from his side,
and " Salaam, Muhammad Din " from mine. Daily on
my return from office, the little white shirt, and the fat

The Story of Muhammad Din.

141

little body used to rise from the shade of the creeper-
covered trellis where they had been hid ; and daily I
checked my horse here, tJiat my salutation might not be
slurred over or given unseemly.

Muhammad Din never had any companions. He used
to trot about the compound, in and out of the castor-oil
Imshes, on mysterious errands of his own. One day I
stumbled upon some of his handiwork far down the
ground. He had half -buried the polo -ball in dust, and
stuck six shrivelled old marigold flowers in a circle round
it. Outside that circle again was a rude square, traced
out in bits of red brick alternating with fragments of
broken china; the whole bounded by a little bank of
dust. The bhistie from the well-curb put in a plea for
the small architect, saying that it was only the play of a
baby and did not much disfigure my garden.

Heaven knows that I had no intention of touching the
child's work then or later; but that evening a stroll
through the garden brought me unawares full on it ; so
that I trampled, before I knew, marigold-heads, dust-
bank, and fragments of broken soap-dish into confusion
past all hope of mending. Next morning I came upon
Muhammad Din crying softly to himself over the ruin I
had wrought. Some one had cruelly told him that the
sahib was very angry with him for spoiling the garden,
and had scattered his rubbish, using bad language the
while. Muhannnad Din labored for an hour at effacing
every trace of the dust-bank and pottery fragments, and
it was with a tearful and apologetic fac;e that he said
" Talaavi, tahib," when I came home from the office. A
hasty inquiry resulted in Imam Din informing Muham-
mad Din that by my singular favor he was permitted to

142

Fifth Reader.

disport liiiiiself as he pleased. Whereat the child took
heart and fell to tracing tlie ground-plan of an edifice
which was to eclipse the marigold polo-ball creation.

For some months the chubby little eccentricity re-
volved in his humble orbit among the castor-oil bushes
and in the dust, always fashioning magnificent palaces
from stale flowers thrown away by the bearer, smooth
water-worn pebbles, bits of broken glass, and feathers
pulled, I fancy, from my fowls — always alone and always
crooning to himself.

A gaily spotted sea-shell was dropped one day close
to the last of his little buildings; and I looked that
Muhammad Din should build something more than
ordinarily splendid on the strength of it. Nor was I
disappointed. He meditated for the better part of an
hour, and his crooning rose to a jubilant song. Then
he began tracing in dust. It would certainly be a
wondrous palace, this one, for it was two yards long
and a yard broad in ground-plan. But the palace was
never completed.

Next day there was no Muhammad Din at the head of
the carriage-drive, and no " Talaam, tahih " to welcome
my return. I liad grown accustomed to the greeting,
and its omission troubled me. Next day Imam Din told
me that the child was suffering slightly from fever and
needed quinine. He got the medicino and an English
doctor.

" They have no stamina, these brats," said the doctor,
as he left Imam Din's quarters.

A week later, though I would have given much to
have avoided it, I met on the road to the Mussulman

bui
fri(
tha

The Burial of Moses.

143

burying-ground, Imam Din, accompanied by one other
friend, carrying in his arms, wrapped in white cloth, all
that was left of little Muhammad Din.

— " Plain Tales from the Hills," Rudyard Kipling (by permission of the publishers).

THE BURIAL OF MOSES.

By Nebo's lonely mountain,

On this side Jordan's wave,

In a vale in the land of Moal)

There lies a lonely grave ;

And no man knows that sepulchre,

And no man saw it e'er,

For the angels of God upturn'd the sod,

And laid the dead man there.

That was the grandest funeral

That ever pass'd on earth ;

But no man heard the trampling,

Or saw the train go forth —

Noiselessly as the daylight

Comes back when night is done,

And the crimson streak on ocean's cheek

Grows into the great sun ;

Noiselessly as the spring-time

Her crown of verdure weaves.

And all the trees on all the hills

Open their thousand leaves ;

So without sound of music,

Or voice of them that wept,

Silently down from the mountain's crown,

The great procession swept.

FiiTH Reader.

Perchance ^he bald old eagle,

On gray Beth-peor's height,

Out of his lonely eyrie,

Look'd on the wondrous sight ;

Perchance the lion stalking

Still shuns that hallow'd spot,

For beast and bird have seen and heard

That which man knoweth not.

But when the warrior dieth,

His comrades in the war,

With arms reversed and muffled drum,

Follow his funeral car ;

They sliow the banners taken,

They tell his battles won,

And after him lead his masterless steed.

While peals the minute gun.

Amid the noblest of the land

We lay the sage to rest,

And give the bard an honor'd place,

With costly marble drest,

In the great minster transept

Where lights like glories fall,

And the organ rings, and the sweet choir sings

Along the emblazon'd wall.

This was the truest warrior,

That ever buckled sword.

This the most gifted poet.

That ever breathed a word ;

And never earth's philosopher

Traced with his golden pen,

On the deathless page, truths half so sage,

As he wrote down for men.

■aA ■

\' m ■

Sedgemoor.

145

And had he not high honor ; —

The hill-side for a pall,

To lie in state wl, ile angels wait

With stars for tai)ers tall,

And the drrk rock pmes, like tossing plumes

Over his bier to wa'^^o,

And God's own hand, in that lonely land,

To lay him in the grave.

In that strange grave, without a name.

Whence his uncottin'd clay

Shall break again, O wondrous thought

Before the judgment-day.

And stand with glory wrapt around,

On the hills he never trod.

And speak of the strife, that won our life,

With the Incarnate Son of God.

O lonely grave in Moab's land !

O dark Beth-peor's hill !

Speak to these curious hearts of ours.

And teach them to be still.

God hath His mysteries of grace,

Ways that we cannot tell ;

He hides them deep, like the hidden sleep

Of him He loved so well.

—Mrt. C. F, Alexander.

SEDGEMOOR.

And now the time tor the great hazard drew near.
The night was not ill suited for such an enterprise. The
moon was indeed at tlie full, and the northern streamers
were shining brilliantly. But the marsh fog lay so thick

146

Fifth Header.

4,;

on Sedgemoor that no object could be discerned there at
the distance of fifty paces.

The clock struck eleven ; and the Duke with his body
guard rode out of the Castle. He was not in the frame
of mind which befits one who is about to strike a decisive
blow. The very children who pressed to see him pass
observed, and long remembered, that his look was sad
and full of evil augury. His army marched by a cir-
cuitous path, near six ipiles in length, towards the royal
encampment on Sedgemoor. Part of the route is to this
day called War Lane. The foot were led by Monmouth
himself. The horse were confided to Grey, in spite of
the remonstrances of some who remembered the mishap
at Bridport. Orders were given that strict silence should
be preserved, that no drum should be beaten, and no
shot fired. The word by which the insurgents were to
recognize one another in the darkness was Soho. It
had doubtless been selected in allusion to Soho Fields in
London, where their leader's palace stood.

At about one in the morning of Monday the sixth of
July, the rebels were on the open moor. But between
them and the enemy lay three broad rhines filled with
water and soft mud. Two of these, called the Black
Ditch and the Langmoor Rhine, Monmouth knew that
he must pass. But, strange to say, the existence of a
trench, called the Bussex Rhine, which immediately
covered the royal encampment, had not been mentioned
to him by any of his scouts.

The wains which carried the ammunition remained at
the entrance of the moor. The horse and foot, in a long
narrow column, passed the Black Ditch by a causeway.
There was a similar causeway across the Langmoor

Sedgemoor.

147

Rhine : but tlie guide, in the fog, missed liis way.
There was some delay and some tumult before the error
could be rectified. At length the passage was effected ;
but, in the confusion, a pistol went off'. Some men of
the Horse Guards, who were on watch, heard the report,
and perceived that a great multitude was advancing
through the mist. They fired their carbines, and gal-
loped off' in different directions to give the alarm. Some
hastened to Weston Zoyland, where the cavalry lay.
One trooper spurred to the encampment of the infantry,
and cried out vehemently that the enemy was at hand.
The drums of Dumbarton's regiment beat to arms ; and
the men got fast into their ranks. Tt was time ; for
Monmouth was already drawing up his army for action.
He ordered Grey to lead the way with the cavalry, and
followed himself at the head of the infantry. Grey
pushed on till his progress was unexpectedly arrested by
the Bussex Rhine. On the opposite side of the ditch the
King's foot were hastily forming in order of battle.

" For whom are you ? " called out an officer of the
Foot Guards. " For the King," replied a voice from the
ranks of the rebel cavalry. " For which King ? " was
then demanded. The answer was a shout of " King
Monmouth," mingled with the war cry, which forty
years before had been inscribed on the colors of the
parliamentary regiments, " God with us." The royal
troops instantly fired such a volley of nuisketry as sent
the rebel horse flying in all directions. The world
agreed to ascribe this ignominious rout to Grey's pusil-
lanimity. Yet it is by no means clear that Churchill
would have succeeded better at the head of n;«.en who
had never before handled arms on horseback, and whose

148

Yimi Reader.

"4i

hoFHeH were unuwed, not only to stand fire, but to obey
the rein.

A few minutes after the Duke's horse had dispersed
tliemselves over the nicxjr, his infantry came up running
fast, and guided tlirough the gloom by the lighted
matches of Dumbarton's reginie.it.

Monmouth was startled by finding that a l)road and
profound trench lay betweeir him and the camp which
he liad hoped to surprise. The insurgents halted on the
edge of the rhine, and fired. Part of the royal infantry
on the opposite bank returned the fire. During three-
quarters of an hour the roar of the musketry was inces-
sant. The Somersetshire peasants behaved themselves
as if they had been veteran soldiers, save only that they
levelled their pieces too high.

But now the other divisions of the royal army were in
motion. The Life Guards and Blues came pricking fast
from Weston Zoyland, and scattered in an instant some
of Grey's horse, who had attempted to rally. The fugi-
tives spread a panic among their comrades in the rear,
who had charge of the ammunition. The waggoners
drove off at full speed, and never stopped till they w^ere
many miles from the field of battle. Monmouth had
hitherto done his part like a stout and able w^arrior.
He had been seen on foot, pike in hand, encouraging his
infantry by voice and by example. But he was too well
acquainted with military affairs not to know that all
was over. His men had lost the advantage which sur-
prise and darkness had given them. They were desei ted
by the horse and by the ammunition waggons. The
King's forces were now united and in good order.
Feversham had been awakened by the firing, had got

Seduemcxjr.

149

out of bed, had HdjuHted Win cravat, had lookc^l at
liiiiiself well in tho glass, and had come to see what his
men were doing. Meanwhile, what was of much i:>ore
importance, Churchill had rapidly made an entirely new
disposition of the royal infantry The day w»is aloout t(j
break. The event of a conflict on an open plain, by
broad sunlight, could not be doubtful. Yet Moimiouth
should have felt that it was not for him to fly, while
thousands whom aflection for him had hurried to de-
struction were still fighting manfully in his cause. But
vain hopes and the intense love of life prevailed. He
saw that if he tarried the royal cavalry would soon
intercept his retreat. He mounted and rode from the
field.

Yet his foot, though deserted, made a gallant stand.
The Life Guards attacked them on the right, the Blues
on the left : but the Somersetshire clowns, with their
scythes and the butt ends of their nuiskets, faced the
royal horse like old soldiers. Oglethorpe made a vigor-
ous attempt to break them and was manfully repulsed.
Sarsfield, a brave Irish officer, whose name afterwards
obtained a melancholy celebrity, charged on the other
flank. His men were beaten back. He was himself
struck to the ground, and lay for a time as one dead.
But the struggle of the hardy rustics could not last.
Their powder and ball were spent. Cries were heard of
" Ammunition ! for God's sake, ammunition ! " But no
ammunition was at hand. And now the King's artillery
came up. It had been posted half a mile off*, on the high
road from Weston Zoyland to Bridgewater. So defective
were then the appointments of an English army that
there would have been much diflSculty in dragging the

150

Fifth Rkadeu.

great giins to the pljice where tlie Iwittle was raging, Imd
not the Bi.shop oi Wincliester offered Iuh coacli horses
and traces for the purpose. This interference of a
Christian prelate in a matter of blood lias, with strange
inconsistency, been coiuhanned by some Whig writers
who can see nothing criminal in the conduct of the
numerous Puritan ministers then in arms against the
government. Even when the guns had arrived, there
was such a want of gunners that a sergeant of Dum-
barton's regiment was forced to take on hims<3lf the
management of several pieces. The cannon, however,
though ill served, brought the engagement to a speedy
close. The pikes of the rebel battalions began to shako :
the ranks broke ; the King's cavalry charged again, and
bore down everything before them ; the King's infantry
came pouring across the ditch. Even in that extremity
the Mendip miners stood bravely to their arms, and sold
their lives dearly. But the rout was in a few minutes
complete. Three hundred of the soldiers had been killed
or wounded. Of the rebels more than a thousand lay
dead on the moor.

—Lord Macaulay.

THE THIN RED LINE.

The cavalry, who had been pursuing the Turks on the
right, are coming up to the ridge beneath us, which
conceals our cavalry from view. The heavy brigade in
advance is drawn up in ^wo lines. The first line consists
of the Scots Greys and of their old companions in glory
the Enniskillens ; the second, of the 4th Royal Irish, of
the 5tli Dragoon Guards, and of the 1st Royal Dragoons.

The Thin Red Line.

151

The Light Cavalry Brigarle is on their left, in two lines
also. The .silence is oppreHnive; between the cannon
bursts one can liear the champing of bits and the clink
of sabres in the valley below. The Russians on their
left drew breath for a moment, and then in one grand
line dashed at the Highlanders. The ground flies be-
neath their hoi*HeH' feet; gathering speed at every stride,
they dash on towards that thin red streak toppexl with
a line of steel. The Turks fire a volley at eight hun-
dred yards, and run. As the Russians come within six
hundred yards, down goes that line of steel in front and
out rings a rolling volley of Mini^ musketry. The dis-
tance is too great; the Russians are not checked, but
still sweep onward through the smoke, with the whole
force of horse and man, here and there knocked over
by the shot of our batteries above. With breathless
suspense every one awaits the bursting of the wave upon
the line of Gaelic rock ; but ere they come within a
hundred and fifty yards, another deadly volley flashes
from the levelled rifle, and carries death and terror into
the Russians. They wheel about, open files right and
left, and fly back faster than they came. " Bravo, High-
landers ! well done ! " shout the excited spectators. But
events thicken. The Highlanders and their splendid
front are soon forgotten ; men scarcely have a moment
to think of this fact, that the 93rd never altered their
formation to receive that tide of horsemen. " No," said
Sir Colin Campbell, " I did not think it worth wliile to
form them even four deep ! " The ordinary British line,
two deep, was quite sufiftcient to repel the attack of these
Muscovite cavaliers. Our eyes were, however, turned in
a moment on our own cavalry. We saw Brigadier-

152

Fii-TU Reader.

Oonenil Scarlett ride alon^ in front of \\\h nuiHsive
H(juaclronH. Tho RuHsians — (evidently corps (V^ite — their
li^ht h\\\(\ jackets embroidered with silver lace, were
advancing on their left, at an easy gallop, towards tlie
brow of the liill. A forest of lances glistened in their
rear, and several s(|uadrons of gray-coated dragoons
moved up quickly to support tliem as they reached the
summit. The instant they came in sight, the trumpets
of our cavalry gave out a warning blast which told us
all that in another moment we should see the shock of
battle beneath our very eyes. Lord Raglan, all his staff
and escort, and groups of officers, the Zouaves, French
generals and officers, and bodies of French infantry on
the height, were spectators of the scene, as though they
were looking on the stage from the boxes of a theatre.
Nearly every one dismounted and sat down, and not a
word was said. The Russians advanced down the hill at
a slow canter, which they changed to a trot, and at last
nearly halted. Their first line was at least double the
length of ours — it was three times as deep. Behind them
was a similar line, equally strong and compact. They
evidently despised their insignificant-looking enemy;
but their tim- was come. The trumpets rang out again
through the valley, and the Greys and Enniskilleners
went right at the centre of the Russian cavalry. The
space between them was only a few hundred yards; it
was scarce enough to let the horses "gather way," nor
had the men quite space sufficient for the full play of
their sword-arms. The Russian line brings forward each
wing as our cavalry advance, and threatens to annihilate
them as they pass on. Turning a little to their left so
as to meet the Russian right, the Greys rush on with a

TnK Til IX Kei) Jjxk.

153

clu'tT that tlnill.s to cvcrv heart — the wild sliout of tlie
KiiniHkillenei's ri.se.s tlirou^^h the air at tlie Haiin^ instant.
Ah li^litnin^ fhislies through a cloud, the Gri'VH and
Enniskilleners pierced through the dark nia.sHeH of
RuHHians. The shock was but for a moment. There
was a cla.sh of steel and a light play of sword-blades in
the air, and then the Greys and the Red-coats disappear
in the midst of the shaken and (juivcring columns. In
another moment we see them iniierging and dashing on
with diminished nundx-rs and in broken order against
the second line, which is advancing against them as fast
as it can, to retrieve the fortune of the charge. It was a
terrible moment. " God help them ! they are lost ! " was
the exclamation of more than one man, and the thought
of many. It was a fight of heroes. The fii-st line of
Russians — which had been smashed utterly by onr
charge, and had fled off at one flank and towards the
centre — were coming back to swallow up om* handful of
men. By sheer steel and slieer courage, Enniskillener
and Scot were winning their desperate way right
through the enemy's s(|uadronH, and already gray horst!s
and red coats had appeared right at the rear of the
second mass, when, with irresistible force, like a bolt
from a bow, the 1st Royals, the 4th Dragoon Guards,
and the 5th Dragoon Guards rushed at the renniant.-* of
the first line of the enemy, went through it as thou-.;!! it
were made of pasteboard, and, dashing on the second
body of Russians, as they were still disoi-dercd by the
terrible assault of the Greys and their companions, put
them to utter rout.

—W. IJ. Rusiell.

154

Fifth Reader.

THE PANTHERS.

One side of the ravine was in darkness. The dark-
ness was soft and rich, suggesting tliick foliage. Along
the crest of the slope tree-tops came into view — great
pines and hemlocks of the ancient unviolated forest —
revealed against the orange disk of a full moon just
rising. The low rays slanting through the moveless tops
lit strangely the upper portion of the opposite steep, —
the western wall of the ravme, barren, unlike its fellow,
bossed with great rocky projections, and harsh with
stunted junipers. Out of the sluggish dark that lay
along the ravine as ir* a trough, rose the brawl of a
swollen, obstructed stream.

Out of a sliadowy hollow behind a long white rock, on
the lower edge of that pai t of tlie steep which lay in the
moonlight, came softly a great panther. In conmion
daylight his coat wr aid have sliown a warm fulvous hue,
but in the elvish decolorizing rays of that half hidden
moon he seemed to wear a sort of spectral gray. He
lifted his smootli round head to gaze on the increasing
flame, wliich presently he gi'eeted witli a slu'ill cry.
That terrible cry, at onco plaintive and menacing, with,
an undertone like the fierce protestations of a saw
beneath the file, was a summons to liis mate, telling her
that the hour had come wlien they sliould seek their
prey. From the lair behind the rock, where the cubs
were being suckled by tlieir dam, came no immediate
answer. Only a pair of crows, that ha^d their nest in a
giant fir-tree across the gulf, woke up and croaked
harshly their indignation. These three summers past

The Panthers.

155

they had built in the same sp(3t, and had been nightly
awakened to vent the same rasping comphiints.

The panther walked restlessly up and down, half a
score of paces each way, along the edge of the shadow,
keeping his wide-open green eyes upon the rising light.
His short, muscular tail twitched impatiently, but he
made no sound. Soon the breadth of confused bright-
ness had spread itself further dow^n the steep, disclosing
the foot of the white rock, and the bones and antlr^^t of
a deer which liad been dragged thitlier and devour e<x

By this time tlic cubs had made their meal, and tl .*ir
dam was ready for such enterprise as must be accom-
plished ere her own hunger, now gi'own savage, ""ould
hope to be assuaged. She glided aupplely forth into the
glimmer, raised her head, and screamed at the moon in a
voice as terrible as her mate's. Again the crows stirred,
croaking harshly; and the two beasts, noiselessly mount-
ing the steep, stole into the shadows of the forest tliat
clothed the high plateau.

The panthers were fierce with hunger. These two
days past their hunting had been well-nigh fruitless.
What scant prey they liad slain had for the most part
been devoured by the female ; for had she not those
small blind cubs at home to nourish, who soon must
suffer at any lack of liers ? The settlements of late had
been making great inroads on the world of ancient
forest, driving before them the deer and smaller game.
Hence the sharp hunger of the panther parents, and
hence it came that on this lught they hunted together.
Th(y pnirposed to steal upon the settlements in their
sleep, and take tribute of the enemies' fhjcks.

Through the dark of the tiiick woods, here and there

156

Fifth Reader.

: .3?

Hi!

pierced by tlie moonliglit, they moved swiftly and silent-
ly. Now and again a dry twig would snap beneath the
discreet and padded footfalls. Now and again, as they
rustled some low tree, a pewee or a nuthatch would give
a startled chirp. For an hour the noiseless journeying
continued, and ever and anon the two gray, sinuous
shapes would come for a moment into the view of tlie
now well-risen moon. Suddenly there fell upon their
ears, far off and faint, but clearly defined against the vast
stillness of the Northern forest, a sound wdiich made
those stealthy hunters pause and lift their heads. It was
the voice of a child crying, — crying long and loud, hope-
lessly, as if there w^ere no one by to comfort it. The
panthers turned aside from their former course and
glided toward the sound. They were not yet come to
the outskirts of the settlement, but they knew of a soli-
tary cabin lying in the thick of the woods a mile and
more from the nearest neighbor. Thither they bent their
way, fired with fierce hope. Soon would they break
their bitter fast.

Up to noon of the previous day the lonely cabin had
been occupied. Then its owner, a shiftless fellow, who
spent his days for the most part at the corner tavern
three miles distant, had suddenly grown disgusted with
a land wdierein one must work to live, and had betaken
himself with his seven-year-old boy to seek some more
indolent clime. Duiing the long lonely days when his
father w^as away at the tavern the little boy had been
wont to visit the horse of the next neighlx)r, to play
with a child of some five summers, wdio had no other
playmate. The next neiglibor was a prosperous pioneer,
being master of a substantial frame hoiise in the midst

The Panthers.

157

of <a large and wcll-tillt'd clearing. At times, though
rarely, because it was forbidden, the younger child would
make his way by a rough wood road to visit liis poor
little disreputable playmate. At length it had appeared
that the five-year-old was learning unsavory language
from the elder boy, who rarely had an opportunity of
liearing speech more desirable. To the bitter gi'ief of
both children, the companionship had at length been
stopped by unalterable decree of the master of the frame
house. .; .

Hence it had come to pass that the little boy was
unaware of his comrade's departure. Yielding at last to
an eager longing for that comrade, he had stolen away
late in the afternoon, traversed with endless misgivings
the lonely stretch of wood road, and reached the cabin
only to find it empty. The door, on its leathern hinges,
swung idly open. The one room had been stripped of its
few poor furnishings. After looking in the rickety shed,
whence darted two wild and hawklike chickens, the child
had seated himself on the hacked threshold, and sobbed
passionately with a grief that he did not fully compre-
hend. Then seeing the shadows lengthen across the tiny
clearing, he had grown afraid to start for home. As the
dusk gathered, he had crept trembling into the cabin,
whose door would not stay shut. When it gi'ew quite
dark, he crouched in the inmost corner of the room, des-
^)erate with fear and loneliness, and lifted up his voice
p teously. From time to time his lamentations would
be choked by sobs, or he would grow breathless, and in
the terrifying silence would listen hard to hear if any
one or anything were coming. Then again would the
shrill childish wailings arise, startling the unexpecl^ant

t' \

158

Fifth Reader.

night, and piercing the forest depths, even to the ears
of those great beasts which had set forth to seek their
meat from God.

The lonely cabin stood some distance, perhaps a quar-
ter of a mile, back from the highway connecting the
settlements. Along this main road a man was plodding
wearily. All day he had been walking, and now as he
neared home his steps began to quicken with anticipa-
tion of rest. Over his shoulder projected a double-
barrelled fowling-piece, from which was slung a bundle
of such necessities as lie had purchased in town that
morning. It was the prosperous settler, the master of
the frame house.

The settler passed the mouth of the wood road leading
to the cabin. He had gone perhaps a furlong beyond,
v/hen his ears were startled by the sound of a child
crying in the woods. He stopped, lowered his burden to
the road, and stood straining ears and eyes in the direc-
tion of the sound. It was just at this time that the two
panthers also stopped, and lifted their heads to listen.
Their ears were keener than those of the man, and the
sound had reached them at a greater distance.

Presently the settler realized whence the cries were
coming. He called to mind the cabin ; but he did not
know tlie cabin's owner had departed. He cherished a
hearty contempt for the drunken squatter; and on the
drunken squatter's child lie looked with small favor,
especially as a playmate for his own boy. Nevertheless
he hesitated before resuming his journey.

" Poor little fellow I " he muttered, half in wrath. " I
reckon his precious father's drunk down at 'the Corners,'
and him crying for loneliness ! " Then he reshouldered
his burden and strode on doggedly.

The Panthers.

159

But louder, shriller, more hopeless and more appealing,
arose the childish voice, and the settler paused again,
irresolute, and with deepening indignation. In his fancy
he saw the steaming supper his wife would have await-
ing him. He loathed the thought of retracing his steps,
and then stumbling a quarter of a mile through the
stumps and bog of the wood road. He was foot-sore as
well as hungry, and he cursed the vagabond s(i[uatter
with serious emphasis ; but in that wailing was a terror
which would not let him go on. He thought of his own
little one left in such a position, and straightway his
heart melted. He turned, dropped his bundle behind
some bushes, grasped his gun, and made speed back for
the cabin.

" Who knows," he said to himself, " but that drunken
idiot has left his youngster without a bite to eat in the
whole miserable shanty ? Or maybe he's locked out, and
the poor little beggar's half scared to death. Sounds
as if he was scared;" and at this thought the settler
quickened his pace.

As the hungry panthers drew near the cabin, and the
cries of the lonely child grew clearer, they hastened their
steps, and their eyes opened to a wider circle, flaming
with a greener fire. It would be thouglitless superstition .
to say the beasts were cruel. They were simply keen
with hunger, and alive with the eager passion of the
chase. They were not ferocious with any anticipatic/n
of battle, for they knew the voice was the voice o{ a
child, and something in the voice told them the child
was solitary. Theirs was no hideous or unnatural rage,
as it is the custom to describe it. Thev were but seekintr
with the strength, the cunning, the deadly swiftness

160

FiFTJi Reader.

given them to that end, the food convenient for them.
On their success in accomplishing that for which nature
had so exquisitely designed them, depended not only tlieir
own, but the lives of their blind and helpless young, now
whimpering in the cave on the slope of the moon-lit
ravine. They crept through a wet alder thicket, bound-
ed lightly over the ragged brush fence, and paused to
reconnoitre on the edge of the clearing, in the full glare
of the moon. At the same moment the settler emerged
from the darkness of the wood road on the opposite side
of the clearing. He saw the two great beasts, lieads
down and snouts thrust forward, gliding toward the
open cabin door.

For a few moments the child had been silent. Now
his voice rose again in pitiful appeal, a very ecstasy of
loneliness and terror. There was a note in the cry that
shook the settler's soul. He had a vision of his own boy,
at home with his mother, safe-guarded from even the
thought of peril. And here was this little one left to
the wild beasts ! " Thank God ! Thank God I came ! "
murmured the settler, as he dropped on one knee to take
a surer aim. There was a loud report (not like the sharp
crack of a rifle), and the female panther, shot through
the loins, fell in a heap, snarling furiously and striking
with her fore-paws.

The male walked around her in fierce and anxious
ami^zement. Presently, as the smoke lifted, he discerned
the settler kneeling for a second shot. With a high
screech of fury, the lithe brute sprang upon his enemy,
taking a bullet full in his chest without seeming to know
he was hit. Ere the man could slip in another cartridge
the beast was upon him, bearing him to the ground and
fixing keen fangs in his shoulder. Without a word, the

The Pan'tuers.

IGl

man set his strong fingers desperately into the l)rute's
throat, wri^nched himself partly free, and was struggling
to rise, when the panther's body C()lla2:)sed upon him all
at once, a dead weight which he easily flung aside. The
bullet had done its work just in time.

Quivering from the swift and dreadful contest, bleed-
ing profusely from his inang^ "id shoulder, the settler
stepped up to the cabin door and peered in. He heard
sobs in the darkness.

" Don't be scared, sonny," he said, in a reassuring voice.
"I'm going to take you home along with me. Poor little
lad, ril look after you if folks that ought to don't."

Out of the dark corner came a shout of delight, in a
voice which made the settler's heart stand still. ^' Daddy,
daddy," it said, "I knew you'd come. I was so fright-
ened when it got dark ! " And a little figure launched
itself into the settler's arms, and clung to him trembling.
The man sat down on the threshold and strained the
child to his breast. He remembered how near he had
been to disregarding the far-off cries, and g^-eat beads of
sweat broke out upon his forehead."

Not many weeks afterwards the settler was following
the fresh trail of a bear which had killed his sheep. The
trail led him at last along the slope of a deep ravine,
from whose bottom came the brawl of a sw^ollen and
obstructed stream. In the ravine he found a shallow
cave, behind a great white rock. The cave was plainly
a wild beast's lair, and he entered circumspectly. There
were bones scattered about, and on some dry herbage in
the deepest corner of the den, he found the dead bodies,
now rapidly decaying, of two small panther cubs.

-Do Seek their Meat from God. " Earth's Enig
Charles G. D. Roberts (by

mas,
permission of the Author).

162

Fifth Reader.

THE DRAGONFLY.

Winged wonder of motion
In splendor of sheen,
Cruising the shining blue
Waters all day,
Smit with hunger of heart
And seized of a quest •
Which no"r beauty of flower
Nor promise of rest
Has charm to appease
Or slacken or stay, —

What is it you seek,

Unopen, unseen ?

llti

1 '

II.

Are you blind to the sight

Of the heavens of blue,

Or the wind-fretted clouds

On their white, airy wings,

Or the emerald grass

That velvets the lawn.

Or glory of meadows

Aflame like the dawn ?
Are you deaf to the note
In the woodland that rings
With the song of the whitethroat,
As crystal as dew ?

III.

Winged wonder of motion
In splendor of sheen.
Stay, stay a brief moment

The Dragonfly.

Thy hither and thither
Quick-l)eating wings,
Thy flashes of flight ;
And tell me thv heart.
Is it sad, is it light,
Is it pulsing with fears
Which scorch it and wither,
Or joys that up-we»ll
In a girdle of green ?

163

IV.

" O breather of words
And poet of life,
I tremble with joy,
I flutter with fear !
Ages it seemeth.
Yet only to-day
Into this world of
Gold sunbeams at play,
I came from the deeps.

O crystalline sphere !

O beauteous light !

O glory of life !

. V.

" On the watery floor

Of this sibilant lake,

I lived in the twilight dim.

'There's a world of Day,'

Some pled, ' a world

Of ether and wings athrob

Close over our head.'

' It's a dream, it's a whim,

A whisper of reeds,' they said,-

164

Fifth Reader.

And anon the waters would sob.
And ever the going
Went on to the dead
Without the glint of a ray,
And the watchers watched
In their vanishing wake.

VI.

" The passing
Passed for aye,
And the waiting
Waited in vain !
Some power seemed to enfold
The tremulous waters around,
Yet never in heat
Nor in shrivelling cold,
Nor darkness deep or grey, —
C. le token of sound or touch,-
A clear unquestioned ' Yea ! '
And the scoffers scoffed,
In swelling refrain,
' Let us eat and drink,
For to-morrow we die.'

VII.

" But, O, in a trance of bliss.
With gauzy wings I awoke !
An ecstasy bore me away
O'er field and meadow and plain.
I thought not of recent pain.
But revelled, as splendor, broke
From sun and cloud and air.
In the eye of golden Day.

EXfJUSlI S( ENERY.

1G5

VIII.

"T'ln yearning to break
To my fellows Ix'low
The seen; t of ages hoar ;
Tn the quick-flashing light
I rlart up and down,
Forth and hack, everywliere,
Hut the waters are sealed
Like a pavement of glass, —
Healed that I may not pass.

O for waters of air !

Or the wing of an eagle's might
_.,j , , To cleave a pathway Ix^low ! "

And the Dragonfly in splendor
Cruises ever o'er the lake,
Holding in his heart a secret
Wliich in vain he seeks to break.

-"At Minns Basin," Theodore H. Hand (by permission of the Author).

' ENGLISH SCENERY.

England lias no Alps, no Rocky Mountains, no Niagara,
no very grand or romantic scenery. The English lakes
are charming in their quiet way; perliaps the quietest of
them, such as Grasmere, chirrm more than those which,
l)y their bolder scenery, make higlier claims on our
admiration. The mountain district of North Wales well
repays a visit : 8nowdon, though its height is not Alpine,
is in form a genuine mountain, and the road from Bar-
mouth to Dolgelly, under Cader Idris, is about the most

FlVTH RPLVDER.

beautiful thing in the island. If the excursion is ex-
tended to Seothind wlien the purple heather is in bloom,
liilln and lakes will be seen which in brilliancy of color-
ing at least vie with any lakes and hills in the world.
For the English lakes Wordsworth has given us not only
a poetic but a spiritual handlxx)k, while we see the
Scotch Highlands in the company of Walter Scott, who
imparts a sense of enjoyment as fresh as Highland air.
Killarney is famed above all its rivals, Scotch or English,
and almost the whole of the coast of Ireland is as fine as
the interior is unattractive. The island has been com-
pared to an ugly picture set in a beautiful frame.
Beautiful above all is the western coast of Ireland, with
its pui-ple mountains and the long inlets, into which
the Atlantic rolls. The coast scenery of Cornwall and
Devonshire, too, is very lovely, while its interest is
enhanced by quaint old villages, such as Clovelly and
Polperro, perched on rocky eyries or nestling in deep
"combes," with which are linked memorit'S of maritime
adventure, of daring warfare with the Armada, of buc-
caneering forays on the Spanish Main, or of the hardly
less daring though less honorable feats of the smugglers
in later days. From those shores, too, sailed the adven-
turers who explored the New World and linked it to the
Old. The rocky amphitheatres of the north-eastern coast
are magniticent when the waves of the German Ocean
climb them in a storm. But the characteristic beauty
of England, the beauty in which she has no rival, is of a
kind of which mention is fittingly made after a descrip-
tion of her rural society and life. It is the beauty of a
land which combines the highest cultivation with sylvan
greenness, of an ancient land and a land of lovely homes.
The eastern counties are flat and tame. But elsewhere

English Scknekv.

107

the country is rolling, and from every rising ground the
eye ranges over a landscape of extraordinary richness
and extraordinary finish. The finish, which is the pro-
duct of immense wealth laid out on a small area, is per-
haps more striking than anything else to the stranger
who comes from a raw land of promise. Trees Ixdng left
in the hedgerows as well as in the parks and pleasure
grounds and in the copses, which serve as covers for
game, the general appearance is that of woodland, though
every rood of the land is under the highest tillage. Gray
church towers, handets, mansions, homesteads, cottages,
showing themselves everywhere, fill tlie landscape with
human interest. There is many a more pieturescjue,
there is no lovelier land, than Old England, and a great
body of essentially English poetry from Cowper to
Tennyson attests at once the unique character and the
potency of the charm. The sweetest season is spring,
when the landscape is most intensely green, when the
May is in bloom on all the hedges, and the air is full of
its fragi'ance, when the meadows ai"e full of cowslips, the
banks of primroses and violets, the woods of the wild
hyacinth. Then you feel the joyous spirit that breathes
through certain idyllic passages of Shakespeare.

Her perpetual greenness England owes to her much
maligned climate. The rain falls not in a three days'
storm or a water-spout, but in frecjuent showers through-
out the year. On the western coast, which receives the
clouds from the Atlantic, the climate is wet. But the
rainfall elsewhere is not extraordinary. England is in
the latitude of Labrador. She owes the comparative
mildness of her climate to the Gulf Stream and other
oceanic influences, the ra -^e of which is limited, so that
there are in fact several climates in the island. In the

168

Fifth Reader.

soutli, tender evergreens flourish and the fig ripens. In
the south-west, on tlie coast of Devonshire and Corn-
wall, where the Gulf Stream warms the air, the myrtle
flourishes and flowers are seen at Christmas. In the
North, on the other hand, the winter is very sharp, and
the flora is much more limited. Americans, who cannot
bear to think that there is anything bad in their country
witliout comforting themselves with the reflection that
there is something worse in England, generally, on a
disagreeable day, salute you with the remark, "This is
something like English weather ! " They can show no
weather finer than an English summer evening drawn
out into a long twilight. The London fogs are hideous
and dangerous, but they are not the climate of England ;
they are the coai-smoke of five millions of people.

— "A Trip to England" Goldwin Smith (by permission, of the Author).

BLOW, BLOW, THOU WINTER WIND.

Blow, blow, thou winter wind,

Thou art not so unkind
As man's ingratitude ;

Thy touch is not so keen,

Because thou art not seen,
Although thy breath be rude.
Heigh lio ! sing, heigh ho ! unto the green holly :
Most friendsliip is feigning, most loving m^.re folly :

Then, heigh ho! the holly!

This life is most jolly !

Hail to the Chief.

Freeze, freeze, tliou bitter .sky,
That dosfc not bite so nisrh

As benefits forgot :
Though thou the waters waip,
Tliy sting is not so sliai-p

As friend lemember'd not.
Heigh ho ! sing lieigh ho ! etc.

169

- ShakcKpearc.

HAIL TO THE CHIEF.

Hail to the chief who in triumpli advances !

Honored and blessed be the e\er-gt(^en pine !
T^iig may the tree in his banner that ghiiiccs,
Flourish, the shelter and grace 6f our line !

Heaven send it happy dew,

Earth lend it sap anew,
Gaily to bourgeon, and broadly to grow ;

While every Highland glen

Sends our shout back aj/en.
" Roderigh Vich Alpine dliTi, ho ! ieroe ! "

Ours is no sapling, chance-sown by the fountain,

Blooming at Beltane, in winter to fade ;
When the whirlvdnd has stripped every If^if on the
mountain,
The more shall Clan-Alpine exult in her shade.
Moored in the rifted rock.
Proof to the tempest's shock,
Firmer he roots him the ruder it l)low ;
Menteith and Brcadalbane, then,
Echo his praise agen,

"lloderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ierot; ! "

12 / ■ "

mst

170

Fifth Reader.

Proudly our pibroch has thrilled in Glen Fruin,
And Banochar's groans to our slogan replied :
Crlen Luss and Koss-<llui, they are smoking in ruin,
And the best of Loch-Lomond lie dead on her side.

Wid(jw and Saxon maid

Long shall lament our raid,
Think of Clan- Alpine with fear and with woe ;

Lennox and Leven-glc^i

Shake when they hear agen,
" Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho ! ieroe ! "

—Sir Walter Seott.

WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

i .

When I am in a serious hnnior, I very often walk by
niysel - in Westminster Abbey, win re the gloominess of
the place and the use to which it is applied, with the
solemnity of the building and the condition of the people
who lie in it, are apt to fill the luind with a kind of
melancholy, or rather thoughtfulness, that is not dis-
agreeable. I yesterday passed the whole aflornoon in
the churchyarvl, the cloister.^, and the church, amusing
myself with 'he tombstones and inscriptions that I met
with in those several regions of the dead. Most of them
recorded nothing else of the buried person but that he
v/as born upon one day, arid died upon another — the
v»^hole histoiy of liis life being comprehended in those
two circuniHiances that are connnon to all mankind. I
could not but look upon these registers of existence,
whether brass or marble, as a kind of satire upon the
departed persons, who had left no other memorial of
them bub that they were born and that they died.

Westminster Auhev.

Upon my ^oing into the church, I ontertained myself
with the digging of a grave ; and saw in every sliovel-
fuU of it that wat: thrown up the fragment of a bone or
skull, intermixed with a kind of a fresh mouldering
earth, that some time or other had a place in tli(3 compo-
sition of a human body. Upon this, I began to consider
with myself what innumerable multitudes of people lay
confused together under the pavement of that ancient
cathedral,— how men and women, friends and enemies,
priests and soldiers, monks and prebendaries, were crum-
bled amongst one another, and blended together in the
same common mass, — how beauty, strength, and youth
with old age, weakness, and deformity, lay unrlistin-
guished in the same promiscuous heap of matter !

1 know that entertainments of this nature are apt to
raise dark and dismal thouixhts in timorous minds and
gloomy imaginations; but, for my own part, though I
am always serious, I do not know wliat it is to be
melancholy, and can therefore take a view of Nature in
her deep and solemn scene, w^ith the same pleasure as in
her most gay and delightful ones. By this means I can
improve myself with objects which others consider wdth
terror. When I look upon the tombs of the great, every
emotion of envy dies in me ; when I read the epitaphs
of the beautiful, every inordinate desire goes out ; when
I meet with the griefs of parents upon a tombstone, my
heart melts with compassion ; wdien I see the tomb of
the parents themselves, I consider the vanity of gi'ieviug
for those whom we must quickly follow ; when I see
kings lying by those v/ho deposed them, when I consider
rival wits placed side by side, or the holy men that
divided the world wuth their contests and disputes, I

172

Fifth Reader.

reflect witli koitow and a-stoiiisliment on tlie little com-
petitions, factions and debates of mankind. When 1
I'ead the several dates of the tombs, of some that died
yesterday and some six hundred yeai"S ago, I consider
that great day when we shall all of us be contemporaries,
and make our appearance together !

—Joseph Addison,

THE BIRDS OF KILLINGWORTH.

'J,'

It was the season, when through all the land
The merle and mavis build, and ])uilding sinj

Those lovely lyrics, written by His haiul,

Whom Saxon Ca'dmon calls the Blithe-heart King ;

When on the boughs the purple buds expand,
The banners of the vanguard of the Spring,

And rivulets, rejoicing, rush and leap,

And wave thoir fluttering signals from the steep.

The robin and the })luebird, piping loud.

Filled all the blossoming orchards with tlieir glee ;

The sparrows chirped as if they still were proud
Their race in Holy Writ should mentioned be ;

And hungry crows, assembled in a crowd,
Clamored their piteous prayer incessantly,

Knowing who hears the I'avens cry, and said :

" Give us, O Lord, this day, our daily bread ! "

Across the Sound the birds of passage sailed,

Speaking some unknown language strange and sweet

Of tropic isle remote, and passing hailed

The village with the cheers of all their fleet ;

The Birds of Killingworth. 173

Or quarrelling together, laughed and railed
Like foreign sailors, landed in the street
Of seaport town, and with outlandish noise
Of oaths and gibberish frightening girls and boys.

Thus came the jocund Spring in Killingworth,
In fabulous days, some hundred years ago ;

And thrifty fanners, as they tilled the earth.
Heard with alarm the cawing of the crow,

That mingled with the universal mirth,
Cassandra-like, prognosticating woe ;

Tliey shook tluur heads, and doomed with dreadful words

To swift destruction the whole race of bii-ds.

And a town-meeting was convened straightway

To set a price upon the guilty heads
Of these marauders, who, in lieu of pay.

Levied black-mail upon the garden beds
And cornfields, and beheld without dismay

The awful scarecrow, with his fluttering shreds ;
The, skeleton that waited at their feast.
Whereby their sinful pleasure was increased.

Then from his house, a temple painted white,

With fluted columns, and a roof of red.
The Squire came forth, august and splendid siglit !

Slowly descending, with majestic tread,
Three flights of steps, nor looking left nor right,

Down the long street he walked, as one who said,
" A town that boasts inhabitants like me
Can have no lack of good society ! "

The Parson, too, appeared, a man austere,
The instinct of whose nature was to kill ;

The wrath of God lie preached from year to year,
And read, with fervor, Edwards on the Will ;

174 Fifth Reader.

His favorite pastime was to slay the deer

III Sunimrr on some Adirondack hill ;
E'en now, while walking down t > rural lane,
He lopped the wayside lilies witlx ills cane.

From the Academy, whose belfry crowned
The hill of Science with its vane of brass,

Came the Preceptor, gazing idly round,

Now at the clouds, and now at the gre(Mi grass,

And all absorbed in reveries profound
Of fair Ahnira in the upper class,

Who was, as in a sonnet he had said,

As pure as water, and as good as bread.

And next the Deacon issued from his door.
In his voluminous neck-cloth, white as snow ;

A suit of sable bombazine he wore ;

H-s fon.i was ponderous, and his step was slow ;

There never was so wise a man btfore ;

He seemed the incarnate " Well, I told you so '. "

And to perpetuate his great renown

There was a street named after him in town.

These came together in the new town-hall,
With sundry farmers from the region round.

The Squire presided, dignified and tall,

His air impressive and his reasoning sound ;

Til fared it with the bij-ds, both great and small ;
Hardly a friend in all that crowd they found,

But enemies enough, who every one

Charged them with all the crimes beneath the sun.

When they had ended, from his place apart
Rose the Preceptor, to redress the wi'ong.

And, trembling like a steed before the start, " ^^ '
Looked round tewildered on the expectant throng ;

The Birds of Killingwortu. 175

Then tliought of fair Alraira, and took heart '
To speak out what was in Iiim, clear and strong,
AHke regardless of their smile or frown,
And quite determined not to be laughed down.

" Plato, anticipating the Reviewers,

From his Republic banished without pity

The Poets ; in this little town of yours.

You put to death, by means of a Committee,

The ballad-singers and the Troubadours,
The street-musicians of the heavenly city,

The birds, who make sweet music for us all

In our dark hours, as David did for Saul.

" The thrush that carols at the dawn of day
From the green steeples of the piny wootl ;

The oriole in the elm ; the noisy jay,
Jargoning like a foreigner at his food ;

The bluebird balanced on some topmost spray, .
Flooding with melody the neighborhood ;

Linnet and nieadow-lark, and all the throng

That dwell in nests, and have the gift of song.

"You slay them all ! and wherefore? for the gain
Of a scant handful more or less of wheat,

Or rye, or barley, or some other grain.

Scratched up at random by industrious feet.

Searching for worm or weevil after rain !
Or a few cherries, that are not so sweet

As are the songs thcvse uninvited guests

Sing at their feast with comfortable breasts.

" Do you ne'er think what wondrous beings tliese ?

Ik) you ne'er think who made them, and who taught
The dialect they speak, where melodies

Alone are the interpreters of thought ?

176 Fifth Reader.

WlioHe household words are songs in many keys,
Sweeter than instrument of man e'er caught !
Whose liabitations in the tree-tops even
Ai'e half-way houses on the road to heaven !

"Think, every morning wiien the sun peeps through
The dim, leaf-latticed windows of the grove,

How jubilant the happy birds renew
Th(dr old, melodious madrigals of love !

And when you tliink of this, romeml)er too
'T is always morning somewhere, and aljove

The awakening continents, from shore to sliore,

Somewhere the birds are singing evermore.

"Think of your woods and orchards Avithout })irds !

Of empty nests thai cling to boughs and ))eam8
As in an idiot's brain remembered words

Hang empty 'mid the cobwebs of his dreams !
AVill bleat of Hocks or bellowing of li(M-ds

Make up for the lost music, when your teams
Drag home the stingy harvest, and no more
The feathered gleaners follow to your door ?

"What ! would you rather see the incessant stir
Of insects in the windrows of the hay.

And hear the locust and the grasshopper
Their melancholy hurdy-gurdies play ?

Is this more pleasant to you than the whir
Of meadow-lark, and her sweet roundelay,

Or twitter of little field-fares, as you take

Your nooning in the shade of bush and brake ?

" You call them thieves and pillagers ; but know,
They are the winged waixlens of your farms.

Who from the cornfields drive the insidious foe.
And fiom your harvests keep a hundred harms ;

The Birds ok Killi\(jw()uth. 177

Even the blackest ot* them all, the crow,

Renders good service as yriur man-at-arms.
Crushing the l)eetle i.ti his coat of mail.
And crying havoc on the slug and snail.

" How can I teach your children gentleness,

And mercy to the weak, and reverence
For Life, which, in its weakness or excess,

Is still a gleam of God's omnipotence.
Or Death, wiiich, seeming darkness, is no less

The selfsame light, althougli averted lu^nce,
When by your laws, your actions, and your sj)eech.
You contradict the very things I teach ? "

With this he closer! ; and tlnough the audic^nce went
A murmur, like the rustle of dead leaves ;

Tlie farmers laughed and nodded, and some l>ent
Their yellow heads together like their sheaves ;

Men have no faith in fine-spun sentiment

Who put their trust in bullocks and in })eeves.

The birds were doomed ; and, as the record shows,

A bounty offered for the heads of crows.

There was another audience out of reach,
Who had no voice nor vote in making laws,

But in the papers read liis little speech.

And crowned his modest temples with applause ;

They made him conscious, each one more than each.
He still was victor, vanquished in their cause.

Sweetest of all the applause he won from thee,

O fair Almira at the Academy !

And so the dreadful massacre began ;

O'er fields and orchards, and o'er woodland crests.
The ceaseless fusillade of terror ran.

Dead fell the birds, with blood -stains on their breasts,

178

Fifth Reader.

: f !

li'^'^''

'Is

»;a

t ■

1 1'.'

Or wounded (;rcpt away fioiii sight of man,

While the young (hcd of famine in their nests;
A slaughter to he told in groans, not words,
The very St. Bartholomew (^f Jlirds !

The Summer came, and all the birds were dead ;

Tlie days were like hot coals ; the very ground
Was burned to ashes ; in the orchards fed

Myriads of caterpillars, and around
The cultivated fields and garden l)eds

Hosts of devouring insects crawled, and found
No foe to check, their march, till they had made
The land a desert without leaf or shade.

Devoured by worms, like Herod, was the town,

Because, like Herod, it had ruthlessly
Slaughtered the Innocents. From the trees spun down

The canker-worms upon the passers-by.
Upon each woman's bonnet, shawl, and gown,

Who shook tliem off with just a little cry ;
They were the terror (»f each favorite walk,
The endless theme of all the village talk.

The farmers grew impatient, but a few

Confessed their error, and would not complain,

For after all, the best thing one can do
When it is raining, is to let it rain.

Then they repealed the law, although they knew
It would not call the dead to life again ;

As school-boys, finding their mistake too late.

Draw a wet sponge across the accusing slate.

That year in Killingworth the Autumn came

Without the light of his majestic look.
The wonder of the falling tongues of flame.

The illumined pages of his Doomsday book.

The Birds of Kfllingworttt. 179

A few lost leaves blushed erinisfni with their shame,
And drowned themselves despairing in the l)r(M)k,
While the wild wind went moaning ev» ly where,
Ijamenting the dead children of the air !

But the next Spring a stranger sight was seen,
A sight that never yet hy bard was sung,

As great a wonder as it would have lx>en
If some dumb animal had found a tongue 1

A waggon, overarclied with evergreen.

Upon whose boughs wore wicker cages hung,

All full of singing birds, came down the street, '^^

Filling the air with music wild and sweet.

, From all the country round these birds were brought.
By order of the town, with anxious quest,

And, loosened from their wicker prisons, sought
In woods and fields the places they loved Ijest,

Singing loud canticles, which many thought
Were satires to the authorities addressed,

While others, listening in green lanes, averred

Such lovely music never had l)een heard !

But blitlier still and louder caivJled they
Upon the morrow, for they seemed to know

It was the fair Almira's wedding-day.
And everywhere, around, above, below.

When the Preceptor bore his bride away.
Their songs burst forth in joyous overflow,

And a new heaven bent over a new earth

Ami(i the sunny farms of Killingworth.

• - , ,, —Henry W. Longfellow.

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33 WEST MAIN STREET

WEBSTER, NY. 14580

(716) 872-4503

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180

Fifth Reader.

WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

On one of those sober and rather melancholy days in
the latter jjart of autumn, when the shadows of morning
and evening almost mingle together, and throw a gloom
over the decline of the year, I passed several hours in
rambling about Westminster Abbey. There was some-
thing congenial to the season in the mournful magnifi-
cence of the old pile ; and as I passed its threshold, it
seemed like stepping back into the regions of antiquity,
and losing myself among the shades of former ages.

As 1 paced the cloisters, sometimes contemplating this
mingled picture of glory and decay, and sometimes
endeavoring to decipher the inscriptions on the tomb-
stones, which formed the pavement beneath my feet, my
eyes were attracted to three figures, rudely carved in
relief, but nearly worn away by the footsteps of many
generations. They were the effigies of three of the early
abbots ; the epitaphs were entirely effaced ; the names
alone remained, having no doubt been renewed in later
times (Vitalis. Abbas. 1082, and Gislebertus Crispinus.
Abbas. 1114, and Laurentius. Abbas. 1176). I remained
some little while, musing over these casual relics of
antiquity, thus left like wrecks upon this distant shore
of time, telling no tale but that such beings had been
and had perished ; teaching no moral but the futility of
that pride which hopes still to exact homage in its ashes,
and to live in an inscription. A little longer, and even
these faint records will be obliterated, and the monument
will c?ase to be a memorial. Whilst I was yet looking
down upon the gravestones, I was roused by the sound

Westminster Abbey.

181

of the abbey clock, reverberating from buttress to but-
tress, and echoing among tlte cloisters. It is almost
startling to hear this warning of dep'xrted time sounding
among the tombs, and telling the lapse of the hour,
which, like a billow, has rolled us onward towards the
grave.

I pursued my walk to an arched door opening to the
interior of the abbey. On entering here, the magnitude
of the building breaks fully upon the mind, contrasted
with the vaults of the cloisters. The eye gazes with
wonder at clustered columns of gigantic dimensions,
with arches springing frora them to such an amazing
height; ar^d man wandering about their bases, shrunk
into insignificance in comparison with his own handi-
work. The spaciousness and gloom of this vast edifice
produce a profound and mysterious awe. We step cau-
tiously and softly about, as if fearful of disturbing
the hallowec' silence of the tomb; while every footfall
whispers along the walls, and chatters among the
sepulchres, making us more sensible of the (juiet we
have interrupted.

It seems as if the awful nature of the place presses
down upon the soul, and hushes the beholder into noise-
less reverence. We feel that we are surrounded by the
congregated bones of the great men of past times, who
have filled history with their deeds, and the earth with
their renown. And yet it almost provokes a smile at
the vanity of human ambition, to see how they are
crowded together, and jostled in the dust ; what parai-
mony is observed in doling out a scanty nook — a gloomy
comer — a little portion of earth, to those whom, when
alive, kingdoms could not satisfy : and how many shapes,

■■■fj

■' '4

182

Fifth Reader.

and forms, and artifices, are devised to catcli the casual
notice of tlie passenger, and save from forgetfulness, for
a few short years, a name wliich once aspired to occupy
ages of the world's thought and admiration.

I passed some time in Poet's Corner, which occupies
an end of one of the transepts or cross aisles of the
abbey. The monuments are generally simple; for the
lives of literary men afford no striking themes for a
sculptor. Shakespeare and Addison have statues erected
to their memories ; but the greater part have basts,
medallions, and sometimes mere inscriptions. Notwith-
standing the simplicity of these memorials, I have always
obiserved that the visitors to the abbey remain longest
about them. A kinder and fonder feeling takes place of
that cold curiosity or vague admiration with which they
gaze on the splendid monuments of the great and the
heroic. They linger about these as about the tombs of
friends and companions; for indeed there is something
of companionship between the author and the reader.
Other men are known to posterity only through the
medium of history, which is continually growing faint
and obscure ; but the intercourse between the author
and his fellow-men is ever new, active, and immediate.
He has lived for them more than for himself ; he has
sacrificed surrounding enjoyments, and shut himself up
from the delights of social life, that he might the more
intimately commune vrith distant minds and distant
ages. ^ Well may the world cherish his renown ; for it
has been purchased, not by deeds of violen(*e and blood,
but by the diligent dispensation of pleasure. Well may
posterity be grateful to his memory; for he has left it
an inheritance, not of empty names and sounding actions,

Westminster Aubey.

183

but whole treasures of wisdom, bright t^ems of tliought,
and golden veins of language.

Suddenly the notes of the deep-laboring organ burst
upon the ear, falling with doubled and redoubled inten-
sity, and rolling, as it were, huge billows of sound.
How well do their volume anJ grandeur accord with
this mighty building ! With what pomp do they swell
through its vast vaults, and breathe their awful har-
mony through these caves of death, and make the silent
sepulchre vocal! — And now they rise in triumphant
acclamation, heaving higher and higher their accordant
notes, and piling sound on sound. — And now they pause,
and tlie soft voices of the choir break out into sweet
gushes of melody ; they soar aloft, and warble along the
roof, and seem to play about these lofty vaultc like the
pure airs of heaven. Again the pealing organ heaves its
thrilling tlmnders, compressing air into music, and roll-
ing it forth upon the soul. What long-drawn cadences !
What solemn sweeping concords ! It grows more and
more dense and powerful — it fills the vast pile, and seems
to jar the very walls — the ear is stunned — the senses are
overwhelmed. And now it is winding up in full jubilee
— it is rising from the earth to heaven — the very soul
seems rapt away, and floated upwards on this swelling
tide of harmony !

— WaKhington Irving.

We rise by things that are 'neath our feet ;
By what we have mastered of g<x)d, and gnin
By the pride deposed and the passion slain,
And the vanquished ills that we hourly meet.

-Holland.

184

Fifth Reader.

THE LAY OF THE PHCENIX.

lii

" Sliineth far lience — so
vSing the wise elders —
Far to the fire east
The fairest of lands.

" Daintily dight is that
Dearest of joy fields ;
Breezes all balra-y-filled
Glide through its groves.

" There to the blest, ope

The high doors of heaven,
Sweetly sweep earthward
Their wavelets of song.

" Frost robes the sward not,
Rushes no hail-steed ;
Wind-cloud ne'er wanders.
Ne'er falleth the rain.

" Warding the woodholt.
Girt with gay wonder,
Sheen with the plumy shine,
Phoenix abides.

" Lord of the Lleod,

W^hose home is the air.
Winters a thousand
Abideth the bird. .

" Hapless and heavy then
Waxeth the hazy wing ;
Year-worn and old in the
Whirl of the earth.

The Lay of the Ph(enix.

" Then the high holt-top,

Mounting, the oird .soars ;
There, where the winds sleep,
He buildeth a nest ;—

" Guras the most precious, and
Balms of the sweetest,
Spices and odors, he
Weaves in tlie nest.

"There, in that sun-ark, lo,
Waiteth he wistful ;
Summer comes smilin/, lo,
Ra3^s smite the pile !

"Burden'd with eld-years, and
Weary with slow time,
Slow in his odor-nest,
Burneth the bird.

" Up from those ashes, then,
Spi-ingeth a rare fruit ;
De^p in the rare fruit
There coileth a worm.

" Weaving bliss-meshes
Around and around it.
Silent and })lissful, the
Worm worketii on.

" Lo, from the airy web

Blooming and brightsome,
Young and exulting, the
Phoenix breaks forth.

185

■.I

186

Fifth Reader.

" Round him the birds troop,
Singing and hailing ;
Wings of all glories
Engarland the king.

" Hymning and hailing,

Through forest and sun-air,
Hymning and hailing,

And speaking him 'King.'

" High flies the phoenix,

Escaped from the worm-web
Ha soars in the sun-light,
He bathes in the dew.

"He visits his old haunts.

The holt and the sun-hill ;
The founts of his youth, and
The fields of his love.

" The stars in the welkin.
The blooms on the earth.
Are glad in his gladness.
Are young in his youth.

" While round him the birds troop, the
Hosts of the Himmel,
Blisses of music, and
Glories of wings ;

" Hymning and hailing,
And filling the sun-air

:, With music and glory

And praise of the king."

—Bulwer Lytton,

-4be I

KiLLlECRANKlE.

187

KILLIECRANKIE.

Early in the morning of Saturday, tlie twenty-seventh
of July, Dundee arrived at Blair Castle. There he learn-
ed that Mackay's troops were already in the ravine of
Killiecrankie. It was necessary to come to a prompt
decision. A council of war was held. The Sfixon offi-
cers were generally against liazarding a battle. The
Celtic chiefs were of a different opinion. Glengarry and
Lochiel were now both of a mind. " Fight, my Lord,"
said Lochiel, with his usual energy : " tight immediately :
fight, if you have only one to three. Our men are in
heart. Their only fear is that the enemy should escape.
Give them their way; and be assured that they will
either perish or gain a complete victory. But if you re-
strain them, if you force them to remain on the defensive,
I answer for nothing. If we do not fight, we had better
break up and retire to our mountains."

Dundee's countenance brightened. *' You hear, gentle-
men," he said to his Lowland officers, "you hear the
opinion of one who understands Highland war better
than any of us." No voice was raised on the other side.
It was determined to fight ; and the confederated clans
in high spirits set forward to encounter the enemy.

The enemy meanwhile had made his way up the pass.
The ascent had been long and toilsome : for even the foot
had to climb by twos and threes ; and the baggage horses,
twelve liundred in number, could mount only one at
a time. No wheeled carriage had ever been tugged up
that arduous path. The head of the column had emerged
and was on the table land, while the rear-guard was still

188

FihTu Reader.

:'i

in tlie plain bulow. At length the passage was effected ;
and the troops found theniselves in a valley of no great
extent. Their right was flanked by a lising ground,
their left by the Garry. Wearied with the morning's
work, they threw themselves on the grass to take some
rest and refreshment.

Early in the afternoon, they were roused by an alarm
that the Highlanders were approaching. Regiment "iter
regiment stai'ted up and got into order. In a little while
the sunnnit of an ascent which was about a musket shot
before them was covered with bonnets and plaids.
Dundee rode forward for the purpose of surveying the
force with which he was to contend, and then drew up
his own men with as nuich skill as their peculiar charac-
ter permitted him to exert. It was desirable to keep the
clans distinct. Each tribe, large or small, formed a
colunni separated from the next column by a wide in-
terval. One of these battalions might contain seven
hundred men, while another consisted of only a hundred
and twenty. Lochiel had represented that it was impos-
sible to mix men of different tribes without destroying
all that constituted the peculiar strength of a Highland
army.

On the right, close to the Garry, were the Macleans.
Nearest to them were Cannon and his Irish foot. Next
stood the Macdonalds of Clanronald, commanded by the
guardian of their young prince. On their left were other
bands of Macdonalds. At the head of one large battalion
towered the stately form of Glengarry, who bore in his
hand the royal standard of King James the Seventh.
Still further to the left were the cavalry, a small
squadron, consisting of some Jacobite gentlemen who

KiLLIEC'UAN'KlE.

180

lie
ler

)n
lis
h.
ill

had fied from the Lowlands to the moiintaina, and of
about forty of Dundee's old troopers, Tlie hoi-ses had
been ill fed an<l ill tended anion*^ the Oranipians, and
looked miserably lean and feeble. Beyond them was
Lochiel with his Camerons. On the extreme left, the
men of 8kye were marshalled by Macdonald of Sleat.

In the Hij^ldands, as in all countries where w^ar has
not become a science, men thoujj^ht it the most important
duty of a commander to set an example of personal
courage and of bodily exertion. Lochiel was es2)ecially
renowned for his physical prowess. His clansmen looked
big with pride when they related how he liad himself
broken hostile ranks and hewn down tall warriors. He
probably owed quite as much of his influence to these
achievements as to the high qualities which, if fortune
had placed him in the English Parliament or at the
French court, w^ould have made him one of the foremost
men of his age. He had the sense, however, to perceive
liow erroneous was the notion which his countrymen had
formed. He knew that to give and to take blows was
not the business of a general. He knew with how much
difficulty Dundee had been able to keep together, during
a few days, an army composed of several clans ; and he
knew that what Dundee had effected with difficulty
Cannon would not be able to effect at all. The life on
which so much depended must not be sacrificed to a
barbarous prejudice. Lochiel therefore adjured Dundee
not to run into any unnecessary danger. " Your Lord-
ship's business," he said, " is to overlook everything, and
to issue your commands. Our business is to execute
those commands bravely and promptly." Dundee an-
swered with calm magnanimity that there was much

190

Fifth Rkadkr.

weight in what his friend Sir Ewan had nrjijed, but that
no j^eneral could effect anything- gn;at witliout poHHes.sing
the confidence of his men. " I mast entaljlish my char-
acter for courage. Your people expect to see their
leaders in the thickest of the battle ; and to-day they
shall see me there. I promise you, on my honor, that in
future fights I will take more care of myself."

Meanwhile a fire of musketry was k(!pt up on lx)th
sides, but more skilfully and more steadily by the regular
soldiers than by the mountaineers. The space between
the armies was one cloud of smoke. Not a few High-
landers dropped ; and the clans grew impatient. The
sun, however, was low in the west before Dund(;e gave
the order to prepare for action. His m^ii raised a great
shout. The enemy, probably exhausted by the toil of
the day, returned a feeble and wavering cheer. " We
shall do it now," said Lochiel : " that is not the cry of
men who are going to win." He had walked through all
his ranks, had addressed a few words to every Cameron,
and had taken from every Cameron a promise to concjuer
or die.

It was past seven o'clock. Dundee gave the word.
The Highlanders dropped their plaids. The few who
were so luxurious as to wear rude socks of untanned
hide spurned them away. It was long remembered in
Lochaber that Lochiel took off what probably was the
only pair of shoes in his clan, and charged barefoot at
the head of his men. The whole line advanced firinir.
The enemy returned the fire and did nmch execution.
When only a small space was left between the armies,
the Highlanders suddenly flung away their firelocks,
drew their broadswords, and rushed forward with a

KiLLIECR.WKlE.

101

fearful yell. The Lowlanders prepared to receive the
shock; hut this was th«Mi a lonj^ and awkward process :
and the soldiers were still fuinhlinj:^ with the muzzles of
their guns and the handles of their bayonets when the
whole flood of Macleans, Macdonalds, and Camerons came
down. In two minutes the battle was lost and won.
The ranks of Balfour's rej^iment broke. He was cloven
down while stru<^«^linjif in the press. Ramsay's men
turned their backs and dropped their arms. Mackay's
own foot were swept away by the furious onset of the
Camerons. His brother and nephew exerted themselves
in vain to rally the men. The former was laid dead on
the ground by a stroke from a clayu)ore. The latter,
with eight wounds on his body, made his way through
the tumult and carnage to his uncle's side. Even in that
extremity Mackay retained all his self-possession. He
had still one hope. A charge of horse might recover the
day; for of horse the bravest Highlanders were sup-
posed to stand in awe. But he called on the horse in
vain. Belhaven indeed behaved like a gallant gentle-
man : but his troopers, appalled by the rout of the
infantry, galloped off in disorder : Annandale's men fol-
lowed: all was over; and the mingled torrent of red
coats and tartans went raving down the valley to the
gorge of Killiecrankie.

Mackay, accompanied by one trusty servant, spurred
bravely through the thickest of the claymores and tar-
gets, and reached a point from which he had a view of
the field. His whole army had disappeared, with the
exception of some Borderers whom Leven had kept
together, and of the English regiment, which had poured
a murderous fire into the Celtic ranks, and which still

■|1 fi

192

Fifth Reader.

kept unbroken order. All tlie men that could be col-
lected were only a few hundreds. The general ii^ade
haste to lead them across the (xarry, and, having put
that river ^ }tween them and the enemy, paused for a
moment to meditate on his situation.

He could hardly understand how the conquerors could
be so unwise as to allow him even that moment for de-
liberation. They might with ease have killed vr taken
all who were with him before tlie night closed in. But
the energy of the Celtic warriors had spent itself in one
furious rush and one short struggle. The pass was choked
by the twelve hundred beasts of burden which cari-ied
tha provisions and baggage of the vanquished army.
Such a booty was irresistibly tempting to men who were
impelled to war quite as much by the desire of rapine as
by the desire of glory. It is probable that few even of
the chiefs were disposed to leave so rich a prize for the
sake of King James. Dundee himself might at that
moment have been unable to persuade his followers to
(juit the heaps of spoil, and to complete the great v/ork
of the day ; and Dundee was no more.

At the beginning of the action he had taken his place
in front of his little band of cavalry. He bade them
follow him, and rode forward. But it seemed to be
decreed that, on that day, ihe Lowland Scotch should in
both armies appear to disadvantage. The horse hesi-
tated. Dund*^e turned round, stood up in his stirrups,
and, waving his hat, invited them to come on. As he
lifted his arm, his cuirass rose, and exposed the lower
part of his left side. A musket ball struck him : his
horse sprang forward and plunged into a cloud of smoke
and dust, which hid from both armies the fall of the

Elegy Written in a Counihv Churchyard. 103

victorious general. A person named Johnstone Avas near
him, and caught him as he sank down from the saddle.
" How goes the day ? " said Dundee. " Well for King
James ; " answered Johnstone : " but I am sorry for Your
Lordship." " If it is well for him," answered the dying
man, " it matters the less for m.e." He never spoke
again : but when, half an hour later. Lord Dunfermline
and some other friends came to the spot, they thought
that they could still discern some faint remains of life.
The body, wrapped in two plaids, was carried to the
Castle of Blair.

— Lord Macaulay.

ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY
CHURCHYARD.

The curfew tolls tho knell of parting day,
The k'wing herd winds slowly o'er the lea,

The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimmering landscape on tlie sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,

Have where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds :

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower
The moping owl does to the moon complain

Of such as, wandering near her secret bower,
Molest her ancient solitary reign.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade
Where heaves the tui-f in many a m(>uldering heap,

Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

:::M

194 Fifth Reader.

The breezy call of incense-breathing mom,

The swallow twittering from the straw-builfc shed,

The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

For them no more the ]>lazing hearth shall burn
Or busy housewife ply her evening care :

No children run to lisp their sire's return,
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,

Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke ;

How jocund did they drive their team afield !

How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke !

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.

i ''

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er ga^'e

Await alike the inevitable hour : —

The paths of glorj'^ lead but to the grave.

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault
If memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise,

Wiere through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

Can storied urn or animated bust

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath ?

Can honor's voice provoke the silent dust.
Or flattery soothe the dull cold ear of death ?

I I

Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard. 195

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid

Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire ;

Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd,
Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre: ;

But knowledge to their eyes her ample page
Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll ;

Cliill penury repressed their noble rage, -

And froze the genial current of the soul.

Full many a gem of purest ray serene

The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear ;

Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, "'
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

Some village Hampden, that with dauntless ])reast
The little tyrant of his fields withstood.

Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest.

Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood.

The applause of listening senates to command,
The threats of pain and ruin to despise,

To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land.

And read their history in a nation's eyes

Their lot forbade : n» r circumscribed alone

Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined ;

Forbade to wade thro' slaughter to a throne,
And shut the gates oi mercy on mankind,

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide.
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,

Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride
With incense kindled at the Muse's flame.

196 Finn Reader.

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife
Their sober wislies never learned to stray ;

Along the cool sequestered vale of life

They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. '.

Yet e'en these bones from insult to protect •

Some frail memorial still erected nigh,

With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked,
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

Their name, their years, spelt by the unlettered Muse,

The place of fame and elegy supply :
And many a holy text around she strews.

That teach the rustic moralist to die.

For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey.
This pleasing anxious being e'er resigned.

Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,
Nor cast one longing lingering look behind ?

On some fond breast the parting soul relies.
Some pious drops the closing eye requires ;

E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries.
E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.

For thee, who, mindful of the unhonored dead,
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate ;

If chance, by lonely contemplation led.

Some kindred spirit shall enquire thy fate, —

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,
" Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn

Brushing with hasty steps the dews away.
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn ;

Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard. 197

" There at the foot of yonder nodding beech
That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,

His listless length at noon-tide would he stretch,
And pore upon the brook that babbles by.

" Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,
Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove ;

Now drooping, woeful-wan, like one forlorn,

Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love.

" One morn I missed him on the customed hill,
Along the heath, and near his favorite tree ;

Another came ; nor yet beside the rill,

Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he ;

" The next with dirges due in sad array

Slow through the church-way path we saw him l)orne, —
Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay
: Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn."

THE EPITAPH.

Here rests his head upon the lap of earth,
A youth, to fortune and to fame unknown ;

Fail' science frown'd not on his humble })irth
And melancholy marked him for her own.

Large was his Iwunty, and his soul sincere ;

Heaven did a recompense as largely send ;
He gave to misery (all he had) a tear,

He gained from Heaven ('twas all he wished) a friend.

No farther seek his merits to disclose,

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, ^ !^
(There they alike in trembling hope repose,)

The bosom of his Father and his Gk)d.

— Thomas Gray.

198

Vimi Reader!

THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.

f!:t

A wide plain, where the broadening Floss luirries on
between its green banks to the sea, and the loving tide,
rushing to meet it, checks its passage with an ijnpetuous
embrace. On this mighty tide the black ships — laden
with the fresh-scented fir planks, with rounded sacks of
oil-bearing seed, or with the dark glitter of coal — are
borne along to the town of St. Ogg's, which shows its
aged, fluted red roofs and the broad gables of its wharves
between the low wooded hill and the river-brink, tingeing
the water with a soft purple hue under the transient
glance of this Febi*uary sun. Far away on each hand
stretch the rich pastures, and the patches of dark earth,
made ready for the seed of broad-leaved green crops,
or touched already with the tint of the tender-bladed
autumn-sown com. There is a remnant still of the last
year's golden clusters of bee-hive ricks rising at intervals
beyond the hedgerows; and everywhere the hedgerows
are studded with trees : the distant ships seem to be
lifting their masts and stretching their red -brown sails
close among the branches of the sprea(ling ash. Just by
the red-roofed town the tributary Ripple flows with a
lively current into the Floss. How lovely the little
river is, with its dark changing wavelets ! It seems to
me like a living companion while I wander along the
bank and listen to its low, placid voice, as to the voice of
one who is deaf and loving. I remember those large
dipping willows. I remember the stone bridge.

And this is Dorlcote Mill. I must stand a minute or
two here on the bridge and look at it, though the clouds

The Mill on the Floss.

199

are threatening, and it is far on in the afternoon. Even
in this leafless time of departing February it is pleasant
to look at — perhaps the chill damp season adds a charm
to the trindy-kept comfortable dwelling-house, as old as
the elms and chestnuts that shelter it from the northern
blast. The stream is brimful now, and lies high in this
little withy plantation, and half drowns the grassy fringe
of the croft in front of the house. As I look at the full
stream, the vivid grass, the delicate bright-green powder
softening the outline of the great trunks and branches
that gleam from under the bare purple boughs, I am in
love with moistness, and envy the white ducks that are
dipping their heads far into the water among the withes,
unmindful of the awkward appearance they make in the
drier world above. ; v .

The rush of the water and the booming of the mill
bring a dreamy deafness, which seems to heighten the
peacefulness of the scene. They are like a great curtain
of sound, shutting one out from the world beyond. And
now there is the thunder of the huge covered waggon
coming home with sacks of grain. That honest waggoner
is thinking of his dinner getting sadly dry in the oven at
this late hour ; but he will not touch it till he has fed his
horses — the strong, submissive, meek-eyed beasts, who, I
fancy, are looking mild reproach at him from between
their blinkers, that he should crack his whip at them in
that awful manner, as if they needed that hint ! See
how they stretch their shoulders up the slope toward the
bridge, with all the more energy because they are so near
home ! Look at their grand shaggy feet, that seem to
grasp the firm earth, at the patient strength of their
necks, bowed under the heavy collar, at the mighty

200

Fimi Reader.

muscles of their struggling haiuiches ! I should like
well to hear them neigh over their hardly-earned feed
of corn, and see them, with their moist necks freed from
the harness, dipping their eager nostrils into the muddy
pond. Now they are on the bridge, and down they go
again at a swifter pace, and the arch of the covered
waggon disappears at the turning behind the trees.

Now I can turn my eyes to the mill again, and watcli
the unresting w^heel sending out its diamond jets of
water. That little girl is watching it too : she has been
standing on just the same spot at the edge of the water
ever since I paused on the bridge. And that queer white
cur with the brown ear seems to be leaping and barking
in ineffectual remonstrance with the wheel ; perhaps he
is jealous, because his playfellow in the beaver bonnet is
so rapt in his movement. It is time the little playfellow
went in, I think ; and there is a very bright fire to tempt
her : the red light shines out under the deepening gray
of the sky. It is time, too, for me to leave off resting
my arms on the cold stone of this bridge.

Ah, my arms are really benumbed. I have been press-
ing my elbows on the arms of my chair and dreaming
that I was standing on the bridge in front of Dorlcote
Mill, as it looked one February afternoon many years
ago. Before I dozed off I was going to tell you what
Mr. and Mrs. Tulliver were talking about, as they sat by
the bright fire in the left-hand parlor, on that very
afternoon I have been dreaming of.

— "The Mill on the Floss," George Eliot (by permissum of the Publishert).

The Isles of Greece.

201

THE ISLES OF GREECE.

The isles of Greece ! tlie isles of Greece !

Where burning Sappho loved and sung,
Where grew the arts of war and peace.

Where Delos rose and Phcuhus sprung !
Eternal summer gilds them yet,
But all, except tlieir sun, is set.

The Scian and the Tei^n muse.
The hero's harp, the lover's lute,

Have found the fame your shores refuse ;
Their place of birth alone is nmte

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 Persian's grave,
I could not deem myself a slave.

A king sat on the rocky brow '

Which looks o'er sea-born Salarais ;

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 ?

'Mi

202

FitTH Header.

'Tis something, in tiie dearth of fame,
Though Hnk'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 rve but weep o'er days more V)lest ?

Must we but blush ? — Our fathers bled.
Earth ! render back from out thy ])reast

A remnant of our Spartan dead !
Of the three hundred grant but three,
To make a new Thermopylae !

}

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 ?

The Isles of Greece.

203

Fill high the howl with Saniian wiiu> !

Wc will not think of thoinos like these !
It made Anacreon's song divine :

He served — })ut served Polycrates —
A tyrant ; but our masters then
Were still at least, our countrymen.

The tyrant of the Chersonese

Was freedom's Ijest 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 Hull's rock and Parga's shore,
Exists the remnant of a line

Such as the Doric mothers \ioni :
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 sworda 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.

204

Fifth Ueadek.

Place me on Suiiium's inor])lod stoep,
Where notliiii«^, .save t' ) waves and T,

May hear our mutual murmurs sweep :
There, Hwari-lik(^, let me sing and <lie !

A land of slaves shall ne'er ])e mine —

Dash down yon cup of Samian wine !

-Lord Byron

LABOR.

iit i

For there is a perennial nobleness, and even sacred-
nesH, in Work. Were he never so benighted, forgetful of
his high calling, tlu?re is always liope in a man that
actually and earnestly works : in Idleness alone is there
perpetual despair. Work, never so Mannnonish, mean,
is in connnuniciition with Nature ; the real desire to get
Work done will itself lead one more and more to truth,
to Nature's appointments and regulations, which are
truth.

The latest Gospel in this world is. Know thy work and
do it. "Know thyself:" long enough has that poor "self"
of thine tormented thee ; thou w^lt never get to " know "
it, I believe ! Think it not thy business, this of knowing
thyself; thou art an unknowable individual: know what
thou canst work at ; and work at it, like a Hercules !
Tliat will be thy better plan.

It has been w^ritten, "an endless significance lies in
Work ; " a man perfects himself by working. Foul
jungles are cleared away, fair seed-fields rise instead,
and stately cities ; and withal the man himself first
ceases to be a jungle and foul unwholesome desert
thereby. Consider how, even in the meanest sorts of

Labor.

205

Labor, the whole soul of a nuiii is compoaed into a kind
of real liarniony, the inHta.it lie sets himself to work!
Doubt, Desire, Sorrow, Remorse, Indignation, Despair
itself, all these like helldogs lie beleaguering the soul
of the poor day worker, as of every man : but he bends
himself with free valor against his task, and all these
are stilled, all these shrink nnunnuring far ott* into tiieir
caves. The man is now a man. The b^^sHed glow of
Labor in him, is it not as purifying fire, wherein all
poison is burnt up, and of sour smoke itself there is
made bright blessed flame !

Destiny, on the whole, has no other way of cultivating
us. A formless Chaos, once set it revolving, grows round
and ever rounder; ranges itself, by mere force of gravity,
into strata, spherical courses ; is no longer a Chaos, but a
round compacted World. What would become of the
Earth, did she cease to revolve ? In the poor old Earth,
so long as she revolves, all inetiualities, irregularities
disperse themselves ; all irregularities are incessantly
becoming regular. Hast thou looked on the Potter's
wheel, — one of the venerablesi objects ; old as the Pro-
phet Ezechiel and far older? Eude lumps of clay, how
they spin themselves up, by mere quick whirling, into
beautiful circular dishes. And fancy the most assiduous
Potter, but without his wheel ; reduced to make dishes,
or rather amorphous botches, by mere kneading and
baking ! Even such a Potter were Destiny, with a
human soul that would rest and lie at ease, that would
not work and spin! Of an idle unrevolving man the
kindest Destiny, like the most assiduous Potter without
wheel, can bake and knead nothing other than a botch ;
let her spend on him what expensive coloring, what

200

FitTH Reader.

gilding and enainelliii<; slie will, he i.s but a botch. Not
a dish ; no, a bulging, kneaded, crooked, shambling,
squint-cornered, amorphous botch, — a mere enamelled
vessel of dishonor! Let the idle think of this.

Blessed is he who has found his w^ork ; let him ask no
other blessedness. He has a work, a life-purpose; lie
has found it, and will follow it ! How, as a free-flowing
channel, dug and torn by noble force through the sour
mud-swamp of one's existence, like an ever-deejjening
river there, it iTins and flows; — draining off the sour
festering water, gradually from the root of the remotest
grass-blade ; making, instead of pestilential swamp, a
green fruitful meadow with its clear-flowing sti-eam
How blessed for the meadow iiself, let tlie stream and
its value be great or small ! Labor is Life : from the
inmost heart of the Worker rises his God-given Force,
the sacred celestial Life-essence breathed into him by
Almighty God; from his in most heart awakens him to
all nobleness, — to all knowledge, 'self-knowledge" and
much else, so -soon as Work fitly begins. Knowledge?
The knowledge that will hold good in working, cleave
tiiou to that ; for Nature herself accredits that, says Yea
to that. Propeily thou hast no other knowledge but
what thou hast got by working : the rest is yet all a
hypothesis of knowledge ; a thing to be argued of in
schools, a thing floating in the clouds, in endless logic-
vortices, till we try it and fix it. " Doubt, of whatever
kind, can be ended by Action alone."

Work is of a religious nature: — work is of a hnive
nature ; which it is tha aim of all religion to be. All
work of man is as the swinnner's : a waste ocean threat-
ens to devour him ; if he front it not bravely, it will

Labor.

207

keep its word. By incessant wise defiance of it, lusty
rebuke and buffet of it, behold liow it loyally supports
him, bears him as its conqueror along. " It is so," says
Goethe, " with all thinjrs tliat man undertakes in this
world."

Brave Sea-captain, Norae Sea-king, — Columbus, my
hero, royalest Sea-king of all ! it is no friendly environ-
ment this of thine, in the waste deep waters; around
thee mutinous discouraged souls, behind thee disgrace
and ruin, before thee the unpenetrated veil of Niglit.
Brother, these wild water mountains, bounding from
their deep bases (ten miles deep, I am told), are not
entirely there on thy behalf ! Meseems they have other
work than floating thee forward : — and the huge Winds,
that sweep from Ursa Maj;)r to the Tropics and E(juators,
dancing their giant-waltz through the kingdon\s of Chaos
and Immensity, they care little about filling rightly or
filling wrongly the small shoulder-of-mutton sails in this
cockle-skiflf of thine 1 Thou art not among articulate-
speaking friends, my brother ; i^hou art among immeas-
urable dumb monsters, tumbling, howling wide as the
world here. Secret, far ottj invisible to all hearts but
thine, there lies a help in them: see how thou wilt get
at that Patiently thou wilt wait till the mad South-
wester spend itself, saving thyself by dextrous science of
defence, the while : valiantly, with swift decision, wilt
thou strike in, when the favoring East, the Possible,
springs up. Mutiny of men thou wilt sternly rej)ress;
weakness, despondency^ thou wilt cheerily encourage :
thou wilt swallov/ down complaint, unreason, weariness,
weakness of others and thyself; — how much wilt tliou
swallow down ! There shall be a depth of Silence in

i •

208

Fifth Reader.

thee, deeper than this Sea, which is but ten miles deep :
a Silence unsoundable ; known to God only. Thou shalt
be a Great Man. Ye?, my World-Soldier, thou of the
World Marine -service, — thou wilt have to be greater
than this tumultuous unmeasured W^orld here round thee
is : thou, in thy strong soul, as with wrestler's arms, shalt
embrace it, harness it down ; and make it bear thee on,
— to new Americas, or whither God wills!

— Thomam Carlyle.

■'.■ .v;-T

THE OCEAN.

, There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is a rapture on. the lonely shore,
There is society where none intrudes,
By the deep Sea, and music in its roar :
I love not man the less, but Nature more,
From these our interviews, in which I steal
From all I may be, or ha\e been before.
To mingle with the Univf^rse, and feel

What T caii ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal.

lloU on, thou deep and dark l)lue Ocean — roll !
Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain ;
Man marks the earth with ruin — his control
Stops with the shore ; — upon the watery plain
The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain
A shadow of man's ravage, save his own.
When for a nioment, like a di-op of rain.
He sinks into thy depths with bubl)ling groan,
Without a grave, unknell'd, uncoflin'd and unkixown.

The Ocean.

209

His steps are not upon thy paths, — thy fields

Are not a spoil for him, — thou dost arise

And shake him from thee ; the vile strength he

wields
For earth's destruction thou dost all despise,
Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies.
And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray
And howling, to his gods, where haply lies
His petty hope in some near port or bay,
And dashest him again to earth : — there let him lay.

Tlie armaments which thunderstrike the walls ,
Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake,
And monarchs tremble in their capitals,

•' The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make
Their clay creator the vain title take
Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war ;
These are thy toji, and, as the snowy flake.
They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar

Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar.

Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee —
Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they ?
Thy waters washed them power while they were free.
And many a tyrant since : their shores obey
The stranger, slave, or ravage ; their decay
Has dried up realms to deserts : not so thou,
Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play —
Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow —
Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now.

Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form
Glasses itself in tempests ; in all time,
Calm, or convulsed — in breeze, or gale, or storm,
Tcing the pole, or in the torrid clime

;-l

210

Fifth Reader.

Dark-heaving ; — boundless, endless, and sublime —
The image of Eternity — the throne
Of the Invisible ; even from out thy slime
The monsters of the deep are made ; each zone
Obeys thee ; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone.

And I have loved thee, Ocean ! and my joy
Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be
Borne like thy bubbles, onward : from a boy
I wanton'd with thy breakers — they to me
Were a delight; and if the freshening sea
Made them a terror — 'twas a pleasing fear.
For I was as it were a child of thee,
And trusted to thy billows far and near.
And laid my hand upon thy mane — as I do here.

— Lord Byron.

THE EXECUTION OF SIR THOMAS MORE.

At daybreak he was awakened by the entrance of Sir
Thomas Pope, who had come to confirm his anticipations,
and to tell him it was the King's pleasure that he should
sufi'er at nine o'clock that morning. He received the
news with utter composure. "I am much bounden to
the King," he said, " for the benefits and honors he has
bestowed upon me ; and so help me God, most of all am
I bounden to him that it pleaseth his Majesty to rid me
so shortly out of the miseries of this present world."

Pope told him the King desired that he would not
"use many words on the scafibld." "Mr. Pope," he
answered, "you do well to give me warning, for other-
wise I had purposed somewhat to have spoken; but no

The Execution of Sir Thomas More. 211

matter wherewith his Grace should liave cause to be
otfended. Howbeit, whatever I intended, I sliall obey
his Highness's command."

He afterwards discussed the arrano-ements for his
funeral, at which he begged that his family might be
present; and when all was settled, Pope rose to leave
him. He was an old friend. He to<jk Mores hand and
wrung it, and, quite overcome, burst into tears.

" Quiet yourself, Mr. Pope," More said, '• and be not
discomfited, for I trust we shall once see each other full
merrily, when we shall live and love togetlier in eternal
bliss."

As soon as he was alone, he dressed in his most
elaborate costume. It was for the benefit, he said, of
the executioner who was to do him so great a service.
Sir William Kingston remonstrated, and with some
difficulty induced him to put on a plainer suit ; but that
his intended liberality should not fail, he sent the man a
gold rjigel in compensation, " as a token that he maliced
him nothing, but rather loved him extremely."

" So about nine of the clock he was brought by the
lieutenant out of the Tower, his beard being long, which
fashion he had never before used, his face pale and lean,
carrying in his hands a red cross, casting his eyes often
towards heaven." He had been unpopular as a judge,
and one or two persons in the crowd were insolent to
him; but the distance was short and soon over, as all
else was nearly over now.

The scaffold had been awkwardly erected, and shook
as he placed his foot upon the ladder. " See me safe up,"
lie said to Kingston, " For my coming down I can shift
for myself." He began to speak to the people, but the

^:^

212

Fifth Reader.

sheriff begged him not to proceed, and he contented him-
self with asking for their prayers, and desiring them to
bear witness for him that he died in the faith of the
holy Catholic Church, and a faithful servant of God and
the King. He then repeated the Miserere psalm on his
knees ; and when he had ended and had risen, the exe-
cutioner, with an emotion which promised ill for the
manner in which his part in the tragedy would be
accomplished, begged his forgiveness. More kissed him.
"Thou art to do me the grei-test benefit that I can
receive," he said. " Pluck up thy spirit, man, and be not
afraid to do thine office. My neck is very short. Take
heed therefore that thou strike not awry for saving of
thine honesty.'* The executioner offered to tie liis eyes.
"I will cover them myself," he said; and binding them
in a cloth which he had brought with him, he knelt and
laid his head upon the block. The fatal stroke was
about to fall, when he signed for a moment's delay
while he moved aside his beard. " Pity that should be
cut," he murmured; "that has not committed treason."
With which strange words, the strangest perhaps ever
uttered at such a time, the lips most famous through
Europe for eloquence and wisdom closed for ever.

"So," concludes his biographer, "with alacrity and
spiritual joy he received the fatal axe, which no sooner
had severed the head from the body, but his soul was
carried by angels into everlasting glory, where a crown
of martyrdom was placed upon him which can never
fade nor decay; and then he found those words true
which he had often spoken, that a man may lose his
head and have no harm."

This was the execution of Sir Thomas More, an act

The Cloud.

213

which was sounded out into the far comers of the earth,
and was the world's wonder as well for the circumstances
under which it was perpetrated, as for the preternatural
composure with which it was borne. Something of his
calmness may have been due to his natural temperament,
something to an unaffected weariness of a world which
in his eyes was plunging into the ruin of the latter days.
But those fair hues of sunny cheerfulness caught their
color from the simplicity of his faith ; and never was
there a Christian's victory over death more grandly
evidenced than in that last scene lighted with its lambent
humor."

— History of England, James Anthony Froude (by permission of the Publishers).

THE CLOUD.

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 noonday dreams.
From my wings are shaken the dews that waken

The sweet buds every one,
When rocked 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.

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.

214

Fifth Reader.

I ' Vr

I \ ^ ;( ■'•1

Sul)limo on the towers of my skiey bowers

Lightning my pilot sits ;
In a cavern under is fettered the Thunder,

It strucrtrles and howls at fits.

•oo'

Over earth and ocean with gentle motion

Tliis pilot is guiding me,
Lured ))y 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 ajl the while bask in heaven's blue smile,

Whilst he is dissolving in rains.

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 alii) one moment may sit

In the light of its golden wings.
And, when Sunset may breathe, from the lit sea
beneath.

Its ardors 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.

That orb^d maiden with white fire laden

Whom mortals call the Moon
Glides glimmering o'er my fieece-like floor

By the midnight breezes strewn ;

The Cloud.

215

And wherever the beat of her unseen feet,

Wliich only the angels hear,
May have broken the W(X)f of ray tent's thin rtK)f,
\ The Stars peep behind her and peer.
And I laugh to see thora whirl and flee

Like R 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 paved with the moon and these.

I bind the l^jun's throne with a Imrning 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. if
From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape, ;

Over a torrent sea.
Sunbeam-proof, I hang life 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 chained to my chair,

Is the million-colored bow ;
The Sphere-fire above its soft colors wove,

While the moist Earth was laughing below.

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 sUxm

The pavilion of heaven is bare.
And the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleams

Build up the blue dome of air.

,,u

216

Fifth Reader.

I silently laugh at my own cenotaph,—

Aiul out of the caverns of rain,
Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the
torn}),

I arise, and unbuild it again.

— Percy By»»he Shelley,

THE PLAINS OF ABRAHAM.

It was two by the clock when the boats began to
move, and slowly we ranged down the stream, silently
steered, carried by the current. No paddle, no creaking
oarlock, broke the stillness. I was in the next boat to
the General's, for, with Clark and twenty-two other
volunteers to the forlorn hope, I was to show the way up
the heights, and we were near to his person for over two
hours that night. No moon was shining, but I could see
the General plainly ; and once, when our boats almost
touched, he saw me, and said graciously, " If they get up,
Mr. Moray, you are free to serve yourself."

My heart was full of love of country then, and I an-
swered, " I hope, sir, to serve you till your flag is hoisted
on the citadel."

He turned to a young midshipman beside him, and
said, " How old are you, sir ? "

" Seventeen, sir," was the reply.

" It is the most lasting passion," he said, musing.

It seemed to me then, and I still think it, that the
passion he meant was love of country. A moment after-
wards I heard him recite to the officers about him, in a
low, clear tone, some verses by Mr. Gray, the poet, which

Thk Plains of Amkaham.

217

T IwkI iirv*')' tlinn rend, thoiioh J luivo prizr*] thuni siiicii.
Uiulcr tliosi; frowniiiii' hoii^hts, and tlio snu'll from our
roaring distant thirty-t\V()-p<)un<l('rs in tlio aii*, I lizard
liini Kay :

** Tli(! rurfew tolls tho knell of |»urtiiij^ ilfiy,
Tho lo\vin<^ hord wind slowly our tlio lua,
^ The ploui^liiiian lioiiH'Wiml plods liis wfjiry way,

And leavL's the woild to durknuHs and to nic."

I liave lienrd finer voii'cs than Ins — it was as tin Ixiside
Doltaire's — ])nt sonictliin*;- in it piercL'd me tlint nij^lit,
and I felt tlie man, tlie p(;rfoct liero, "svhen ho said:

*' The boast of lieraldry, the pomp of power,

And all that l)eauty, ail that wealth e'er <^ave
Await alike th' inevitable hour : —

The paths (»f glory lead but to the ^rave." .

Soon afterwai'ds we neared the end of our quest, the
tide carrying' us in to sliore; and down from the dark
lieights there came a cliallenoe, satisfied by an officer,
who said in Frencli tliat we wei'e provision-boats for
Monteahn : tliese, we knew, liad been expected ! Then
came the batteries of Samos. An;{iin av<5 passed with the
same excuse, I'ounded a lus-idland, and the great work
was begun.

The boats of the Light Infantry swung in to shore.
No sentry cliallenged, but I knew that c tlie top Lancy's
tents were set. When tlie Light Infantry liad landed,
we twenty-four volunteers st<Jod still for a moment, and
I pointed out the way. Before we started, we stooped
beside a brook that leaped lightly down the ravine and
drank a little i-nm and water. Then I led the way,
Clark at one side of me, and a soldier of the Light Infan-
1")

!K K

r' •

2IS

P^IITII HKAhKlf.

]li

try nt th«! oUht. It was Imnl cliinhiii;;, but, follovvinjr
in our cardul steps as silontly as tlicy iiiij^lit, tin? ^ooil
Follows eaiiio <Ni^erly aitrr. Once a rock hi'oko loose* and
eaiiio tuiiihliii;^' <lown, but pluM*;«'(l into a thicket, wliei'e
it stayed; else it might have done for us entirely. I
breathed fre^.dy when it stopped. Once, too, a branch
cracked loudly, and we lay still; but hearing nothing
above, we pushe'l on, and, sweating gieatly, came close
to the top.

Here Clark and I di'ew back, for such honor as there
might bo in gaining the heights iirst, 1 wished to go to
these soldiers who had trusted their lives to my guid-
ance. I let six go by and reach v.he heights, and then I
drew myself up. We did not stir till all twentj'-lour
were safe; then we nuule a dash for the tents of Lancy,
which now showi^d in the fii-st gi'iy light of morning.
We were discovered, and shots gre»}ted us; but we were
on them instantly, and in a moment I had the pleasure
of putting a bullet in Lancy s lieel, and brought him
down. Our cheers told the Ueneial the news, and soon
hund^'eds of s(jldiers were climbing the hard May that
we had come.

And now, Avhile an armv climbed to the heii»hts of
Maitre Abraham, Admiral Saunders in the gray dawn
was bombarding jVIontcn'iu's encampment, and boats fill-
ed with marines and s )!t'iers drew to the Beauport flats,
as if to land there; while shots, bombs, shells, and car-
casses were hurled from Levis upon the town, deceiving
Montcalm. At last, however, suspecting, he rode towai'ds
the to\\ n at six o'clock, and saw our scarlet ranks spread
across the plains between him and Bougainville, and on
the crest, nearer to him, eyeing us in amazement, the

Tin: I'laixs ok Ahkaiiam.

21!)

whito-coatiMl luittnHoii of Oui<'nii«\ \vlii(;]i slnnilfl tlu; (Liy
iM'loro liave occupictl tlio very ;:;i*()niul Iicld Ky Lancy. A
sli<;ljt rain f'alliii;^ ,m<1(1«'(1 to tluMr ^looni, l)tifc cliccreMl us.
It ^ave us a l)«'tt«'r liuht to i\'^ht hy, I'o** mi tho clcai* Sop-
teiiihor air, tlu^ ])i'i}^ht sun .sliining in oui* faces, tlic}
would have luul us at a(]vanta<!f(3.

In another liour the ^at('s of St. Jolni and St. Louis
emptied out npon tliis batth;tield a \varrin<^ flood of oui*
foes. It was a handsome si«>-ht: tlio wliite uniforms ol'
tlie brave regiments, Koussillon, La Sarre, Guieimo, Lan-
jjjuedoc, Hdarn, mixed witli the daik, excitable militia,
tho sturdy burnjiers of tlie town, a band of coiireiirs de
hoifi in their i-outj^h hunter's costume, and whooping In-
dians, painted and furious, ready to eat us. At last here
was to be, a test of figliting in open field, thoueh the
P'rench had in their whole ai'iny twice the number of
our men, a walle<l and provisioned city ])ehind them, anrl
field-pieces in great number to bring against us.

But there was bungling with them. Vaudreuil hung
back or came tardily from Beauport; Bougainville had
not yet arrived ; and when they might have pitted twice
oiu" nund)er against us, they had not many more than
we. With Bouii'ainville behind us and ]\rontcahn in
front, we might have been checked, though there was no
man in all our army but believed that we should win the
day. I cculd plainly see Montcalm, mounted on a dark
horse, riding along the lines as they formed against us,
waving his sword, a truly gallant figure. He was an-
swered by a roar of applause and greeting. On the left
their Indians and burghers ONerlapped our second line,
where Townsend with Amherst's and the Light Infantry,
and Colonel Bui-ton with the Royal Americans and Light

.;mj

I'A--

220

FiFTii Hkadku.

Infantry, guarded our (1aid\, pi'opared to meet Bougain-
villeo In vain our foes tried to m't ])etweeu our riiilit
llaidc and the river; Otway's Regiment, tl^rown out,
defeated that.

It was my liope that Doltaire was with Montcahn, and
that we miglit meet and end our (luaii'el. I came to
know afterwards that it was he who had induced Mont-
cahn to send the battalion of Guienne to the heiglits
above the Anse du Foulon. Th<; battalion had not been
moved till twenty-four hours alter the or<ler w^as given,
or we should never liave gained those, heights ; stones
rolled from tlie clifi* would have' destroyed an army !

We waited, Clark and I, with the Louisbourg Grena-
diers while they formed. We made no noise, but stood
steady and still, the bagpipes of the Highlanders shrilly
challenging. At eight o'clock sharpshooters began firing
on us from the left, and our skirmishers were thnnvn
out to hold them in check, or drive them from the houses
where they sheltered and galled Townsend's men. Their
tield-pieces opened on us, too, and yet we did nothing,
but at nine o'clock, being ordered, we lay down, and
waited still. There was no restlessness, no anxiety, no
Rh()W of doubt, for these men of ours were old fighters,
and thev trusted their leaders. From bushes, trees,
coverts, find fields of grain there came that constant hail
of fire, and there fell upon our ranks a doggedness, a
(juiet anger, wiiich grew into a grisly patience. The only
pleasure we had in two long hours was in watching our
two brass six-pounders play U})oti the irregular ranks of
our foes, making confusion, an<l Townsend drive back a
detachment of cavalry from Cap Rouge, which sought to
break our left flank and reach Montcalm.

^I'

fuE Plains of Amkaham.

221

We liJid seen the stars go duvvii, the cold, mottled light
of dawn break over tlie battered city and the lieights of
Charlesbourg ; we liad watched the sun come up, and
then steal away behind tlie slow-travelling clouds and
hanging mist; we liad looked across over unreaped corn-
fields and the dull, slovenly 8t. Charles, knowing that
endless leagues of country, north and south, east and
west, lay in the balance for the last time. I believed
that this day would see the last of the strife between
England r,iid France for dominion here; of La Pompa-
dour's spite which I had roused to action against my
country; of the struggle between Doltaire and myself.

The public stake was worthy of our army — worthy of
the dauntless soldier who had begged his physicians to
patcii him up long enough to fight this fight, whereon
he staked imputation, life, all that a man loves in the
world ; the private stake was more than worthy of my
long sufferings. I thought that Montcalm would have
waited for Vaudreuil, but no. At ten o'clock his three
colunnis came down upon us briskly, making a wild
ractle ; two colunnis moving ujxni our right and one upon
our left, firing oV)li([uely and constantly as they marched.
Then came the connnand to rise, and we stood up and
waited, our nniskets loaded with an extra ball. I could
feel tlie stern malice in our ranks, as we stood there
and took, without returning a shot, that danniabhi fire.
]\[inute after minute passed : then came the sharp com-
mand to advance. We did so, and again halted, and yet
no shot came from us. We stood there inactive, a long
palisade of red.

At last I saw our General raise his sword, a connnand
ranjj down the long line of battle, and. like one terrible

i r

222

Fifth Heai)i:i{.

cannon-shot, our uiu.skets san^' togetlier with as perfect
a pi-ecision as on a private held of exercise. Tlien, wait-
inu- for the smoke to clear a little, another volley came
with almost the same precision ; after w^hich the tirin<f
came in choppy waves of sound, and again in a pei'sist-
ent clattering. Then a light breeze lifted the smoke
and mist well away, and a wayward sunHght showed us
our foe, like a long white wave retreating from a rocky
shore, bending, crumpling, breaking, and, in a hundred
little billows, fleeing seaward.

Thus checked, confounded, the French army trembled
and fell back. Then I heard tlie order to charge, and
from nearly four thousand throats there came for the
first time our exultant J^ritish cheer, and high over all
rang the slogan of Eraser's Highlanders. To my lefc 1
saw the tlashin<x broadswords of the clansmen, ahead of
all the rest. Those sickles of death clove through and
broke the battalions of La Sarre, and Lascelles scattered
the soldiers of Languedoc into flying colunnls. We on
the right, led by Wolfe, charged the desperate and valiant
men of Roussillon and Guienne and the impetuous sharp-
shooters of the militia. As we came on I observed the
General sway and })ush forward again, and then I lost
sight of him, for I saw what gave the battle a new
interest to me : ]3oltaire, cool and deliberate, animating
and encouraging the French troops.

I moved in a shaking hedge of bayonets, keeping my
eye upon him ; and presently there was a hand-to-hand
lytelee, out of which I fought to reach him. I was mak-
ing for him, where he now sought to rally the retreating
colunms, when I noticed, not far away, Gabord, mounted,
and attacked by three grenadiers. Looking back now, I

The Plains ok Ajjkaham.

2-2:]

see liiin, with his sabre cuttint;^ riglit and left, as lie drove
his horse at one grenadier, who slipped and fell on the
slippery ground, while the horse rode on him, batter-
ing him. Obli(iuely down swept the sabre, and drove
through the cheek and chin of one foe ; another sweep,
and the bayonet of the other was struck >asid'3 ; and
another, which was turned aside as Gabord's horse came
down, bayoneted by the fallen grenadier. But Gabord
was on his feet again, roaring like a bull, with a wild
grin on his face, as he partly struck aside the bayonet of
the last grenadier. It caught him in the flesh of the left
side. He grasped the musket-barrel, and swung his
sabre with fierce precision. The man's head dropped
back like the lid of a pot, and he tumbled into a heap of
the faded golden-rod flower which spattered the field.

At this moment I saw Juste Duvarney making to-
wards me, hatred and deadly purpose in his eyes. I
had will enough to meet him, and to kill him too, yet
I could not help but think of Alixe. Gabord saw him
also, and, being nearer, made for me iis well. For that
act I cherish his memory. The thought was worthy of
a gentleman of breeding; he had the true thing in his
heart. He would save us — two brothers — from fighting,
by fighting me himself !

He reached me first, and with an " Au diable ! " made
a stroke at me. It was a matter of sword and sabre now.
C;lark met Juste Duvarney's rush ; and there we were, at
as fine a game of cross-purposes as you can think : Clark
hungering for Gabord's life (Gabord had once been his
jailer too), and Juste Du\ arney for mine ; the battle
farino" on ahead of us. Soon the two were clean cut off*
from the French army, and must fight to the death or
surrender.

224

Finn 1vi:ai )!•:!?

Juste Duvai'iiey spoke only once, and then it was but
the rancorous word " Renegade ! " nor did 1 speak at all :
but Clark was blasphemous, and (Jabord, bleedin^^, f*ouj4ht
with a sputterint^ relish.

"Fair tight and fowl lor spitting," he cried. "Go
home to hiniven, dickey-bird !"

Between phrases of this kind we cut and thrust for
life, an odd sort of fighting. 1 fought with a desperate
alertness, and presently my sword passed through his
body, drew out, and he shivered — fell — where he stood,
collapsing suddeidy like a bag. I knelt beside him and
lifted up his head. His eyes were glazing fast.

" Gaboi'd ! Gabord ! " I called, grief-stricken, for that
work was the worst I ever did in this world.

He started, stared, and fumbled at his waistcoat. I
(quickly put my hand in, and drew out — one of Mathil-
de's wooden crosses !

"To cheat — the devil — yet — alio!" he whispered,
kissed the cross, and so was done with life.

When I turned from him, Clark stood alone beside me.
Dazed as I was, I did not at first grasp the significance
of that fact. I looked towards the town, and saw the
French army hustling into the St. Louis Gate ; saw the
Highlanders charging the bushes at the Cote Ste. Gene-
vieve, wdiere the brave Canadians made their last stand ;
saw% not fifty feet away, the noblest soldier of our time,
even General Wolfe, dead in the arms of Mr. Henderson,
a volunteer in the Twenty-second ; and then, almost at
my feet, stretched out as I had seen him lie in the Palace
courtyard two years before, I beheld Juste Duvarney.

But now he was beyond all friendship or reconciliation

forever !

' Seats of the Miy/itj/," (t'illurt l\irkei\ copyi iijht in dtnadti

(by arrangement ivith I). Applefun Jk Company).

Ode to Autimn.

225

ODE TO AUTUMN.

Season of mists and mellow fruit fulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun ;

Conspiring witli him how to load and bless

With fruit the vines that round the thatcli-ea\ es run ;

To })end with apples the mossed cottjige-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core ;

To swell the gourd, and plump the haael shells

With a sweet kernel ; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Sunnner has o'erbrinmied their clannny cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid th}' store ?

Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,

Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind ;
Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep.

Drowsed with the fume of i)oppies, while th}' hook
Spares the n^^xt swath and all its twined floweis :
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep

Steady thy laden head across a ])rook ;

Or by a cider-press, with patient hxtk.

Thou watchest the last oo/ings houi-s by houi's.

i It

W^liere are the songs of Spring '. Ay, where are they I
Think not of them, thou hast thy'music too—

While barred clouds bloom the soft-dving day,
And touch the stul)ble-plains with rosy hue ;

Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft

Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies ;

22()

FiFTi[ Kkadkr.

And full-yrowii lambs loud bleat from liilly bourn :
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The redbreast whistles from a gai-den ci'oft ;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

^Johi Keats.

THE HAPPY VALLEY.

The place which the wisdom or policy of anti(|uity liad
deHtined for the residence of the Abyssinian princes was
a spacious valley in the kin<^dom of Andiara, surrounded
on every side by mountains, of which the summits over-
hang the middle part. The only passage by which it
could be entered was a cavern that passed mider a rock,
of which it lias been long disputed whether it was the
work of Nature or of human industry.

The outlet of the cavern was concealed by a thick
wood, and the mouth, whicli opened into the valley, was
clostd with gates of iron forged by the artificers of an-
cient days, so massive that no man could, without the
help of engines, open or shut them.

From the mountains, on every side, rivulets descended,
that filled all the valley with verdure and fertility, and
formed a lake in the middle, inhabited by fish of every
species, and frequented by every fowl which Nature has
taught to dip the wing in water. This lake discharged
its superfluities by a stream, which entered a dark, cleft
of the mountain on the northern side, and fell, with
dreadful noise, from precipice to precipice, till it was
heard no more.

The sides of the mountains were covered with trees.
The banks of the brooks were diversified with flowers.

Thk Haim'v Vali.kv

227

is
(I
ft
n
is

Every blast shook spices from tlie rocks, and every
month dropped fruits upon tlie ground. All animals
that bite tlie g'^ass or browse the shrub, whether wild or
tame, wandered in this extensive circuit, secured from
beasts of j^rty by the mountains wliich confined them.

On one part were flocks and herds feeding in the
pastures ; on another, all the beavsts of chase frisking in
the lawns ; the sprightly kid was bounding on the rocks,
the subtle monkey frolicking in the trees, and the solemn
elephant reposing in the shade. All tlie diversities of
the world were brought together ; the blessings of Nature
were collected, and its evils extracted and excluded.

The valley, wide and fruitful, supj^lied its inhabitants
with the necessaries of life ; and all delights and super-
fluities were added at the annual visit wliich the Em-
peror paid his children, when the iron gate was opened
to the sound of music, and during eight days every one
that resided in the valley was required to propose what-
ever might contribute to make seclusion pleaK^mt, to till
up the vacancies of attention, and lessen the tediousness
of the time.

Every desire was immediately granted. All the arti-
ficers of pleasure were called to gladden the festivity ;
the musicians exerted the power of harmony, and the
dancers showed their activity before the princes, in hope
that they should pass their lives in this blissful captivity,
to which those only were admitted whose performance
was thought capable of adding novelty to luxury.

Such was the appearance of security and delight which
this retirement afforded, that they to whom it was new
always desired that it might be perpetual ; and as those
on whom the iron gate had o'^ce closed were never suf-

: i

228

Fifth Reader.

fered to return, the effect of long experience could not
bo known. Thus every year produced new schemes of
delight and new competitors for imprisonment.

— Samuel Johnson.

THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL.

PllELUDE TO PART FIRST.

Over his keys the musing oi-ganist,

Beginning doubtfully and far away,
First lets his fingers wander as they list,

And builds a biidge from Dreamland for liis lay :
Then, as the touch of his loved instrument

Gives hope and fervor, nearer draws his them^i,
First guessed by faint auroral flushes sent

Along the wavering vista of his dream.

Not only around our infancy
Doth heaven with all its splendors lie j
Daily, with souls that cringe and plot,
We Sinais climb and know it not.
Over our manhood bend the skies ;

Against our fallen and traitor lives
The great winds utter prophecies ;

With our faint hearts the mountain strives ;
Its arms outstretched, the druid wood

Waits with its benedicite j
And to our age's drowsy blood

Still shouts the inspiring sea.
Earth gets its price for what Earth gives us ;

Thk Visiox of Sill Lacxkal

At the devil's booth are all things sold,
Each ounce of dross costs its ounce of jrold •

For a cap and hells our lives we pay,
Bubbles we buy with a whole soul's taskin-,'

'Tis lieaven alone that is given away,
'Tis only God may be had for the askintr :
No price is set on the lavish sunnnei- ;
.lune n)ay be had by the poorest corner.

229

And what is so rare as a day in June ?

Then, if ever, come perfect days ;
Then Heaven tries the earth if it })e in tune,

And over it softly her warm ear lays :
Whether we look, or whether we listen,
We hear life murmur, or see it glisten ;
Every clod feels a stir of might,

An instinct within it that reaches and towers,
And groping blindly above it for light.

Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers ;
The flush of life may well be seen

Thrilling back over hills and valleys ;
The cowslip startles in meadows green,

The buttercup catches the sun in its (^halice,
And there's never a leaf nor a blade too mean

To be some happy creature's jjalace ;
The little bird sits at his door in the sun,
Atilt like a blossom among the leaves,
And lets his illumined l)eing o'errun

With the deluge of summer it receives ;
His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings,
And the heart in her dumb l)reast flutters and sings;

He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest,

In the nice ear of Nature which song is thv^ best ?

230

Fifth "Rkadku.

Now is tlip hif;fli-ti(Ir <»f tlw y<*ar,

And wliat evor of lifo liath el)l)e(l away
Coinos floofliii"^ l)ack with a ri[>I>ly cIuhm',

Tiito every l)aro inlet and creek and l)ay :
Now the li<*art is so full that a drop overtills it,
We are happy now because God wills it ;
No matter how Iwirren tin; past may liave Ix'cn.
'Tis enough for us now that the leaves are green ;
We sit in the warm shade and feel right well
How the sap creeps up and the blossoms swell :
We may shut our eyes but we cannot help knowing
That skies are clear and grass is growing ;
The breeze comes whispering in our ear,
That dandelions are blossoming near,

That maize has sprouted, that streams are flowing,
That the river is bluer than the sky,
That the vobin is plastering his house hard by ;
And if the breeze kept the good news ba k,
For other couriers we should not lack ;

We could guess it all by ycm heifer's lowing, — ■
And hark ! how clear bold chanticleer.
Warmed with the new wine of the year,

Tells all in his lusty crowing !

Joy comes, grief goes, we know not how ;
Everything is happy now,

Everything is upward striving ;
'Tis as easy now for the heart to be true
As for grass to be green or skies to be blue, —

'Tis the r"tural way of living :
Who knows whither the clouds have fled 1

In the unscarred heaven they leave no wake ;
And the eyes forget the tears they have shed,

The heart forgets its sorrow and ache ;

Till-; Visiox OK Sir Lai'xfal

Tli(5 .soul jwirtakes tin* spnson's voiitli,

Ajul the .sulphurous rift« of ftassioii hikI woo

Lie deep 'iieath a hilence pure and sm<M.tli,
Like hurnt-out craters healed witli .snow.

What wonder if Sir Launfal now

K«Mneinl)ered the keeping,' of hi.s vow ?

231

PAirr FiKsT.

" My golden spurs now brini,' to nie,
And bring to me my richest mail,

For to-morrow I go over' hind and sea
In search of the Holy Grail ;

Shall never a bed foi- nie l)e rpread,

Nor shidl a pillow be under my head,

Till T begin my vow to keep ;

Here on the rushes will I sleep,

And perchance there may come a vision true

Ere day create the woild anew."
Slowly Sir Launfal's eyes grew dim,
Slumber fell like a cloud on ^im.

Andinto his soul the vision flew.

II.

The crows flapped over by twos and tln-ees,
In the pool drowsed the cattle up to their knee.s,
The little birds sang as if it were
The one day of summer in all the year,
And the very leaves seemed to sing on the trees.
The castle alone in the landscape lay
Like an outpost of winter, dull and gray ;
'Twas the proudest hall in the North Countree,
And never its gates might opened })e,

■>w

2H2

Fifth Kkai>j:i{

Savp io UiV(\ HI' lady of liii^li ih'^vfi^ ;

SnmiiM'f b«»sie^'e(l it oti v\t)ry widf,

hut tlu; cliiirlisli stoiu; urv assaults (Iclirfl :

SIk? could not scale the chilly wall,

Tliougli nanid it tor leagues hei* pavilions tall

Stretched h'ft and right,

Over the hills and out of si^ht ;

«reen and oi'oa<l was every tent.
And out of each a inurniiir went
Till tiiel)ree/e fell ort' at night.

in.

Tlie drawbridge (hopjxMl with a surly elang,
And thnuigh the dark arch a charger sjirang,
hearing Sir Launfal, the maiden knight,
In his gilded mail that flamed so l)right
\t seemed the dark castle had gathered all
Those .shafts the fiei-ce sun had shot over its w

\n his siege of three hundred summers long,
And, binding tliem all in one bla/ing sheaf,

Had cast them forth : so, young and strong,
And lightsome as a locust-leaf,
Sir Launf.'d Hashed forth in his unscan-ed mail,
To seek in all cliine.s for the Holy (Jrail.

IV.

It was morning on hill and stream and tree.
And morning in the young knight's heart;

Only the castle moodily

JlebuH'ed the gift of the sunshine free,
And gloomed by itself apart ;

The season brinnued all other things up

Full as the rain fills the j)itcher-plant's cup.

'I'

Tmk N'lsioN OK Sir Lainkal.

238

As 8ir Tjiiunf:;! iiukU' morn tliruu«;h the (laiksonif ^'ut*'

He WHS 'ware of a leper, eiouohed liy I lie same,
Who ))egge(l witli his Iwnul and moaned as he sate;

And a loathing over Sir Launt'al uune ;
The sunshine went out of his soul with a tliriil,

The Hesh 'neath his armor 'gau shrink and craw I,
And midway its leap his heart stood still

Like a fro/xn watei'fall ;
For this man, so foul and l)ent of statu le,
Hasped harshly against his dainty natuie,
And seemtvl the one blot on the sunmwr morn, —
So he tossed him a piece of gold in scorn.

VI.

The leper raised not the gold from the dust :

*' Jietter to me tl poor man's crust,

Better the blessing of the poor,

Though T turn me empty from his door ;

That is no true alms which the haiul can lujld ;

He irives nothin!"' l)ut worthless •'old

Who gives from a sense of duty ;
But he who gives a slender mite,
And gives to that which is out of sight, —

That thread of the all-sustaining Beauty
Which runs thiough all and doth ail unite, —
The hand cannot clasp the whole of his alms,
The heart outstretches its eager palms.
For a god goes with it and makes it store
To the soul that was starving in darkness before.

*■ ■!

PRELUDE TO PAKT SECOXD,

Down swept the chill wind from the mountain ])euk,
From tiie snow five thousand summeis old ;

234

Fifth Reader.

On open wokl imd hill-top bleak

It had guthereil all tlie cold,
And whirled it like sleet on the wanderer's cheek ;
It carried a shiver ever}' where
From the nnleafed ])oughs and ])astures bare;
The little brook heaid it and Innlt a roof
'Neath which he could house him, winter-proof ;
All night by the white stars' frosty gleams
He groined his arches and matched his beams ;
Slender and clear were his crystal spars
As the lashes of light that trim the stars ;
He sculptured every summer delight
In his halls and chambers out of sight;
Sometimes his tinkling waters slipt
])own through a frost-lea\ed forest-crypt,
Long, sparkling aisles of steel-stennned ti-ees
IJending to counterfeit a breeze ;
Sometimes the roof no fretwork knew
But silvery mosses that downward grew ;
Sometimes it was carved in sharp relief
With (piaint arabescjues of ice-fern leaf;
Sometimes it was simply smooth and cleai*
For the gladness of heaven to shine through, and here
He had caught the nodding bulrush-tops
And hung them thickly with diamond drops,
That crystalled the beams of moon and suii,
And made a star of every one :
No mortal builder's most rare device
Cor.ld match this winter-palace of ice ;
'Twas as if every image that mirrored lay
In his depths serene through tlie sunnner <lay,
Each Heeting shadow of earth and sky.

Lest the happy model should be lost,
Had been mimicked in fairy masonry

Jiy tlie elfin Imildei's of the fj-ost.

The Visiox of Sir Launfal.

2.S5

Within tlie hall are son*' uiul laui^hter.

The cheeks of Christmas glow red and jolly,
And sprouting is every o<.)rhel and rafter

With lightsome green of ivy and holly :
Through tlie deep gulf of the chimney wide
Wallows the Yule-log's roaring tide ;
The broad flame-jiennons droop and flap
And belly and tug as a flag in the wind ;
Like a locust shrills the imprisoned sap,

Hunted to death in its galleries blind ;
And swift little troops of silent sp rks,

Now pausing, now scattering away as in fear,
Go threading the soot-forest's tangled darks

Like herds of startled deer.

But the wind without was eager and sharp,
Of Sir Launfal's gray hair it makes a harp,
And rattles and wrings
The icy strings,
Singing, in dreary monotone,
A Christmas carol of its own.
Whose burden still, as he might guess.
Was — "Shelterless, shelterless, shelterless!"

The voice of the seneschal flared like a torch
As he shouted the wanderer away from the porch,
And he sat in the gateway and saw all night
The great hall-flre, so cheery and bold,
Tlii'ough the window-slits of the castle old,
liuild out its piers of ruddy light
..\i;ainst the drift of the cold.

PAHT SKCONl).

There was never a leaf on bush or tree,
The bare boughs rattled shuddcjingly ;

236

Firnr Header.

The river m as numb and could not speak,
For the weaver Winter its shroud had spun ;

A single crow on the tree-top bleak

From his shining feathers shed off the c(j](l sum

Again it was morning, but shrunk and cold,

As if her veins were sapless and old,

Anil she rose up decrepitly

For a last dim look at earth and sea.

II.

Sir Launfal turned from his own hard gate,

For another heir in his earldom sate ;

An old, bent man, worn out and frail.

He came back from s(^eking the Holy Grail ;

Little he recked of his earldom's loss,

No more on his surcoat was blazoned the cioss.

But deep in his soul the sign he wore.

The l)adge of th(^ suffering and tlie poor.

III.

Sir Launfal's raiment thin and spare

Was idle mail 'gainst the barbed air.

For it was just at tlie Christmas time ;

So he mused, as he sat, of a sunnier clime,

Ai d sought for a shelter from cold and snow

In the light and warmth of long-ago;

He sees the snake-like caravan crawl

O'er the edge of the desei-t, black and small,

Then nearer and nearer, till, one by one,

He can count the camels in the sun^

As over the red-hot sands they pas.^

To where, in its slen'^ler necklace oi grass,

The little spring laughed and leapt in the shade,

And with its own self like an infant played,

And waved its signal of ]»alms,

The Vision ok Sir I.aixi al.

237

IV.

" For Christ's sweet sake, T hi^<f i\n alms ;" —
The happy camels may reach the s{)riii«i;,
Hut Sir liaunfal sees only the grewsome thiiii;,
The leper, lank as the rain-blanched bone,
That cowers beside him, a thing as lone
And white as the ice-isles of Northei-n seas
In the desolate horror of his disease.

And Sir Launfal said, " T behold in thee

An image of Him who died on the tree ;

Thou also hast had thy crown of thorns, -

Thou also hast had the world's buffets and scoi'ns, —

And to thy life were not denied

The wounds in the hands and feet an<i side :

Mild jVIary's Son, acknowledge me ;

Behold, through him, T give to thee ! "

VI.

Then the soul of the leper stood up in his eyes

And looked at Sir Laanfal, and straightway he
Remembered in what a haughtier guise

He had flung an alms to leprosie,
"When he girt his young life up in gilded mail
And set forth in search of the Holy Grail.
The heart within him was ashes and dust ;
He parted in twain his single crust.
He broke the ice on the streamlet's brink,
And gave tlie leper to eat and drink,
'Twas a niouldy crust of coarse brown bread,

'Twas water out of a wooden bowl,—
Yet with fine wheaten bread was the leper fed.

And 'twas red wine he drank with his thirsty soul.

238

Fifth Reader.

VII.

As Sir Launfal mused with a downcast face,

A light shone round about the place ;

The leper no longer crouched at his side,

But stood before him glorified,

Shining and tall and fair and straight

As the pillar that stood by the Beautiful (late, —

Himself the Gate whereby men can

Enter the temple of God in Man.

VII!.

His words were shed softer than leaves from the pine,

And they fell on Sir Launfal as snows on the l)rine.

That mingle their softness and quiet in one

With the shaggy unrest they float down upon :

And the voice that was calmer than silence said,

" Lo it is I, be not afraid !

In many climes, without avail,

Thou hast spent thy life for the Holy Grail ;

Behold it is here, — this cup which thou

Didst fill at the streamlet for me but now ;

This crust is my body broken for thee,

This water His blood that died on the tree ;

The Holy Supper is kept, indeed,

In whatso we share with another's need ;

Not what we give, but what we share, —

For the gift without the giver is bare ;

Who gives himself with his alms feeds three, —

Himself, his hungering neighbor, and me."

IX.

Sir Launfal awoke as from a swound : —
" The Grail in my castle here is found !
Hang my idle armor up on the wall,

The Fiery Furnace.

Let it he the spider';^ hanquet hall :
He must l)e tenced with str<)n<,'er mail
Who would seek and find the Hoy Grail."

239

The castle gate stands open now,

A'^.d the wanderer is welcome to the hall

As the hangbird is to the elm-tree bough ;
No longer scowl the turrets tall,

The Sunnner's long siege at last is o'er ;

When the first poor outcast went in at the door,

She entei'ed with him in disguise,

And mastered the fortress by surprise ;

There is no spot she loves so well on ground,

She lingers and smiles there the whole year round ;

The meanest serf on Sir Launfal's land

Has hall and bower at his command ;

And there's no poor man in the North Countree

But is lord of the earldom as much as he.

—James Hnxsell Lowf/l.

THE FIERY FURNACE.

Nebuchadnezzar the king made an image of gold,
whose height was threescore cubits, and the breadth
thereof six cubits : he set it up in the plain of Dura, in
the province of Babylon.

Then Nebuchadnezzar the king sent to gather together
the princes, the governors, and the captains, the judges,
the treasurers, the counselloi-s, the sheriffs, and all the
rulers of the provinces, to come to the dedication of the
image which Nebuchadnezzar the king had set up.

240

FiFTir Rkadeii.

I'l

^li.

1'lieii tli<5 2)riiices, tlio governors, and captains, the
judgos, tlio treasurors, tlio counsellors, the sheriff's, and
all the rulers of the provinces, were gathen-d together
unto the dedication of the inia<ie that Nebuchadnezzar
the king had set up ; and they stood before tlie image
that Nebuchadnezzar had set up.

Then an herald cried aloud, To you it is connnanded,
people, nations, and hmguages,

That at v^diat time ye hear the sound of the comet,
flute, hai-p, sackbut, psaltery, dulcimer, and all kinds of
music, ye fall down and worship the golden image that
Nebuchadnezzar the king hath set up :

And whoso falleth not down and worshippeth shall
the same hour be cast into the midst of a burning tiery
furnace.

Therefore at that time, when all the people heard the
sound of the *^ornet, flute, harp, sackbut, psaltery, and
all kinds of music, all the people, the nations, and the
languages, fell down and worshipped the golden image
that Nebucliadnezzar the king had set up.

Wherefore at that time certain Chaldeans came near,
and accused the Jews. *

They spake and said to the king Nebuchadnezzar, O
king, live for ever.

Thou, O king, hast made a decree, that every man
that sliall hear the sound of the cornet, flute, harp, sack-
but, psaltery, and dulcimer, and all kinds of music, shall
fall down and worship the golden image :

And whoso falleth not down and worshippeth, that
he should be east into the midst of a burning fiery
furnace.

TUK FlKKV Fr RNACR

241

Tli»M-(i arc. certain .lows wliom thon liast set over the
affairs of the province of Bal^ylon, Shadracli, Meshach,
and Abed-iieo;o ; tliese men, O kin^, have not rej^arded
thee : they serve not tliy gods, nor worship the golden
image wliicli tlum liast set up.

Then Nebucliadnezzar in his rao-t! and furv connnanded
to bring Shadracli, i\Irshach, and Abed-nego. Tlien they
brouijht tliese men before the kinir.

Nebuchadnezzar spake and said unto them, Is it true,
O Shadrach, Meshach, and Ab<Ml-nego, do not ye serve
my gods, nor worship the golden image which I have
set up ?

Now if ye be ready that at what time ye liear tlie
sound of the cornet, flute, harp, sackbut, psaltery, and
dulcimer, and all kinds of nnisic, ye fall down and
worship the image Avhich I have made ; well : but if ye
worship not, ye shall be cast the same hour into the
midst of a burning fiery furnace ; and who is* that God
that shall deliver you out of my hands ?

Shadrach, Meshach, and Abed-nego, answered and said
to the king, O Nebuchadnezzar, we are not careful to
answer thee in this matter.

If it be so, our God whom we serve is able to deliver
us from the burning fiery furnace, and he will deliver us
out of thine hand, O king.

But if not, be it known unto thee, O king, tluit we
will not serve thy gods, noi* worship the golden image
which thou hast set up.

Then was Nebuchadnezzar full of fury, and the form
of his visage was changed against Shadrach, Meshach
and Abed-nego : therefore he spake, and commanded that

242

Fifth Huvder.

they should liuat th<' t'linuicc. on*; st-iVt'ii tiiiu's iiun-r.thaii
it was wont to bo heated.

And he comniand(Mi tljo most mijijlity inon that vrre in.
his army to l)ind Sliadrjicli, Meshacli, and Abed-nej^o, avd
to cast them into tlie bui'nin^ fiery i'urnaee.

Tlien these men were bound in their coats, their liosen,
and their liats, and tlieir other ^uruumtH, and were cast
into the midst of the burning fiery furnace.

Therefore because tlie king's commanchnent was ur-
gent, and the furnace exceeding hot, the flame of th(^
fire slew those men tliat took up Shadrach, Mesliaeh,
and Abed-nego.

And these three men, Shadrach, Meshacli, and Abed-
nego, fell down bound into the midst of the burning fiery
furnace.

Then Nebuchadnezzar the king was astonied, and rose
up in liaste, and spake, and said unto his counsellors,
Did not we cast three men bound into the midst of the
lire ? They answered and said unto the king. True, ( )
king.

He answered and said, Lo, I see four men loose, walk-
ing in the midst of the fire, and they have no hurt ; and
the form of the fourth is like the Son of God.

Tlien Nebuchadnezzar came near to the mouth of the
burning fiery furnace, and spake, and said, Shadrach,
Meshach, and Abed-nego, ye servants of the most high
God, come forth, and come hither. Then Shadrach,
Meshach, and Abed-nego, came forth of the midst of the
fire.

And the princes, governors, and captains, and the
king's counsellors, being gathered together, saw these

The Ravex.

243

men, upon whose bo«li«'s tlw^ fire had no power, nor was
an hair ot* their hea<l Hin<^efl, neither were their coatH
changed, nor the smell of fire had passed oti them.

Then Nebuchadnezzar spake, and said, Bleised he the
God of Shadrach, Mtishach, and Abed-nego, who hath
sent his angel, and delivered his servants that trusted
in him, and have changed the king's word, and yielded
their bodies, that tluy might not serve nor worship any
god, except tlieir own God.

Therefore I make a decree, That every people, nation,
and language, which speak any thing amiss against the
God of Shadrach, Meshach, and Abed-nego, shall be cut
in pieces, and their houses shall be made a dunghill :
because there is no other God that can deliver after this
sort.

Then the king promoted Shadrach, JMeshach, and
Abcd-nego, in the province of Babylon.

Daniel, Chapter III.

THE RAVEN.

Once upon a midnight dreary, while T pondered, weak and

weaiy,
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 ray chamber door.

*' 'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber

door —

Only this and nothing more."

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

244

Ft FT If "RKAnKR.

Kaf^'erly 1 wished the morrow ;- vainly I liarl sou^lil fulM»rrow
From my books surceaso of soi-row — soi-row foi- the lust

Lenore -
For the raro an<l radiant niaidon wlioni tlie ancfols namn

Lenore

Nameless here for <'Vf'rmoro.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling:; of each i)urple curtain
Tlirilled me — filled me with fantastic terrors never felt l)efore ;
Ho that now, to still the heating of my heart, I stood repeating
*' 'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door —
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber dror; —
This it is and nothing more."

Presently my soul grew stronger; li<^sitating then no longer,
"Sir," said J, "or Madam, tiuly 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 T heard you " here T opened wide the

door :

Darkness theiv and m>thing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I sttxxl there wondering,

fearing.
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream

before ;
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word,

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

" Lenore ! "

Merely this and nothing more.

The Raven.

245

Back into the chamber turning,', uU my soul v/ithiii me burning,
Soon I heard again a tapping, somewhat louder than before.
"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window

lattice ;
Let me see, then, what tiiereat is, and this mystery exi)lore —
Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore ; —
'Tia the wind and nothing more."

Open here I Hung tlic slmtter, when, with many a tliit and

flutter,
In there stepped a stately Kaveii of the saintly days of yore ;
Not the least obeisance made lie ; not an instant stopped or

stayed he ;
But, with mien of lord or lady, peiched above my chandjer

door
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door —
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
IJy 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 Kaveii wandering from the Nightly

shore — '

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian

shore I "

Quoth the Jiaven, " Nevermore."

Much I marsellcd this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so

plainly,
Though its answer little meai.ing — little I'elevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door —
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above; his chamber door,
With such name as "Nevermore."

24()

Fifth Klader.

But the Raven, sitting; lonely on that i)laci(l bust, spoke only
That one wonl, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing furtluu" then lie uttered — not a feather then ho

fluttered —
Till I scarcely more than muttered, ''Other friends have flown

before !

On the morrow Ju: will leave me, as my hopes have flown

before."

'^^I'lien the bird said, "Nevermore."

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its ordy stock and

store,
Caught from some unhap}>y master whom uiiuierciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one bui'den

bore —
Till the dirges of his Hope the melancholy burden bore
Of ' Never — nevermore.' "

But the Haven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,

Straight T wjieeled a cushitined seat in front of bird and bust

and door ;

Then, up<m the velvet sinking: [ b(;took myself to linking

Fancy unto fancy, thinking wiiat tliis ominous bird of yore —

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous l)ird

of yore

Meant in croakinj; "Nevermore."

Tliis I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er, —
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
She shall press, ali, nevermore !

Thk Havkx.

247

Then, methouglit, tin- iiir •iiinv (Umimt, jK'rfium'il from an

unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whost' foot-falls tinkletl on tiie tufted floor.
'* W retch," I cried, " thy (tod hath lent thee — by these angels

he hath sent the(?
Kespite — respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Jjenore !
C^uaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenorel"
Quoth the Haven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet !" said I, "thing of evil 1 — j)r()phet still, if bird or

devil I
Whether Tempt ei* sent, or whether tempest tossed thee luM'e

ashore.
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted —
On this home by Horror haunted — tell me truly, I implore —
Ts there — its there balm in Oilead ? — tell me — tell me, 1 im-
plore ! "

Quoth the Raven, ''Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! — })rophet still, if bird or

devil !
]iy that Heaven that IxMids al)o\t' us- — by that (iod we both

adore —

Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,

It .shall clasp a sainted nuiiden whom the angels name I^enore —

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom tlu? angels name

Jjenore."

Quoth the Haven, "Nevermore."

" Be that word <

)ur sign

of parting.

bin

I or fiend ! " I shrieked,

upstarting-

—

" Get thee back

into the tempest

and

the Night's

Plut.

aian

shore !

Leave no black

j)lume

as a token

that lie thy

soul

hath

spoken !

248

Fifth Reader.

Leave my loneliness unbroken ! — quit the bust above my door I
Take thy beak from out my heai't, and take thy form from off
my door ! "

Quoth tlie Haven, '* Novcrmoi-e."

And the ]laven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting

On the pallid bust of Pallas Just above my chand)er door ;

And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,

And tlie lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on

the Hoor ;

And my soul from out that shadow tiiat lies flouliii<>: on the

lloor

Sliall ))e lifted — nevermore!

— Edijar Allan Poe.

A MAN'S A MAN FOR A THAT.

Is there, lor honest p(jvei'ty,

That hangs his head, and a' that ?
Tlie coward-slave, we pf^s him l)y,

We dare be poor for a' that ! ■ n ;

For a' that, and a' that,

Our toils obscure, and a' that ;
The rank is but the guinea's stamp.

The man's the gowd for a' that.

Vv'hat though on hamely fare we dine,

Wear hoddin grey, and a' that ;
Gi'e fools their silks, and knaves tlieir wine,

A man's a man for a' that j
For a' that, and a' that,

Their tinsel sliow, and a' that ;
The honest man, though e'er sae poor,

Is king o' men for a' that.

A .AfAx's A ]\rAx von a' That

Ye see vol I l)iiki,., v;i\] a jonl,

^y\ui struts, .111(1 .sturos, jind ;i* (hn^ ;
Thouo-h Imndceds worship ufc Jiis w ,„-(l,

He's l)ut acoot'for a' tluit :
For a' tl.at, and a' tliat,
^ ^ His rihaiHl, star, and a' tliat :
The man of independent mind.
He looks and laughs at a' that.

A ])rince can mak' a helted knin-l.t,

A niai-(iuis, duke, and a' that;
But an honest man 's a})oon his mioht-

^^lid faith he maunna fa' tliat !
i^'oi" a.' that, and a' that,

'Hieir dignities, and a' that,
'i'lie jiith o' sense and pride o' worth

Ai-e liigher ranks tlian a' tliat.

Then let us pray that come it mny.

As come it will for a' that,
'i'hat sense and worth, o'er a' tin; earth,

May ))ear the gree, and a' that.
For a' that, and a' that,

Tt 's coming yet, for a' that,
Tiiat man to man, the warid o'er,

•^liaU brithers be for a' that.

249

-Robert BiiruH.

Good

Is tl

name in man and woman, dear ]nv lord

10 imiiKshato jewel ot their soul^

Who steals my ])urs(^, steal

jri-

s trasli ; 'tis somethi

was mine, tis his, and hns I

But he that filches fi
Rol

Mvn slave to tl

ing, nothing
lousaixls ;

om me mv good name

)s me of that which not eni-M-lies 1
And makes me poor in(l(>e<i.

iim.

s'Arti

psj,t'arr

250

Fwrn Eeadek.

THE DEATH OF NELSON.

It hafl ])eeii part of Nelsoii's prayer, tliat tlie Britisli
fleet iiii^ht be distinguislied by humanity in the victory
which lie expected. Setting an example himself, he twice
gave orders to cease firing on the Rfdoiihidhle, supposing
that she had struck, because her guns were silent; for,
as slie carried no flaof, there was no means of iiistantlv
ascertaining the fact. From this sliip, which he had tlius
twice spared, he received his death. A ball fired from
her mizzen-top, which, in tlie then situation of the two
vessels, was not more than fifteen yards from that pai't of
the deck wliere he was standing, struck the epaulet on
his left slioulder, about a (piarter after one, just in the
heat of action. He fell upon his face, on the spot which
was covered with his poor seci-etary's blood. Hardy, who
was a few steps from him, turning round, saw three men
raising him up. ** They have done for me at last, Hard3^"
said h'^. " I hope not," cried Hardy. " Yes," he replied
" my backbone is shot through." Yet even now, not for a
moment losing his presence of mind, he observed, as they
were carrying him down the ladder, that the tiller I'opes,
which had been shot awa}", were not 3'et replaced, and
ordered that new ones should be I'ove imijiediately : then,
that he miglit not be seen by the crew, he took out his
handkerchief, and covered his fac3 and his stars. Had
he but concealed these badges of honor from the enemy,
England, pei'haps, would not have had cause to receive
with sorrow the news of the battle of Trafalgar. The
cockpit was crowded with wounded and dying men, over
whose bodies he was with some difficulty conveyed, and

Thk Dkatii ok Nki.sox.

•251

lai<l upon II pallet in the niidshipnicn's hfrtli. It was
soon perceived, upon examination, that the wound was
mortal. This, however, was concealed from all except
Captain Hardy, the chaphun,and the medical attendants.
He himself being certain, from the sensation in his back,
and the gush of blood he felt momently within his breast,
that no human care could avail him, insisted that the
surgeon should leave him, and attend to those to whom
he might be useful ; " foi," said he, "you can do nothing
for me." All that could be done was to fan him with
paper, and frequently to give him lemonade to alleviate
his intense thirst. He was in great pain, and expressed
much anxiety for the event of iim action, which now
began to declare itself. As often as a ship struck, the
crew of the Vicfori/ hurrahed, and at every hurrah, a
visible expression of joy gleamed in the eyes, and mark-
ed the countenance of the dying hero. But he became
impatient to see Hardy ; and as that officer, though often
sent for, could not leave the deck, Nelson feared that
some fatal cause prevented him, and repeatedly cried,
"Will no one bring Hardy to me ? he must be killed ! he
is surely dead 1 " An hour and ten mimites elapsed from
the time when Nelson i-eceived his wound, before Hardy
could come to him. They shook hands in silence, Hardy
in vain truggling to suppress the feelings of that most
painful ai 1 yet sublime moment. " Well, Hardy," said
Nelson, "h w goes the day with us?" "Very well,"
replied Hardy; "ten ships have struck, but five of the
van have tacked, and show an intention to bear down
upon the Victoi'y. I have called two or three of our
fresh ships round, and have no doubt of giving them a
tlrubbing." " 1 hope," sai<l Nelson, " none of our ships

252

FlITH Kkadek.

lia\(^ stnu'k. ' Hardy {uisw«'n'<l, "There is no i'eui" ol"
that." Then, a)i<l not till then, Nelson wpoke of hiniself.
" I am a dead man, Hardy," said he ; " I am ^oint^ fast ;
it will be all over with me soon. Come nearer to me."
Har<]\' observed, that lie hoped Mr. Beatty could yet liold
out some prospect of life. "Oh, no," he re])lied ; "it is
impossible. My back is shot throngh. Beatty will tell
you so." Hardy tlieii once more shook hands with him,
and with a heart almost bursting, hastened upon deck.

By this time all feeling- below thc^ breast was gone, and
Nelson, liaving made the surgeon ascertain this, said to
him: ''You know I am gone. 1 know it. I feel some-
thing rising in my breast," putting his hand on his left
side, " which tells me so." And upon Beatty 's iiujuiring
whether his pain was very great, lie replied, so great
that he Avished he was dead. " Y«t," sai<l he, in a lower
voice, "one would Yikv to live a little lono'er, too!"
Captain Hardy, some fifty minutes after he had left
the cockpit, returned, and again taking the hand of
his dying friend and connnander, ctmgi'atulated him
on liaving gained a complete victory. How many of
the enemy was taken luj did not know, as it was
impossible to perceive them distinctly, but fourteen or
fifteen at least. "Thais well," cried Nelson; "but I
bargained for twenty." And then, in a stronger voice,
he said, "Anchor, Hardy, anchor." Hai'dy, upon this,
liinted that Admiial Collingwood w^ould take upon him-
self the direction of affairs. "Not while I live, Hardy,"
said the dying Nelson,. ineffectually endeavoring to raise
liimself from the bed : " do you anchor." His previous
orders for preparing to anchor had shown how clearly he
foresaw the necessity of this. Presently calling Hardy

Thk Deatji ok Xklsox.

258

back, ho said to liiin in a low voice, "Don't tiirow me
overboard ; " and he desired that lie niit^ht be buried by
his parents, unless it slundd please the king to order
otherwise. Then, " Kiss, nie, Hardy," said he. Hardy
knelt down and kissed his cheek ; and Nelson said,
" Now I am satisfied. Thaidc God, I have done my
duty!" Hardy stood over him in silence for a moment '
or two, then knelt again and kissed his forehead. "Who
is that?" said Nelson; and being informed, he replied,
" God bless you, Hardy." And Hardy then left him for
ever. Nelson now desired to be tuj'ned upon his right
side, and said, "I wish I had not left the deck, for I shall
soon be gone." Death was, indeed, rapidly a])proaching.
He said to the chaplain, "Doctor, I have not been a great
sinner." His articulation now became difficult; but he
was distinctly heard to say, "Thank God, I have done
my duty ! " These words he rej)eatedly pronounced, and
they were the last words which hv uttered. He expired
at thirty minutes after four, three hours and a (piarter
after he had received his wound.

The deatli of Nelson was felt in Enoland as somethinj»;
more than a public calamity ; men started at the intelli-
gence, and turned pale, as if they had heard of the loss
of a near friend. An object of our admiration and afiec-
tion, of oui- pride and of our hopes, was suddeidy taken
from us : and it seemed as if ^ye liad never till then
known how deeply we loved and reverenced him. What
the country luid lost in its great naval hero — the greatest
of our own and of all former times — was scarcely taken
into the account of grief. So perfectly, indeed, had he
performe(l his part, that the maritime war, after the ])at-
tle of Trafalgar, was considered at an end. The Heets of

254

Fifth "Hkadkij.

tlie enemy were not merely defeated, but destroyed ; new
navies muHt be built, and a new race of seamen reared
for tliem, before the jjossibility of their invading our
sliores could again be contemplated. It was not, there-
fore, from any selfish I'efiection upon the magnitude of
our loss that we mourned for him ; the general sorrow
was of a higher character. The people of England griev-
ed that funeral ceremonies, and public monuments, and
posthumous rewards, were all which the}'' could now
bestow upon liim whom the king, the legislature, and the
nation would ha\'e alike delight(^d to honor, whom every
tongue would have blessed, whose presence in every
village through which he might have passed would have
wakened the church bells, have givi'n schoolboys a holi-
day, have drawn children fr(jm their sports to gaze upon
him, and "old men from the chinmey -corner " to look
upon ^Nelson ere they died. Tiie victory of Trafalgar
was celebrated, indeed, with the usual forms of rejoicing,
but they were without joy ; for such already was the
glory of the British navy, through Nelson's surpassing
genius, that it scarcely seemed to receive any addition
h-imi the most signal victory that ever was achieved
upon the seas ; and the destruction of this mighty fleet,
by which all the maritime schemes of France were totally
frustrated, hardly appeared to add to om* security or
strength ; for while Nelson was living to watch the
combined scpiadrons of the enemy, we felt ourselves as
secure as now, when they were no longer in existence.

There was reason to suppose, from the appearances
upon opening liis body, that in the course of nature he
might have attained, like his father, to a good old age.
Yet he cannot be said to have fallen j^i'cmaturely whose

The Lilies of the Field.

work was done ; nor ought lie to be lamented wlio died
so full of honors, and at the height of liuman fame. The
most triumphant death is that of the martyr; the most
awful, that of the martyred patriot; the most splendid,
tliat of the hero in the hour of victory; and if the chariot
and the horses of lire had been vouclisafed for Nelson's
translation, he could scarcely have departed in a brighter
blaze of glory. He has left us, not indeed his mantle of
inspiration, but a name and an example which are at
this moment inspiring thousands of the youth of England
-7-a name which is our pride, and an example wlilch will
continue to be our shield and our strength. Thus it is
that the spirits of the great and the wise continue to Yiy;
and to act after them.

— lUtbeit Sdtithfii.

THE LILIES OF THE FIELD.

Sweet nurslings of the vernal .skies,

loathed in soft airs, and fed with dew ,
What more than magic in you lies,

To fill the heart's fond view 1
In childhood's sports, companions gay,
Tn sorrow, on Life's downward way,
Jfow soothing ! in our last decay
Memoi'ials prompt and true.

Relics ve are of Eden's lx>wers,
As pure, as fragrant, and as fail-,

As when ye crowned the sunshine houis
Of happy wanderers there.

Fall'n all beside — the world of life,

How it is stained with fear and strife ?

In Reason's w(»rld whut storms are I'ite,
What passions range and glare !

-John Keble.

250

Fifth Kkadkh.

THE BURIAL MARCH OF DUNDEE.

Sound tlie fife, and ciy the? slogan - let the i)il>r<K'h shake the

air

With its w ild triunij)ha] music, woi-thy of the freight we l)ear.
Let the ancient hills of Scotland hear once more the battle-

song

Swell within tlieii- glens and valleys as the clansmen mai-ch

along !
Never from the field of cond)at, never from the deadly fray,
Was a no)>ler trophy carried than we bring with us to-day ;
Never, since the valiant Douglas on his dauntless bosom bore
Good King Ko))ert's hea»'t — the priceless — to our dear Re-
deemer's shore !
Lo ! we l)ring with us the hero -lo! we In'ing the conquering

Grjeme,
Crowned as best beseems a victor from the altar of his fame ;
Fresh and Ijleeding from the battle whence his spirit took its

flight.
Midst the crashing charge of squadrons, and the thunder of

the fight !
Strike, I say, the notes of triumph, as we march o'er moor

and lea !
Is there any here will venture to bewail our dead Dundee I
Let the widows of the traitors weep until their eyes are dim !
Wail ye may full well for Scotland — let none dare to mourn

for him !
See ! above his glorious Ixxly lies the royal banner's fold
See ! his valiant ))lood is mingled with its crimson and its

gold.
See ! how calm he looks ;i,nd stately, like a wairior on his

shield,
Waiting till the flush of morning l)reaks along the l)attle-field !

Thk Hrun.i. Maim ii of Di ndkk.

257

See — Oil iH'ver nioro, my coninidos ! sli.ill \\(; s«'e tlial talt-oii eyo
lieddeii witli its iiiwuid liyjlitniiig, as IIm; \umv «»t' iiylit drew

iiigli ;
Never shall we hfai- tln^ voice that, cU'aivi- than tlu^ trumpt't's

call,
Bade us strike for King and Country, l)a(h^ us win tlw ti«'ld or

fall !

On the heights of Killiecrankie yester inoin oui- ai*niy lay :
Slowly rose the mist in cokunns fioin the riv(?r's l)roken way :
Hoarsely roared the swollen torrent, and the pass was wrapped

in gh.'om, *

When the clansmen rose together from their lair amidst th»

l)rt)om.
Then we belted on our tartans, and our lK)nnets down we drew,
i\.nd we felt our broadswords' edges, and we proved them U) be

true ;
And we prayed the prayer of soldiers, and we ci'ie«l the gather-
ing-cry,
And we clasped the hands of kinsmen, and w<! swore to do or

die !
Then our leader rode before us on his war-horse l)lack as night —
Well the Canieionian rebels knew that charger in the fight ! — •
And a cry of exultation fi'om tlui })earded warriois rose ;
For we loved the house of Claver'se, and we thought of good

Montrose.
But he raised his hand for silence — " Soldieis I I have sworn

a vow :
Ere the evening-star shall glisten on Seliehallion's lofty bi-ow,
Either we shall rest in ti'iumph, oi* another of the Onemes
Shall have died in ]>attle-harness for his Country and King-
James !
Thiid< upon the Uoyal INFartyr — think of what his race endure —
Think on him whom butchers mui'der'd on the field of Mayfus

un-

258

Finn Ki:ai)KR.

Jiy his .sacied IjIixhI I cliiiig*^ ye, by tin*, ruin'd lirarlli and

.shrine- -
\\y Iho hli^dited liopes of Scotland, Uy yocr injuries and mine —
Strike this day as if the anvil lay ]>eneath your blows the

while,
1)0 they Covenantin;^ traitors, or the lirood of false Ar^yle I
Strike! and drive the trend)lin^ rebels backwards i*\u- the

stormy Forth ;
Let them tell their j)ale Convention bow they fai('<l within the

North.
Let them tell that Hii'hland honoi* is not to be bouj;ht nor

sold,
That we scorn their Fi'ince's an<;er, as w«^ loathe his foreign

gold.
Sirike I an<l when the; fight is ovei', if ye l«M)k in vain for me,
Where the dead are lying thickest, seai-ch for him that was

Dundee!"

Jjoudly then the hills rc-ecluHMl with our answer to his call,

J>ut a (l(;e}X'r echo sounded in the bositms of us all.

For the lands of wide JJreadalbane, not a man who heai-d him

speak
Would that day ha\ e left the battle. Burning eye nnd flushing

cheek -

Told the clansmen's fierce emotion, and they harder drew their

breath ;
For their souls were strong within them, stronger than the

grasp of death.
Soon we heard a challenge-trumpet sounding in the pass below,
And the distant tiamp of horses, and the voices of the foe :
Down we crouched amid the bracken, till the Lowland rank.-s

drew near,
Panting like the hounds in summer, when tliey scent the stately

deer.

The BuHiAi. Mah<ii ok J)im)i;i:.

25! >

From the dark cU'HK' <'nif'rgiiig, next we saw the s<juadnms

come,
Leslie's f(M)t and Leven's ti<H)jx'is maieliing to tlie tuck of

drum ;
Through the Hcattere«l nv<mm| ot" l»ii(heH, o'er th«' hrokeii gr(»uiid

and lieath,
Wound the lonL' hattalion slowlv, till they uaiiie<i the field

beneatli ;
Then we bouinle<l from t»ur fo\ert. -Judge how looked the

Saxons then,
When they saw the rugged mountain start to life with armed

men !
Like a tempest down the ridges, swept the huirieane of steel,
Hose the slogan of Macdonald — tlasiied tjie l)roa<lsword of

Loohiel I
Vainly sped the withering volley 'mongst the foremost of our

hand —
On we poured iinlil we met them, foot to foot, and hand to

hand.
Horse and man went down like drift-wooil wlien tiie tloods aw

black at Yule,
And their carcasses are whirling in tjie (Jarry s deepest ])ool.
Horse and man went lown before us lixing foe there tarried

none
On the field of Killiecrankie, when that stubUn-n tight was

done I

And the evening-star was shining on Schehallion's distant head,

When we wiped our bloody broadswords, and returned to count
the dead.

There we found him, gashed and gory, stretch'd upoii the cum-
bered plain.

As he told us where to seek him, in the thickest of the slain.

And a smile wsis on his visage, for within his dying ear

200

KiKTii Rkadku.

IViilrd llu' Joytul iiolc of trium|»li, ami lli«' cIjiiisuk'H s cluiuor-

ous clu'cr :
So, Hiiiid^t the ))}ittl«''s llimi<l«'r, shot, and steel, ainl scoicliin*;

flame,
Tn the j,'l<)ry of his inaiihucMl passed the sj)iiit of the (Jrieiiie !

Open wide i\w vaults oi' Athol, where the Uiiles of lieroes

rest —
Open wide the liallovve<i j)oitals to receive aiiotlier ^uest !
Last of Scots, and last of freemen — last of all that dauntless

race
Who would rather di«^ unsullied than outlive the land's dis-

jjfrace !
O thou lion-hearted warrior! reck not of the after-time:
Honor may l)e deemed dishonor, loyalty l)e called a crune.
Sleep in peace with kindred ashes of th«^ nol)le and tlu; true,
Hands that never failed their country, hearts that never hase-

ness knew.
Sleep ! — and till the lat<'st ti-umpet wakes the dead fi'om (virth

and s(»a, ,

Scotland shall not Uoast a hraver chieftain than our own

Dundee ! .... , ,

■ i ^ —W. E. Ai/toun. %

Come wealth or want, come good or ill,

Let young and old accept their part,
And bow before the awful will,

And bear it with an honest heart.
Who misses or who wins the prize,

Go, lose or conquer, as you can ;
But if you fail, or if you rise,

Be each, pray God, a gentleman !

— W. M. Thackeray.

Tin: Ti:i.\l (»i \Vai{|{i;.\ llAsTiN(is.

2«1

THE TRIAL OF WARREN HASTINGS.

In tlio mcun time, tlic pi'cpa rat ions for tln' trial liad
procee(l(Ml rapiJly ; nnd on Uw l.'itli of Fchniary, 178(S,
the .sitting's of tlie Court comiucnctMl. Tlu'n' luivo been
HpeetaclcH more dazzling to the eye, more o()rnr(>()UH witlv
jewellery and cloth of o;ol<l, more attractive to grown-iip
children, than that which was then exhibited at \V(»Ht-
minster; but, perhaps, there neviu; was a spectacle so
well calculated to strik(i a highly cultivated, a reflecting,
an imaginative mind. All the various kinds of intei-est
which belong to the near and to the distant, to tluj pre-
sent and to the past, were collected on one spot aiwl in
one liour.

The place was worthy of such a ti'ial. It was the
great hall of William Rufus, the hall which had resound-
ed with acclamations at the inauguration of thirty kings,
the hall which had witnessed the just sentence of Bacon
and the just absolution of Somers, tlie hall where the
eloquence of Strattbrd had for a moment awed and merit-
ed a victorious party inllamed with just resentment, the
hall where Charles had confronted the High Court of
Justice with the placid courage which has half redeemed
his fame.

The Sergeants made })roclamation. Hastings advanced
to the bar, and bent his knee. The culprit was indeed
not unworthy of that great presence. He had ruled an
extensive and populous country, and made laws and
treaties, had sent forth armies, had set up and pulled
down princes. And in his higli place he had so borne
himself, that all had feared him, that most had love<l him,

262

FiiTii Reader.

and that hiti(><l its*;!]' could deny liiiii no title to glory,
except virtue. He loc^ked like a gi'eat man, and not like
a bad man. A person small and emaciated, yet deriving
dignity from a carriage which, while it indicated defer-
ence to the court, indicated also habitual ,seli'-})OHsession
and self-respect, a high .md intellectual forehead, a brow
pensive, but not gloomy, a mouth of inflexible decision, a
face pale and worn, but serene, on which was written, as
legibly as under the pictui'e in the council-chamber at
Calcutta, j\Ienfi cvqnfi, in (rrthiU; such was the aspect
with which the great jjroconsul presented himself to his
judges.

Pitt had refused to lie one of the conductors of the im-
peachment ; and his connnanding, copious, and sonorous
eloquence was wanting to that great nmster of various
talents. Age and blindness had unfitted Lord North for
the duties of a public prosecutor ; and his friends were
left without the help of his excellent sense, his tact, and
his urbanity. But, in spite of the absence of these two
distinguished members of the Lower House, the box in
which the ni'inagers stood contained an array of speakers
such as per J laps had not appeared together since tlie
gr^nt age of Athenian eloquence. There were Fox and
Sheridan, the English Demosthenes and the English
Hyperides. There was Burke, ignorant, indeed, or negli-
gent of the art of adapting his reasonings and liis style
to the capacity and taste of his hearers, but in amplitude
of comprehension and richness of imagination superior
to every orator, ancient or mo<lern. There, with eyes
reverentially fixed on Burk(% appeaivd the finest gentle-
man of the age, his form developed by excry manly
exercise, his face beaming with intelligence and spirit,

TnK Thial ok Wakhkn HAsrixcis.

2fiJ^

the ingenious, the. chivah'ous, the high-sonh'd \^'in(ihHnl.
Nor, though surronn(!ed by snch men, did the youngest
manager pass uinioticed. At an age wlien most of those
who distingiiisli tliemselves in life are still contending
for prizes and fellowships at college, he had won for him-
self a conspicuous place in parliament. No advantage
of fortune or coiniection was wanting tliat could set off
to the height his splendid ti^lents and his unblennshed
honor. At twenty-thi-ee he had been thought worthy to
be ranked with the veteran statesmen who appeared as
the de^ o-ates of the British Conunons, at the bar of the
British nobility. All who stood at that bai*, save him
alone, are gone — culprit, advocates, accusei-s. To the
generation which is now in the vigor of life, he is the
sole representative of a great age which has passed away.
But those who, within the last ten years, have listened
with delight, till the moi'ning sun shone on the tapes-
tries of the House of Lords, to the loftv^ and animated
eloquence of Charles Earl Grey, are able to form some
estimate of the })owers of a race of men amc;iig whom he
was not the foremost.

The charges and the answers of Hastings were fir^'t
read. The ceremony occupied two whole days, and was
rendered less tedious than it would otherwise have been
by the silver voice and just emphasis of Cowper, tho
clerk of the court, a near relation of the amiable poet.
On the third day Burke rose. Four sittin<^s were occu-
pied by his opening speech, which was intended to be p,
general introduction to all the charges. With an exuber-
ance of thought and a splendor of diction which more
than satisfied the highly-raised expectation of the audi-
ence, he described tlu^ character and institutions of the

2G4

FiKTii Readku. '

natives of India, I't'i-oimtcd tlic cMi"cuni,st;nie<'s in wliicli
tlie Asiatic ein})ire of Britain liad originated, and set
forth the constitution of tlie C.'onipany and of the Eng-
iisli Presidencies. Having tlius attempted to coninnini-
catc to liis liearers an idea of Eastern society as vi\ id as
that wliich existed in his own mind, lie proceeded to
arraign the a(hninistration of H.istings as systematically
conducted in defiance of morality and puhlic law. The
energy and ])atlijs of the great orator extorted cxpi-es-
sions of unwonted admiration from the stern and hostile
Cliancellor, and, for a moment, seemed to pierce even
the resohite heart of the defendant. The ladies in the
galleries, unaccustomed to such displays of eloijuence,
e.Kcite(l by the solenniity of the occasion, and pei'haps
not unwilling to display their taste and sen.»^ih':iiy, were
in a state of uncontrollable emotion. Handkerchiefs
were pulle<l out; smelling-bottles we.fj handed round;
liysterical sobs and screams were heai-d ; and Mrs.
Slieridan was carried out in a fit. At length the orator
concluded. Raising his voice till the old arches of Iriyh
oak resounded, " There fo^''3," said he, "hath it with all
confidence been ordered by the Commons of Great
Britain, that I inq^each WaiTcn Hastings of high crin»e3
and misdenkeanors. I impeach him in the name of the
Commons' House of Parliament, whose trust he has
betrayed. I impi^ich him in the name of the English
nation, whose ancient honor lie has sullied. I im[)each
him in the name of the people of India, whose rights he
has trodden under foot, and whose countiy he has turned
into a desei't. Lastly, in the name of human nature
itself, in the name of both sexes, in the name of every
age, in the name of every raid<, I impeach the conunon
enemy and oppressor of all !" -Lord Marmaay.

■■■■#1^.

The Skvlakk.

265

THE SKYLARK.

Bird of the wilderness,
Blithesoiine and cumherless,

Sweet be thy niutin o'er moorland ajid leu
• Emblem of happiness,

Blest is Viiy dwellin^-j)lace —

Oh, to a})ide in the desert with thee !

Wild is thy lay and loud,

Far in tlie downy cloud ;
Love gives it energy, love gave it birth.

Where, on thy dewy wing,

Where art thou iournevinir ?
Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth.

• O'er fell and fountain slieen,
O'er moor and mountain gr(^on/

O'er the red streamer that heralds the day,
Over the cloudlet <]im,
Over the rain))ow's rim,

Musical cheru I), soar, singing, away :

Then, when the gloami?ig comes,

Low in the heather l)looms,
Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be !

Emblem of happiness.

Blest is thy dwelling-place -
Oh, to abide in the desert with thee !

— Janus Uvijg.

20U

Fifth Reader.

TO THE SKYLARK.

Ethereal minstrel ! pilgrim of tiie .sky !

Dost thou despise tlie earth where cares abound ?
Or while the wings aspire, are heart and eyt,

Both with tliy n^st up(m tlie dewy ground ?
Tliy nest which thou canst drop into at will,
Those quivering wings composed, that music still !

To the last |)oint of vision, and beyond

Mount, daring warbler I that love-prom})tc(l strain
— 'Twixt thee and thine a never-failing bond -

Thrills not tlie less the bosom of the plain :
Yet might'st thou seem, proud privilege ! to sing
All independent of the leafy Spring.

Leave to the nightingale her shady wood ;

A pi'i\ acy of glorious light is thine,
Whence thou dost pour upon the world a Hood

Of harmony, with instinct more divine :
Type of the wise, who soar, but never roam —
True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home !

— William Wortisirnrlh.

There is a tide in the allhirs of men.

Which, taken at the Hood, leads on to fortune;

Omitted, all the voyage of their life

Ts bound in shallows and in miseries.

On such a full sea are we now alloat ;

Aiid we must take the current when it serves,

Or lose our ventures.

— ■'VtiT/.y*-

To A 8k y LARK.

267

TO A SKYLARK.

Hail to thee, 1)1 i the Spirit !

Bird thou never ^vert,
That from Heaven, or near it,
Pourest *thy full lieart
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.

Higher still and higher

From the earth thou springest
Like a cloud of iire ;

The blue deep tijou wingest,
And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.

In the golden lightning

Of the sunken sun,
O'er Avhit'h clouds are bi'ightening.
Thou dost float and run.
Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.

The pale purple even

Melts around thy flight ;
Like a star of heaven

In tlie broad daylight
Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight;

Keen as ai'e the arrows
' Of that silver sphere,
Whose intcMise lamp narrows
In the white d.iwn clear
lentil we hai-dly see, we feel tliat it is there.

FiriH Reader.

All the earth and air

With thy voice is loud,
As, when iii,y;ht is bare,

From one lonely cloud
The moon lains onL her beams, and heaven is overH(»Nve(l.

Wliat thou art we know not ;

What is most like thee?
From lainbow clouds there How not ,

])rops so In'ight to see
As from thy presence .showers a rain of mehxly.

Like a poet hidden

In the lii^ht of thought,
SinjiinLC hvnnis unbidden,

Tiii the uoild is wrougiit
To symi>atliy with hopes and fears it heede(i not :

Like a high-born maiden

In a palace tower.
Soothing her h>ve-laden

Soul in secret hour
With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower :

Like a glow-worm golden

In a dell of dew,
Scattering unbeholden

Its aerial hue
Among tlie llt)wers and grass, which screen it from the view:

Like a rose embowered

In its own green knives,
By warm winds deriowt're*!.

Till the «cent it gives
Makes faint with t«>o much sweet these heavy-wingi'<l thieves.

^I''

To A Skvlahk.

►Sound of venifil sli(»\v«-i*s

On the twiiikliiji^f yiMss,
Hain-n wakened lowers,
All that eAer was
Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music d„th surpass.

leacli us, spritt' or liird,

AN liat sweet thou«,dits are tlnne :
I have never heai-d
Pi'aise of love or wine
rimt i)ant^d forth a flood of Japture s(, divine.

Chorus hymeneal,

<^)r triumphal chant,
Matched with thine would 1m> all ■

But an empty vaunt

A thing wherein we feel there is s,„ue hidden want.

What objects are the fountains

Of thy happy strain i
What fields, or waves, or mountains i

^Vhiit shapes of sky or plain .^
What love of thine own kind ? what ignoran.-e of pain ?

With thy clear keen joyance

Languor cannot be :
Shadow of annoyance

Never came near thet; : ..

Thou lovest : but ne'er knew love's sad satiety.

Waking or asleep,

Thou of death must deem
Things more true and deep
Than we mortals dre^am,
Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream ?

L>()f)

270

Finn Kkadkk.

r, I

Wt' look l)efore and aft(M-,

And pi HP for \\ luit is not ;
Our siiuvresb lauj^liter

With some pain is frauj^ht ;
Our Rwoetest sonjjjs aro those that tell of saddest tliouj^ht.

Yet if we could scorn

]late, and pride, and fear ;
If we were things born

Not to shed a tear,
I know not how tliy joy we ever should come near.

Better than all measures

Of delightful sound.
Better than all treasures

That in books are found,
Thy akiU to poet were, thou scorner of the ground !

Teach rae half the gladness

That thy Ijrain must know,
Such harmonious madness
From my lips would flow,
The world should listen then, as I am listening now !

— Percy Bysghe Shelley.

INly heart leaps up when T behold

A rainbow in the sky ;
So was it when my life began.
So is it now I am a man.
So be it when I shall grow old,

Or let me die !
The child is father of the man;
And T could wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety.

—William Wordsrttorth.

Kiowa HD.

271

REWARD.

All trno Woi'k is sacred ; in all true Work, were it Imt
true hand-labor, there is sontetliino- of divinenesa. Lal)or,
wide as the Earth, has its sunniiit in Heaven. Sweat of
the brow ; and up from that to Bweat of the Ijrain, sweat
of tlie heart ; which includes all Kepler calculations,
Newton meditations, all Sci<'nces, all spoken E[)ics, all
acted Heroisms, Martyi'doms, — up to that " A<^^ony of
bloody sweat," which all men liave calh'd divine ! O
brother, if this is not " woi-ship," then I say, the more
pity for worship; for this is the noblest tiling yet dis-
covered un<ler CJod's sky. Who art thou that complainest
of thy life of toil ? Complain not. Look up, my wearied
brothel-; see thy fellow Workmen there, in God's Eter-
nity; surviving tliere, they alone surviving : sacred Ban<l
of the Immortals, celestial Bodyguard of tlie Enquire of
Manki^id. Even in the weak Human Memory they
survive so long, as saints, as heroes, as gods ; they alone
surviving ; peopling, they alone, the unmeasured solitudes
of Time ! To thee Heaven, though severe, is 'not unkind;
Heaven is kind, — as a noble Mother; as that Spartan
Mother, saying while she gave Iier son his shield, " With
it, my son, or upon it!" Thou too shalt return home in
honor; to thy far-distant Home, in honor; doubt it not,
— if in the battle thou keep thy shield ! Thou, in the
Paternities and deepest Deatli kingdoms, art not an alien;
thou everywhere art a denizen ! Complain not ; the very
Spartans did not com plain.

My brother, the brave man has to give his Life away.
Give it, I advise thee ; — thou dost not expect to sell thy

272

Fifth Ukadkii.

■

Life in an a(l<'(|nat«' manner :* Wliat price, for cxainple,
would content thee :* The just pi'ice of thy LiFK to thee,
— why, God's entire Creation to thyself, tlio wlioie Uni-
verse of Space, the whole Eternity of Time, and what
they hold: that is the price which would content thee:
that, and if thou wilt be candid, nothing short of that!
It is thy all ; and for it thou wouldst have all. Thou
art an unreasonable mortal ; — or rather thou art a poor
iiifiirite niortal, who, in thy narrow clay-prison here,
Hf.eineKt so mn'easotiable ! Thou wilt never sell thy Life,
or any part of thy Life, in a satisfactory manner. Give
it, like a royal heart ; let tlie price l)e Nothing : thou
luii^t then, in a certain sense, got All for it 1 The heroic
man,^aiid is not every mau, ( »<jd be thanked, a potential
hero ? — has to do so, in all times and circumstances. In
the most heroic age, as in the most unheroic, he will
have to say, as Burns said proudly and humbly of his
little Scottish Songs, little dew-drops of Celestial Melody
in an age when so much was uimielodious : *' By Heaven,
they shall either be invaluable or of no value ; I do not
need your guineas for them ! " It is an element which
should, and must, enter deeply into all settlements of
wages here below. They never will be "satisfactory"
otherwise ; they cainiot, ( ) Mammon Gospel, they never
can ! Money for my little piece of work " to the extent
that will allow me to keep working " ; yes, this. — unless
you mean that I shall go my ways heforc the work is all
taken out of me : but as to " wages " — ! —

— Thomas Carlyle.

ThK i.MI'KACHMEM of WaHKKN 11asT1N(JS. '27li

THE IMPEACHMENT OF WARREN

HASTINGS.

My LorrlH, I liave done ; tlie j)art of the Commons is
('onclu(l«'(l. With a trcmbliiijj^ solicitude we consign tliis
product of our lontr, long laboi's to your charge. Take
it! — take it! It is a sacred trust. Never before was
a cause of sucli mai^nitu*!*; submitted to anv liuman
tribunal.

My Lords, at this awful close, in the name of the
Commons, and surrounded hy them, I attest the retiring,
I attest tlie advancing generations, between which, as a
link in tlie great chain of eternal order, we stand. We
call this nation, we call tlie world to witness, that the
Commons have shrunk from no labor, tliat we have been
guilty of no prevarication, that we have made no com-
promise with crime, that we have not feared any o<lium
whatsoever, in the lon.<x wai'fare wliicli we have carried
on with the crimes, with the vices, with the exorbitant
wealth, with the enormous and overpovve?ing influence
of Eastern corruption. This war, my Lords, we have
waged for twenty-two years, and the conflict has been
fought at your Lordships' bar for the last seven years.
My Lords, twenty-two years is a great space in the scale
of the life of man ; it is no inconsiderable space in the
history of a great nation. A business which has so long
occupied the councils and the tribunals of Great Britain
can not possibly be liuddled over in the course of vulgar,
trite, and transitory events. Nothing but some of those
great revolutions that break the traditionary chain of
human memory, and alter the very face of Nature itself,

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274

Fifth Kkadkh.

call possiMy oljscmr^ it. My l^n'tls, \v«! arc all elevatiMl
to a d(^gree of importance ))y it; tlio ineancHt of us will,
by means of it, more or less hecoino the concern of
posterity, — if we are yet to hope for such a thing, in
the present state of the wOi'ld, as a recording, retro-
spective, civilized posterity : but this is in the hands of
the great Disposer of events ; it is not ours to settle
how it shall be.

My Lords, your House yet stands, — it stands as a great
edifice ; but let me say, that it stands in the midst of
ruins, — in the midst of the ruins that have been made by
the greatest moral earthquake that ever convulsed and
shattered this globe of ours. My Lords, it has pleased
Providence to place us in such a state that we appear
every moment to be upon the verge of some great nnita-
tions. There is one thing, and one thing only, which
defies all mutation, — that which existed before the
world, and will survive the fabric of the world itself:
I mean justice, — that justice which, emanating from
the Divinity, has a place in the breast of every one
of us, given us for our guide with regard to ourselves
and with regard to others, and which, v^ill stand, after
this globe is burned to t.>->hes, our advocate or our ac-
cuser before the great Judge, when He comes to call
upon us for the tenor of a well-spent life.

My Lords, the Commons will share in every fate with
your Lordships ; there is nothing sinister which can
happen to you, in which we shall not be involved: and
if it should so happen that we shall be subjected to some
of those frightful changes which we have seen, — if it
should happen that your Lordships, stripped of all the
decorous distinctions of human society, should, by hands

The Imi'P:achment ok Waruev Hastin(;s. 275

with

can

: and

some

if it

at once base and cruel, be led to tho.s(^ .scaffolds and
macliines of murder upon which great kings an<l glorious
([ueens liave shed their l)lood, amidst the prelates, amidst
the nobles, amidst the magistrates who supported tlieir
thrones, may you in those moments feel that consolation
whicli I am persuaded they felt in tlie critical nioments
of tlieir dreadful agony !

My Lords, there is a consolation, and a great con-
solation it is, which often happens to oppressed virtue
and fallen dignity. It often happens that the very op-
pressors and persecutors themselves are forced to b<vir
testimony in its favor. I do not like to go for instances
a great \;''ay back into anti([uity, I know veiy well that
length of time operates so as to give an air of the fabu-
lous to remote events, which lessens the interest and
weakens the application of examples. I wish to come
nearer to the present time. Your Lordships know and
have heard (for which of us has not known and heard ? )
of the Parliament of Paris. The Parliament of Paris
had an origin very, very similar to that of the great
court before which I stand ; the Parliament of Paris
continued to have a great resemblance to it in its con-
stitution, even to its fall : the Parliament of Paris, my
Lords, WAS ; it is gone ! It has passed away ; it luis
vanished like a dream ! It fell, pierced by the sword of
the Comte de Mirabeau. And yet I will say, that that
man, at the time of his inflicting the death-wound of
that Parliament, produced at once the shortest and the
grandest funeral oration that ever was or could be made
upon the departure of a great court of magistracy.
Though he had himself smarted under its lasii, as every
one knows who knows his history, (and he was elevated

27()

FiiTii Kkadek.

I ; ;

to rlrearlfnl n<>tori<'ty in liistory.) yet, w'hen lie pro-
nounced the death sentence upon tliat Parliament, and
inflicted the mortal wound, he declared that his motives
for doing it were merely political, and that their hamis
were as pure as those ot* justice itself, which they
administered. A great and glorious exit, my Lords, of a
great and glorious body ! And never was a eulogy
pronounced upon a body more deserved. They were
persons, in nobility of I'ank, in amplitude of fortune, in
weight of authority, in depth of learning, inferior to few
of those that hear me. My Lords, it was but the othei-
day that they submitted their necks to the axe; but
their lionor was unwounded. Their enemies, the persons
who sentenced them to death, were lawyers full of
subtlety, they were enemies lull of malice ; yet lawyers
full of subtlety, and enemies full of malice, as they were,
they did not dare to reproach them with having sup-
ported the wealthy, the great, and powerful, and of
having oppressed the weak and feeble, in any of their
judgments, or of hrving perverted justice, in any one
instance whatever, through favor, through interest, or
cabal.

My Lords, if you must fall, may you so fall ! But if
you stand, — and stand I trust you will, together with
the fortune of this ancient monarchy, togetlier with the
ancient laws and liberties of this great and illustrious
kingdom, — may you stand as unimpeached in honor as
in power ! May you stand, not as a substitute for virt le,
but as an ornament of virtue, as a security for virtue 1
May you stand long, and long stand the terror of tyrants !
May you stniid the refuge of afflicted nations ! May you
stand a sacred temple, for the perpetual residence of an
inviolable Justice ! —Edmund Burke.

Speech Auainst W'akkex Hastings.

277

SPEECH AGAINST WARREN HASTINGS.

Tlui couiKst'l, ill recoi)nm*ii<ling {itteiition to the public
in ])n't'erence to the private letter, had remarked, in
partieulai', tliat one sliould not be taken as evidence,
])ecauHe it was manifestly and abstractedly private, as it
contained in one part the anxieties of Mr. ^Fiddleton for
the illness oi his son. This was a singular argument
indeed; and the circumstance, in my mind, merited
strict observation, though not in the view in wliich it
was placed by the counsel. It went to show that some
at least of those concerned in these transactions felt tlu'
force of tliose ties which their efforts were directed to
tear asunder; that those who couhl ridicule the respec-
tive attachment of a mother and a son — wlio would
prohibit the reverence of the son to the mother wlio liad
i(iven him life — who could deny to mafcnKd dehillft/
the protection which /77/V^/ f('ii(/rrvesi^ should afford, were
yet sensible of the t^frainiin/ of those chords by which
they Were connected. There was something; connected
with this transaction so wretchedly horrible, and so
vilel}'' loathsome, as to e.xcite the most contemptible
dis<;ust. If it were not a part of my duty, it would be
superfluous to speak of the sacredness of the ties which
those aliens to feeling, those apostates to humanity had
thus divided. In such an assembly as that which I
have the honor of addressing, there is not an eye but
must dart reproof at this conduct; — not a heart but
must anticipate its condenniation. Filial Pietv! It
is the primal ])ond of society — it is that instinctive
principle, which, panting for its proper good, soothes,

278

Fifth Kkadkh.

unbidden, each sense and sensibility of man !-- -it now
(juivers on every lip ! — it now beams from every eye 1
— it is an emanation of that gratitude, which, soften-
m^ under tlie sense of recoHected good, is eager to own
the vast countless debt it ne'er, alas! can pay, for so
many long years of unceasing solicitudes, honorable self-
(hniials, life-preserving cares ! — it is that part of our
practice, where duty drops its awe ! — where reverence
reihies into love ! — it asks no aid of memory ! — it needs
not the deductions of reason! — pre-existing, paramount
over all, whether law or human rule, few arguments
can increase and none can diminish it ! — it is the sacra-
ment of our nature ! — not only the duty, but the in-
dulgence of man — it is his first great privilege — it is
amongst his last most endearing delights! — it causes the
bosom to glow with reverberated love ! — it requites tin*
visitations of nature, and returns the blessings that have
been received ! — it fires emotion into vital principle —
it renders habituated instinct into a master-passion —
sways all the sweetest energies of man — hangs over each
vicissitude of all that must pass away — aids the melan-
choly virtues in their last saxl tasks of life, to cheer the
languors of decrepitude and age — explores the thought
— elucidates the aching eye — and brt^athes sweet conso-
lation even in the awful moments of dissolution ! . .

O Faith ! O Justice ! I conjure you by your sacred
names to depart for a moment from this place, though it
be your peculiar residence ; nor hear your names pi'o-
faned by such a sacrilegious combination, as that which
I am now compelled to repeat! — where all the fair forms
of nature and art, truth and peace, policy and honoi",
shrunk back aghast from the deleterious shade ! where

Speech AvUixst Wahhkx Hastings.

279

all exlHti'iiot's, m'farions and vile, had swa}' ; — vvhoro,
amidst the bhiek auoiits on one side, and JVliddleton 'svith
Inipey on the other, tlie toughest head, the most unteel-
ino- heart ! the great figure of the piece, charaeteristic in
liis place, stood aloof and independent from tlie puny
profligacy in his train! — but far from idle and inactive,
—turning a nifdignant eye on all mischief that awaited
him ! — the multiplied a])paratus of temporizing expe-
dirnts, and intimidatino- instruuKints ! now crinoinu' on
his prey, and fawning on his vengeance ! — now quicken-
ing the limping pace of craft, and forcing every stand
that retirinji' nature can make in the heart! violatinj*'
the attachments and the decorums of life ! sacriticiui:'
every emotion of tenderness and honor! and Hatritiouslv
level 1ini>- all tlu^ distinctions of national characteristics!
with a lono' catalogue of crimes an<l aii^'ravations, bevond
the reach of thought, for human malignity to perpetrate,
or human vengeance to puidsh !

—ifheridan.

Our hirth is but ;i sleep uiul a forgetting ;
The soul that rises with us, oui- life's scar,

Hath liad elsewhere its setting,

And coiiieth fiom atar ; .

Not iu entire forget fulness,

And not in utter nakedness, '"
J>ut trailing clouds of glory, do Nve coiiie

From Chh], who is our lionie.

—William WoidnwiU'tli.

280

Fifth Header.

THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS.

Tliis is the whip of pearl, which, poets feign,

Sails the unshadowed main.

The venturous bark that flings
(Jn tlie sweet summer-wind its purpled wings
In gulfs enchanted, where the siren sings.

And coral reefs lie bare ;
^\'here the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair.

Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl :

A\' recked is the ship of pearl :

And every chambered cell
AVliere its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell,
As til's frail tenant shaped his growing shell,

Before thee lies revealed, —
Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed !

Year after vear beheld the silent toil

That spread his lustrous coil :

Still, as the spiral grew,
He left the past year's dwelling for the new ;
Stole with soft step its shinuig archway through;

Built up its idle door ;
Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no
more. ->,■,> :,:,,.■■ n ::■„■:■■.,,..■,[, '■^- J. .•^■„.':-;'!'

Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee,

Child of the wandering sea,

Cast from her lap forlorn !
From thy dead lips a clearer note is born
Than e\er Triton blew from wreathed horn !

While on mine ear it rings,
Thrcjugh the deep caves of thought I heji^' a voi(;e tliat
sings :—

The Fi(iHT WiTir tfik Dfjacsox.

281

" IWiiUI tlxM' 1IIOIV statoly niMiisioiis, () mv soul I

As lli(^ swift, seasons i-oll ;

LeaNo tliy low-vault(Ml j)ast :
Let each new t('iiipl(^, nohUu- tlinii tln> last,
Shut tlico fioni licaven ^vith a dome iiioi(> vast,

'I'ill thou at leiiijth art free,
Tjeaviiii; thine outt^rown shell hy lif«''s unrestin<( sea !"

—Oliver Wendell Ilolmex.

lair,

THE FIGHT WITH THE DRAGON.

(I no

What means this I'ush of linn-yin.i? feet,

SoiHuiing through every lane and street?

Are llli(>(lus' roofs with fire ablaze ?

Men thronging choke the narrow ways,

And, liigh alcove the seething crowd,

I see a knight's plume waving proud.

l»ehind, a sight to make men ((uail,

A monster strange and huge they trail,

It seems a dragon by its size,

Such jaws befit tlie crocodile ;

They watcli tlie knight and watch his })rize,

Lost in their wonder for a while.

that

A thousand tongues shout ceaselessly,
"That is the monster, come and see !
Our hei'ds and herdsmen lie devoured,
At last the brut(> is overpowered ;
Before this hero many a knight
Went forth to wage tlie une(|ual fight,
Yet no man e'er returned his ways.
Give to the noble con(ju#ror j)raise !"

282 FlITII l^KADKH.

And (<» tlu^ (•loislcr <>ii tlicy j^u,
W'hei'i^ sit th(^ kiiii^lits of ^ood St, Jolin,
Wluun iiien as H<)s))it;ill('is know.
Into tlie council tlicy liavc i^onc.

Before! the Kiii<j;lit Oi'}uul-Mast<M''s face
The youni^ knijLjlit takes liis wonted place,
And all the folk with cheer and shout
TlircHi^jf on the landin<,'-ste))s wit^'out.
The hero sju'aks when all are stilled,
" My knight's devoir have I fultilled.
The dragon which laid waste the land,
I met and coiujuered, sv/ord in hand,
T\w ways are for the wanderer fr(^e,
'I'he herd no more in stall need pint%
And safe the pilgrims now shall be
That travel to Our Ladv's shrine."

Sternly die Master gave him heed,
Then saith, " It was a noble deed !
Such feats have honoi-ed knights of old,
Thy soul was g?'eat, thy heart was bold.
])o thou repeat the first pledge now
Of knights that take our holy vow,
Whose shouldei's bear the blessed sign." —
White grows the listening faces' line, —
The young knight speaks with reverence low,
While o'er his cheeks a blush doth flit,
" 'Tis by obedience men may know
A knight to bear the Cross is fit."'

"This duty that thou shouldst have kept,
Son, thou hast lM)ldly overstept :
The fight our Order's law gainsaid
Was impious," the. INFaster said.

TiiK Fi(;nT With thk J)|{A(J()n.

".JihIjlc*', r.(.i<l, wiicii Ihou Iiast Iirjud my talc,"

Tho youth ivplird, ik.i- did j,,. ,jn,iii.

"Our Orders liii,di»'r luw mid will

I .s<)U,«,dit Miost truly to fulfil.

Not without thou<^dit did I <;o hence

To wage the fight for (leath and life ;

With wily sleights for my defence,

I hoped to conquer in the strife.

"For of our Older five, the best,
Ah-eady had (Ciod give them rest !)
Lost life in that wild game they plavcd,
When thou the waste oi life gainsaid.
Yet at my heart the h)nging lay
To know t\u) joy of that fierce frav,
I started from my couch at night
Gasping in dreams of close-locked fight.
And wlien the morning dawned unhlest,
Fresh terror spread the country through,
IVIy heart beat high within mv ])reast,
I swore to wage the war anew.

2.s;i

"What honors youth? -my musings ran,-
What deeds give glory to the man ?
What did the mighty heroes bold
Of whom we read in legends old,
In whom misguided heathens blind
The avatars of gofls did find ?
They cleansed the world from west to east
'itrange and monstrous

ur many a strange and

They met in fight the lion grim

And battled with the IMinotaur

ast.

To free the victims claimed by him ; —

jeacon ai'e.

Such deeds as these

•JHl

Firm JU:aih:k.

"Must, t\w CrusarU'i-'s kiiii,'litly sword

Fall only on the Payiiini Ikh'cIi' (

Fights hi' alouo with fals«> gods ( Nay,

Woi'ld-('Iiaiii})ioii is the knight I say !

The world in every need and harm

Must} seek salvation in his arm.

Courage is much, nor wisdom less,

And strength must yoke with wiliness. —

So oft 1 s[)ake, and went alone

To find the dragon's track of f(^ar,

A sudden light upon me shone, ,.i

I cried, 'Thank Heaven ! My j)atli is ch'ar !'

"Then, Sire, T asked a grai^e of thee,
* I fain my liome again would see.'
Thou gi'antedst me the easy boon.
And the grey s(>a was cj-osscmI right soon.
When I had reached my fatherland,
I made a faithful craftsman's hand
A dragon's likeness grim portray
Distinct in every hue and trait.
On short distorted legs and feet
Rested the hideous body's weight,
And o'er tlie l)ack the scales did meet,
A fearful corslet's mail and plate.

"The l<mg neck showed a bristly fell,
And, gruesonu^ as the gate of hell,
The mighty jaws were gaping wide
As if some l)rey the creature spied.
In the black gulf that yawned beneath
Were rows of sharp and pointed teeth, i
Like to a sword-point was the tongue,
From the small eyes green lightnings spruiig ;

The Fkjht With thk J)|{.\<jon\ 285

The uncoutli Ixxiv's loathly leiijrth

Was ended in a serpents train,

So it could coil it;} feai-ful stren«,'th

Kouud man and horse and crusli tlu? twaiti.

" So stood the monster, trait oy trait,

O'er-elad with cloth of dusky grey,

Half salamander and half snake,

Jiegotten in some poisonous hike.

When the completed work stood there

I chose of noUe hounds a pair,

Strong, swift, and bold ; such dogs are they

That drive the Urus wild to l)ay.

T set them at the mimic brute,

A\'ith voice and luind I hound them on,

Tntil they grow mon; resolute,

And fasten savagely thereon.

" And where tlie belly soft and white
Gave vantage for the hounds' sharp bite,
I taught them to attack it fierce,
With pointed teeth to gnaw and pierce.
With bow and arrows fit for need
1 mount my noljle well-tried steed.
Of the best blood of Araby,
Of matchless speed and mettle high.
Straight at the dragon-form I ride.
The chai'ger with my spur I prick.
And cast my arrows at its side.
As if to pierce the corslet thick.

" Although the horse reared l)ack from it.
And in his terror champed the bit ;
Though the hounds shrunk when urged too near,
1 trained them till they lost all fear. - -

■rz:

28() - Fifth Reader.

And HO v/e practised on ».nd on
Till the third moon upon ns hIkjiig.
AVlion they arigh^ their lesson knew
We sailed across the ocean blue ;
'Tis hue three mornings since 1 stood
Again upon my native strand,
Each idle minute's rest I rued
Till to the work I set my hand.

" How could my heart in peace lie still ?
New terror all the land did fill ;
Torn in the swamp the herdsmen lay
Who m the marsh had lost tlieir way.
And I reserved upon the deed,
Listing but to mine own heart's rede,
I told my squires of mine intent.
And through the secret ways I went,
Mounted upon my proven steed.
And v/ith my noble hounds beside ;
No witness there could mark mv deed,
As on the Quest wt; forth did ride.

1^-

"Thou know'st, my Lord, the tiny church
High on the mountain set a-perch.
It looks o'er all the if-land fair,
'Twas a l)old spirit set it there !
The outside is l)ut poor and mean,
But o'er the altar may be seen
The pictured Maiden Mary mild.
The Three Kings, and the Holy Child.
Thrice thirty steps wind up the path
By which the pilgrim clind>i the heiglit,
Yet he forgets them when ho hath
The sweet Lord's face before his sight.

ri''

The Fi(;iit With thk ])iiA(io\.

" Mollowed within the mountain-side
Is a (lark grotto, low and wide,
On floor and walls swamp vapors steam,
Within its darkness shines no beam.
Within the Dragon housed, and lay
At ravenous watch both night and day.
Here coiled he, like Hell's greedy snake,
And near God's house his lair did make,
80 when the pilgrim wandering there
Began to climb the rocky v/ay.
Unknowing of the springe and snare,
The wily monster seized his pr^y.

287

"And now I scaled the rocky height;
Ere X should dare the desperate fight,
The holy place I knelt within
To purify my soul from sin.
And in that temnle of the Lord
I donned my harness, girt my sword,
In my right hand I grasped my speai,
And took the downv.ard path of fear,
8ome hasty last commands I flung
Unto my squires who stayed behind,
Into my saddle then I sprung,
And to God's care my soul resigned.

" Scarce had T reached the even phiiii,
When botii the hounds gave tonguj amain,
My horse began to pant and rear.
Recoil and gasp in sudden fear,
For, basking on the sun-warmed soil, ,_ ;
There lay the foe in hideous coil, —
Scarcely his loathly length \vc knew.
My noble dogs upon him flew,

288 Fifth Header.

But back, as arrows swift, they rusliwl,
When the black jaws yawned sudibn-widc,
From whence the poison(jus breatli out-gushed
Then, like a jackal's whine, it cried.

"The hounds with voice and hand T cheer,
Agivin the foe they venture near, ,
The spear J poise in air and whirl.
Then at the monster's loins 1 hurl ;
But, powerless as a staff, good lack !
The scaly corslet hurls it Vmck,
And ere I can renew the cast,
My steed rears up as if aghast
At the brute's basilisk-like eyes,
And at his hot and poisonous breath,
And from the combat back he flies, —
That hour I stood at gaze with Death !

"From selle I sprang in naught afrjiid.
Out flashed from sheath my well-ti'ied blad*;,
Yet though my strokes fell fast and fierce.
The scaly mail I could not pierce ;
Its tail coiled })oth my feet around,
And dashed me headlong to the gi'ound !
Close are the hideous teeth and claws,
Above me yawn the open jaws —
'Twas well for me that in that tide
My gallan hounds dashed in between.
And seized the b^ast bv throat and side,
Or else its victim I had been.

" And ere the brute again was free

I I'ose again right speedilie,

I saw its b(»lly white and l)ar('.

And deep I plunged my falchion there.

The Fkjht With tmk DuAciox.

Up to tlie hilt ill riesh it hUhkI,
Out leapt the jet uf dark-red ])1()(k1 :
Stark-dead down falls the Jiionster i^reat.
And }>uries me beneath its weight.
All sense and feeling passed from me,
But wlien I ope my swinuning eyes,
My s(juires around me there I see,
Dead in his blo(xi the Dragon lies."

28i)

Now that the story was told out.
The folk could give the long-pent sliout,
When all the gallant tale is spoken,
Out the applause at length has broken.
To the groined roofs of that high hall
The shout rose up from one and all ;
Even the stern Order's proud acclaim
Greets him as worth a hero's fame,
The thankful people ready near
To bear him forth in triumph stand,
Yet the Grand Master ivowns austere.
And " Silence ! " sternlv doth connnand.

"The Dragon, that laid waste the land.
Hath fallen," he saith, " })eneath thy hand.
The folk may hold thee g(xl, — but know
Thine Order hokls thee as its foe !
Thine heart a serpent nourisheth
Worse than the one that met its death.
The snake that poisons all within.
That breeds disunion, ruin, sin,
Is the ill spirit that resists
All due control, which, men can tell,
}^reaks Peace and Oi'der's golden twists,
And makes God's world like Satan's hell.

i>90

Fifth Reader.

" l'((/or oven Pavniiiis show in fi<;ht,

Obedience decks Clirist's clioseu kni»iflit ;

Vov where the Loid of Heaven and Earth

Took servant's place and mortal birth,

Upon tlie soil of Palestine

Our fathers took the pledge we sign,

They swore to strive and struggle still

To crush the serpent of self-will :

You })layed for fame, — you won your stake, —

Now go for ever from our sight !

On you Christ's yoke you would not take,

1\> bear Christ's cross you have no right."

T'he voices of the outraged folk

Into a sudden storm outbroke,

For him the Chapter supplicate,

But silently lie hears his fate,

Dorts the Crusader's mantle, and

Kisses his stern Superior's hand,

And goes. The Maste)''s looks were bent

On him, as humbly forth he went,

He called him, "To ray arms, my son !

'I'hou con(|ueror in this harder figlit,

Take thou thy Cross. It has })een won

By this self-con(juest in our sight ! "

-Schiller. Translation by Elizabeth Craigmyle (Iry pfrmintiion n/ Walter Smlt ).

What though in solemn silence, all

Move round this dark, terrestrial ball ?

What though no real voice nor sound

Amidst their radiant orbs be found 1

In ]ieas(jn's ear they all rejoice,

And utter forth a glorious voice.

Forever singing as they shine : .,

"The hand that made us is divine V —jonjph Addi

ison.

The Eklttiox of Veslvh's.

2i)l

THE ERUPTION OF VESUVIUS.

Oiic'c upon a time there stood a town in Italy, at tlie
foot of IVIount Ve.suviu.s, "whicli was to Home what
Brii^liton or Hastini^s is to London — a very fasl4iona])le
watering place, at which Koiiian trentlenien and mem-
bers of the senate built villas, to which they were in the
habit of retirino- from the fatimies of business or the
broils of politics. The outsides of all the houses were
adorned with frescoes, and every shop glittered with all
the colors of the rainbow. At the end of each street
there was a charmino- fountain, and any one who sat
down beside it to cool himself had a delijifhtful view of
the Mediterranean, then as beautiful, as blue, and as
sunny, as it is now. On a fine day, crowds might b<!
seen lounging here; some sauntering up and down in
gala dresses (jf purple, while slaves passed to and fro,
bearing on their heads splendid vases; others sat on
marble benches, shaded from the sun by awnings, and
having before then' tables covered with wine, and fruit,
and flowers. Every house in that town was a little
palace, and every palace was like a temple, or one of our
great public buildings.

Any one, who thinks a mansion in Belgravia the acme
of splendor, would have been astonished, had he lived in
those days, to find how completely the abode of those
Roman lords outshone "the stately homes of England."
On entering the former, the visitor passed through a
vestibule decorated with rows of pillars, and then found
himself in tlie imjihivium, in which the household gods
kept guard over the owner's treasure, which was placed

I! 'i

M'i

0Q.>

FiiTH Reader.

ill a sale, or stnjiig box, Hccurwl with bra.ss oi* iron baiidn.
In this apju'tiiieiit i^iiests were received with imposing
ceremony, and the? patron lieard the complaints, suppli-
cations, and adulations oi* his urcat band of cli(,'iits or
dependants, who lived on his smiles and bounty, but
chiefly on the Litter. Issuing thence, the visitor found
himself in the tahlinuvi, an ajjartment paved with
mosaic, and decorated with paintings, in which were
kept the family jjapers and archives. It contained a
dining room and a supper room, and a number of sleep-
ing rooms, hung with the softest Syrian clothes ; a
cabinet, tilled with rare jewels and anti(j[uities, and some-
times a fine collection of paintings ; and, last of all, a
pillared peristyle, opening out upon the garden, in which
the finest fruit hung temptingly in the rich light of a
golden sky, and fountains, which flung their waters aloft
in every imaginable form and device, cooled the air and
discoursed sweet music to the ear ; while from behind
every shrub there peeped out a statue or the bust of
some great man, carved from the purest white marble,
and placed in cliarming contrast with boiKpiets of rare
flowers springing from stone vases. On the gate there
was always the image of a dog, and underneath ^^ the
inscription, " Beware the dog. '

The frescoes on the walls represented scenes in the
Greek Legends, such as "The Parting of Achilles and
the Beautiful Maid Briseis," " The Seizure of Europa,"
"The Battle of the Amazons," etc., many of which are
still to be seen in the Museum at Naples. The pillars in
the peristyle, of which we have just spoken, were en-
circled with garlands of flowers, which were renewed
every morning. I'he tables of citron-wood were inlaid

'■p

FnK Ehii'TIox (»i' Vivsrvifs.

20:^

Avitli silvt'i' ;iial)<'S(|U('s : tlic (mhicIich wnr of hion/c, oilt,
Mild jcwellt'd, niid were fiiriiislH'fl with tliick cuslnons
and tapestry, (nidiroidcrcd with iiianclhnis skill. WIh'ii
the master oavo a dinner party, tlu^ j^iiests reelined upon
these cusliions, waslicd tlieir liands in silver basins, and
dried tliem with napkins frino-cd Avitli purple; and,
liavino^ made a libation on tlie altar of Bacelius, ate
oysters brouHit from the shores of Britain, kids whieh
were carved to the sound of music, and fruits served up
on ice in tlie liottest days of summer ; and while tlu^
cup-bearers tilled their (»;(>lden cups with tlie rarest and
most delicate wines in all the world, other attendants
crowned them witli flowers v et with dew, and dancers
executed the most graceful movements, and sin<jfers,
accompanied by the lyre, poured foi-th an ode of Horace
or Anacreon.

After the ban(piet a shower of scented water, scattered
from invisible pipes, spread 2)erfume over the apartment ;
and everythinj^ around, even the oil and tlie lamps, and
the jets of the fountain, shed forth the most 'grat<'ful
odor ; and suddenly, from the mosaic floor, tables of rich
dainties, of wdiich we have at the present day no idea,
rose, as if by matjjic, to stimulate the palled appetites
of the revellers into fresh activity. When these had
disappeared, other tables succeeded them, upon wdiich
senators, and counsels, and pro-consuls, oambled away
provinces and empires by the throw of dice ; and, last of
all, the tapestry was suddenly raised, and young girls,
lightly attired, wrt^athed with flowers, and bearing lyres
in their hands, issued forth, and charmed sight and
bearing by the graceful mazes of the dance.

One day, when such festivities as these were in fidl

( ii

204

FlITII IvKADKlJ.

{ictivity, N'rHUvius kchu up m (;i11 mikI Ncry l)lack coluiim
ol' smoke, soinctliin^" like a piiie-trei^; and suddenly, in
broad noon-day, daikness black as pitch caiiio over the
scene ! There Mas a friohtful din of cries, oroans, and
imprecations, uiin^led confusedly toi^ether. The brother
lost his sister, the husband his \vif<3, the mother her
child ; for tho darkness became so dense that nothing-
could be seen but the Hashes Avhicli every now an<l then
darted forth from the sunnnit of the luutifhborini; moun-
tain. The earth trend)led, the houses shook and began
to fall, and the sea rolled back from tlie land as if
terrified ; the air became thick with dust ; and then,
amidst tremendous and awful noise, a shower of stones,
scoria, and pumice, fell upon the town and blotted it out
for ever !

The inhabitants died just as the catastrophe found
them — tj'uests in their baiKpieting halls, brides in their
chambers, soldiers it their post, prisoners in their dun-
geons, thieves in their theft, maidens at the mirror,
slaves at the fountain, traders in their shops, students at
their books. Some people attempted liiglit, guided by
some blind people, who had walked so long in darkness
that no thicker shadows could ever come upon them ;
but of these many were struck down on the way.
When, a few days afterwards, peo})le came from the
surrounding country to the place, they found naught
but a black, level, smoking plain, sloping to the sea,
and covered thickly with ashes! Down, down beneath,
thousands an<l thousands were sleeping "the sleep that
knows no waking," with all their little pomps, and
vanities, and frivolities, and pleasures, and luxuries,
buried with them.

'I'HK KlM'ITloV OK \'i:si\'Ils.

205

'J'liis took [)la(M' oil tlic 2.'ir<l of August, a.d. 7!> : .mikI
tlio luinie of the town, thus siubh'iily oNorwlichiicd ^v)tll
mill, "svus Pompeii. Sixtcrii Iniiulrt'd jiikI scvciitiMMi
yt'JivH al'tcrwards, curious persons began to d\g and ex-
cavate on tlie spot, and lo ! tliey found tlie city pretty
iiiucli as it was wlien overwlieliiied. Thf houses Avere
standing, tlie paintings were fresli, jind the skeh'tons
stood in tlie very positions and the very places in which
death had overtaken their owners so long ago ! The
marks left hy tlu^ cups of the tipplers still remained on
the counters; the prisoners still wore their fetters; the
belles their chains and bracelets; the miser held liis
hand on his lioarded coin ; and the priests were lurking
in the lioUow images of their gods, from which tliey
uttered i-esponaes and deceived the worshippers. There
were the altars, with the blood dry and crusted upon
them ; the stable in whicli the victims of the sacrifice
were kept; and the liall of mysteries, in which were
symbolical paintings. The researches are still going on,
new W()nd»*rs are every day coming to light, and we
soon shall have almost as perfect an idea of a Roman
town, in the tirst century of the Christian era, as if we
had walked the streets and gossiped with the idle
loungers at the fountains. Pompeii is the ghost of an
extinct civilization rising up before us.

-Anon.

Though the mills of God gi-iiid slowly,

Yet they grind exceeding small ;
Tlu)usjjh with patience he stands waiting,'.

With exactness grinds he all.

— Jlenry W. Linujft'lluw.

2!J0

FiiTii Ukadkk.

AS SHIPS, BECALMED AT EVE.

As shi[)s, lu'C'ilinM Jit r\i\ tliat luy
With canvas droopim;, sidr 1)V si(l(>,

Two towers of sail at dawn of day

Are scai'cc lon^ leagues apai't descried ;

When fell the iiiicht, ii[)S[)i'uiig the hi'ee/e,
And all the (hukling houfs thev }>lie(l,

Nor dreamt but each the self-sanie seas
J>y each was cleaving, side ])y side :

E'en so — but wliy the tale rev(nil

Of th(»se, whom year by ycjir unchanged,

iJrief absence join'd anew to feel, •

Astounded, soul from soul estranged !

At dea<l of night their sails were filFd,
And onwai'd each I'ejoicing steer'd -

Ah, neither blam(5, for neither wilj'd,
Oi' wist, what first with dawn aj)|)ear'd !

To veei", how \ain ! On, onward ^;train,
Brave ])arks ! In light, in darkness too.

Through winds and tides one com})ass guides — •
To that, and your own selves, be true.

But O blithe breeze ! and O gi*eat seas.
Though ne'er, that earliest })arting 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 l.'ust, at last, unite them there.

— Arthur lliujli CLtuijh,

THK TkMI'KST,

THE TEMPEST.

297

A TALE FROM SHAKESPEARE.

There waH a certain iHlaiid in tlie sea, tlie only
inliabitants of wliicli were an old man wliose name -vvaK
ProHpero, and lii.s daugliter Miranda, a very beautit'nl
young lady. She came to this ishind so young, that slie
liad no memor\' of liavin<i" sren any otlier Inniian face
tlian her fatliers.

Tliey lived in a cave or cell made out of a roek. It
was divided into several apartments, one of which Pros-
pero called his study. There he kept his books, wliic h
chiefly treated of magic, a study at that time nnich
atiected by all learned men. The knowledge of this art
he found very useful to him ; for, being thrown by a
strange chance upon this island, which had been en-
chanted by a witch called Sycorax, who died there a
short time before his arrival, Prospero, by virtue of his
art, released many good spirits that Sycoi-ax had im-
prisoned in the bodies of large treea because they had
refused to execute her wicked commands. These gentle
spirits were ever after obedient to the will of Prospero.
Of tliese Ariel was the chief.

The lively little sprite Ariel had n<jthing mischievous
in his nature, except that he took rather too much
pleasure in tormenting an ugly monster called Caliban;
for he owed him a grudge because he was the son of his
old enemy Sycorax. This Caliban lirospero found in the
woods, a strange, misshapen thing, far less human in
form than an ape. He took him home to his cell, and
20

2\)H

Firm 1Ii;aih:u.

tauglit ]\\in to sjH'ak : and Pi-ospcro wmiM ,avo been
very kind to liim, but tb(5 ])a(l nature wliich Caliban
inherited fron» Ins niotlu-r Sycoi'ax -svould not k't liini
learn anvthinj; liood or uscl'iil. '^riicrcl'ore lie was en»-
ployed like a slavis to fetch wood, and do the most
laborious otlices; and Ariel had tlie chart^e of couipelling
him to these services.

When Calibnn Mas la/v, and nemected his work, Ariel
(who was invisil)le to all eyes but I'rospero's) would come
slyly and pinch him, ami sometimes tumble him down in
the mire ; and then Ariel, in the likeness of an ape, would
make numths at him. Then, swiftly chanuin<^ his shape,
in the likent^ss of a hed<((;h(jti^, he would Vu) tumbling in
the way of Caliban, who feared the hedg"eho<j^'s sharp
(piills would prick his bare feet. With a variety of such
vexatious tricks Ariel would often torment him, when-
ever Caliban neglected the work which Trospero com-
manded him to do.

Having these powerful spirits obedient to his will,
Prospero could by their means connnand the winds and
the waves of the sea. By his orders they raised a violent
storm, in the midst of which, and struggling with the
wild sea-waves that every moment threatened to swallow
it up, he showed his daughter a fine large shi}), which he
told her was full of liviiiii" 1 .iin^s like themselves.

**« .ny dear father," said shti, "if by your art you have
raised this dreadlul storm, have pity on their sad dis-
tress! See! the vessel will be dashed to ])ieces. Poor
souls ! they will all peiish. If I had j)()Wer, 1 would
sink the sea benejjtth the earth, lather than the good
ship should be destroyed, with all the pi'ecious souls
within her."

TllK TkMI'KST

2:>9

lave
(lis-

»()()(1
luuls

" Be not so niiuiZL'd, tlaiit»litrr Miniuda, " hhuI I'lospuro;
"there is no li.iiin doiu!. 1 hav«^ ho oi-dercd it tliat no
peiHO!! in tlie sliip nliall receive any lunt. Wliat 1 have
done lias been in care of you, my dear cliild. You are
ignorant wlio you are, or wlua'e you came from ; and
you know no more of me but that ] am your father, and
live in this poor cave. Can you remcndx'i- a time before
you came to this cell? 1 thitd< you can not, for you
were not then three years of a*;e. '

" Cei'taiidy I can, sir," replied Miranda.

" By what ^ " asked Prospero ; " by any other house or
person ? "^^I'ell me what you can remember, my child."'

Miran(hi said, "It seems to me like tlu; recollection of
a dream. But had T not (jnce four or five women who
attended upon me { "

Prospero answered, " You had, and more. How is it
that this still lives in your mind:' J)o you remember
how you came here ? "

" No, sir," said Miranda. " I remember nothing more."
" Twelve years ago, Miranda," continued Prospero, " I
was Duke of Milan, and you were a princess, and my
oidy heir. I had a younger bn^ther, whose name was
Antonio, to whom I trusted evx'rything; and, as I was
fond of retirement and de<'p study, I commonly left the
management of my state aflkirs to your uncle, my false
brother (for so indeed he proved). Neglecting all worldly
ends, and buried among my books, 1 dedicated my whole
time to the bettering of my mind. My brother Antonio,
being thus in possession of my power, began to think
himself the duke indeed. The opportunity I gave him
of making himself popular among my subjects, awaken-
ed in his bad natui'e a proud Miid)ition to depiive me of

TTBi

300

Fifth Kkadkh.

N ^i^li;

my (lukedoiii. Tliis ho soon cHfected, witli tlie aid of tlie
Kintr of Kaj les, a powerful prince, wJio was my enoujy."

" Wliereforc," said Miranda, "did tlu-v not tluit liour
destroy us i* "

"My child," answered her father, "they (hirst not, so
dear was tlie love that my people ])ore nie. Antonio
carried us on ])oard a sliij) ; and, wlieu we were some
leagues out at sea, lie forced us into a smjill boat, witli-
out tackle, sail, or mast: th.3re he left us, as he thouglit,
to perish. But a, kind lord of my court, one Go^zalo,
who loved me, had privately placed in the hoat water,
provisions, apparel, and some hooks which 1 prize above
my dukedom."

"O my father," said ]\Iiranda, " what a trouble must I
have been to you then ! "

"No, my love," said Prospero, "you were a little
cherub, that cid preserve me. Your innocent smiles
made me to bear up a^^ainst my misfortunes. Our food
lasted till we landed on this desert island, since when my
chief delight has been in teaching you, Miranda; and
well have you profited by my instructions."

"Heaven thank you, my dt^ar fatlier," said Miranda.
"Now pray tell me, sir, your reason for raising this sea-
storm i* "

"Know, then," said her father, "that by means of this
storm my enemies, the King of Naples, and my cruel
brother, are cast ashoit; upon this island."

Having so said, Prospei'o gently touched his daughter
w^ith his magic wand, and she fell fast asleep ; for the
spirit Ariel just then presented liimself before his mas-
ter, to give an .iccount of tlie tempest, and how he had
disposed of the ship's company; and, though the sjiirits

The Temi»kst.

301

; the

mv.

hour

i)t, so

tonio

some

with.-

mght,

iizalo,

svatev,

above

st 1

nils

littU'
smUes
Li* food
fen my
and

landa.
lis sea-

)f this
cruel

iLiijhtei'

Di- the

mas-

jo had

spirits

were always invisi])l(! to Miranda, Pi-ospcro did not
choose slu; sliould hcMi- liiin lioldin^^ converse (as W(fuld
seem to lier) witli tlie empty air.

'Well, my brave spirit," said Prospcro to Ariel, "how
have you performed your task ?"

Ariel ^aya a lively description of the storm, and of
the terrors of the mariners; and liow the king's sou
Ferdinand was the first who leaped into tlie sea ; and
his father thought he saw this <lear son swallowed up by
the waves, and lost. " But he is safe," said Ariel, " in a
corner of the isle, sitting with his arms folded sa,dly,
lamenting the loss of the king his father, whom he con-
cludes droAvned. Not a hair of his head is injured ; and
his princely garments, though dreTicher; in the sea-waves,
look fresher than b(»fore."

" That's my delicate Ariel," said Prospero. " Bring
him hither. My daughter must see this young prince.
Where is the king and my brother ? "

"I left them," answered Ariel, "searching for Ferdi-
nand, wliom they ha\'e little hopes of finding, thinking
they saw him perish. Of the ship's crew not one is
missing, though each one thiidvs himself the only one
saved: and the ship, though invisible to them, is safe in
the harbor."

"Ariel," said Prospero, "thy charge is faithfully per-
formed ; but there is more work yet."

"Is there more woik ?" said Ariel. "Let me remind
you, master, you ha\ e promised me my liberty. I pray,
remember, I have done you worthy service, told you no
lies, made no mistakes, served vou without

grudge

irrumnimir

bli

How now!" said Prospero. "You do not recollect

i:!|

302

Fifth Readkr.

wliat a t(>rm(3nt I freed yon IVom. Have you forgotten
the wicked witcli Sycorax, avIio witli age and envy was
abno.st bent double ? Where was hIkj born ? Speak !
tell me!"

'■ Sir, in Algi<'rs," said Ariel. -

"Oh! was f-ihe so?" said Prospero. "I nuist recount
what you have been, which I iind you do not remember.
This bad witch Sycorax, for her witchcrafts, too terrible
to enter human hearing, was banished from Algiers, and
here left by the sailors; and, because you were a spirit
tv;o delicate to execute her wicked connnands, she shut
you up in a tree, where I found you howling. This
torment, remember, I did free you from."

" Pardon me, dear master/' said Ariel, ashamed to seem
ungrateful. " I will obey your commands."

" Do so," said Prospero, " and I will set you free." He
then gave orders what further he would have him do;
and away went Ariel, first to where he had left Ferdi-
nand, and found him still sitting on the grass in the
same melancholy posture.

" O my young gentleman ! " said Ariel, when he saw
him, "I will soon move you. You must be brought,
I find, for the lady Miranda to have a sight of your
pretty person. Come, sir, follow me." He then began
singing, —

" Full fcathoni five thy father lies :
Of his bones are coral made :
Those are pearls that were his eyes ;

Nothing of him that doth fade.
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange.
Soa-nymphs hourly ring Lis knell : *

Hark 1 now I hear them, ding-dong-bell."

The Tempest.

303

THE TEMPEST.

lie

do;
erdi-
the

Haw
light,
)ur

Part IT. \

This Htraiiw news of liis lost father soon roused tlie
prince from the stupid tit into wliich he liad faUen. He
followed in amazement thfc sound of Ariel's voice, till
it led liim to Prospero and Miranda, who were sitting
under the shade of a hirtre tree.

Now, Miranda had never seen a man before, except
her own father. " Miranda," said Prospero, " tell me
what you are looking at yonder." f

" O father ! " said Miranda, in a strange surprise,
" surely that is a spirit. Dear me ! how it looks about !
Believe me, sir, it is a beautiful creature. Is it not a
spirit?"

" No, girl," answered her father. " It eats, and sleeps,
and has senses such as we have. This young man you
vsee was in the ship. He is somewhat altered by grief,
or you might call him a handsome person. He has lost
his companions, and is wandering about to find them."

Miranda, who thought all men had grnve faces and
gray beards like her father, was delighted with the ap-
pearance of this beautiful young prince ; and Ferdinand,
seeing such a lovely lady iti this desert place, and from
the st'^ange sounds he had heard expecting nothing but
wonders, thought he was upon an enchanted island, and
that Miranda was the goddess of the place, and as such
he began to address her.

She timidly answered she was no goddess, but a simple
maid, and was going to give him an account of hei*self.

304

FiiTii Kkadek.

wlu'U Pr().s[)('i() iiitcnuptrd licr. lie w.is wvW 2)k'{is('(l lo
tiiul tluy ndiiiircd cmcIi other, for lie pliiiiily perceived
tliey luid fallen in Iono at first sight; but to try Ferdi-
nand's constancy, l>o resolved to throw some difficulties
in their way. Therefore, advancing fo"ward, ho ad-
di'esse<l the prince with a st('!'ii air, telling him ho came
to the island as a spy, to take it from liim who was the
lord of it. .' -

"Follow me,'* said he. "I will tie you neck and feet
together. You shall drink S(^a-water ; shell -fish, wither-
ed roots, and husks of acorns shall bo your food." " No,"
said Ferdinand, "I will resist such entertainment till I
see a more powerful enemy," and dnnv his sword. But
Prospero, waving his magic wand, fixed him to the spot
whore he stood, so that he had no power to mo\o.

Miranda lumg upon her father, saying, " Wh}^ aro you
so ungentle ? Have pity, sir; I will bo his surety. This
Vui '\e second nian I ever saw, and to mo ho seems a true

one.

"Silence," said her father; "one word more will make
me chide you, girl ! What ! an advocate for an impostor !
You thirdv there are no more such fine men, having seen
only him and Caliban. I tell you, foolish girl, most men
as far excel this as ho does Caliban." This ho said to
prove his daughter's constancy; and she replied, "My
affections are most humble ; , I have no wish to see a
aoodlier man."

"Come on, yovmg man," said Prospei-o to the prince;
" you have no power to disobey me."

"I have not, indeed," answered Ferdinand; and, not
knowing that it was by magic lie was deprived of all
power of resistance, he was astonished to find himself so

YUK TkMI'EST.

J^05

.straiiojnly C()inp<'ll('(I to follow I'l-ospcro. Lo()i<in<( hni'k.
oil Minuula as loiiu- as lie could see her, lie said, as lie
went after Prosju^^-o into tlie cave, "My spirits are all
bouTnl Tip, as if I were in a dream ; but tliis man's
tlu'cats, and the weakness which I feel, would seem li^'ht
to me, if from my pris(>i I mi«)^ht one(^ a day behold this

fair maid." .,,^.^,,. ,.,,,._ ^ ■.• - .l.-,v.'- . -.^t,:; ■■,:..'--;;-. ..r;.^ "■ '^-: ,

Prospero kept Ferdinand not long- confined within the
cell. He soon brought out his prisoner, and set him a
severe task to perform, takin*;- care to h^t his daughter
know the hard labor he ha<l imposed on him, and then,
pretending" to go int(j his study, he secretly watched
them both.

Prospero had commanded Ferdiiifind to pile up some
heavy logs of wocmI. Kings' sons not being much used
to laborious work, Miranda soon found her lover almost
dying with fatigue. "Alas!" said she, "do not work so
hard. My father is at his studies; he is safe for these
three hours: pray rest yourself." ^ •

" Oh, my dear lady," said Ferdinand, " I darc^ not. I
nnist finish my task before I take my rest."

"If you will sit down," said Miranda, "I will carry
your logs the while." But this Ferdinand would by no
means agree to. Instead of a help, Miranda became a
hindrance, for they began a long conversation, so that
the business of log-carrying went on very slowly.

Prospero, who had enjoined Ferdinand this task me';e-
ly as a trial of his love, was not at his books, as his
daughter supposed, but was standing oy them invisiole,
to overhear what they said.

Ferdinand inquired her name, which she told him>

:U)6

FiiTi[ Ueai>eii.

Hayin<4' it was ayaiiist Imt latlicr's cxprcHS comniand slic
did so. '

Prospei'o on\y sinilcd at this first instance of his
daughter's disobedience, for having by his magic art
caused his daughter to fall in love so suddenly, he was
not a-ngiy that she showed her love by forgetting to
obey his coinniands. And he listened, well 2:)leased, to a
long speech of Ferdinand's, in which h(i professed to love
her above all the ladies he ever saw.

In answer to his praises of her beauty, which he said
exceeded all the women in the world, she replied, " I do
not remember the face of any woman, nor have I seen
any more men than you, my good friend, and my dear
father. How features are abroad, I know not; but
believe me, sir, I would not wish any companion in the
world but you, nor can my imagination form any shape
but yours that I could like. But, sir, I fear I talk to •
you too freely, and my father's precepts I forget." ■

At this Prospero smiled, and nodded his head, as much
as to say, "This goes on exactly as I could wish. My •
girl will be Queen of Naples."

And then Ferdinand, in another fine, long speech (for
young princes speak in courtly phrases), told the inno-
cent Miranda he was heir to the crown of Naples, and
that she should be his queen.

" Ah ! sir," said she, " I am a fool to weep at what I
am glad of. I will answer you in plain and holy inno-
cence. I am your wife if you will marry me."

Thk Tempest.

,S07

in(

I si

THE TEMPEST.

of liis
ugic art
he was
ting to
ed, to a

to love

lie said
[, " I do
I seen
ly dear
»t ; but
L in the
■f shape
talk to

,s much
h. My

ich (for
e inno-
les, and

what I
y inno-

Paht III.

Prospero prevented Ferdinand's tlmnks hy appearing
vis.ble before them.

"Fear nothing, my child," said he; "I have overheard
and ajjprove of all you have said. And, Ferdinand, if I
have too severely used you, I will make you rich amends
by giving you my daughter. All your vexations wert"
but my trials of your love, and you have nobly stood
the test. Then as my gift, which your true love has
worthily purchased, take my daughter, and do not smile
that I boast she is above all praise." Then, telling them
that he had business which required his presence, he
desired they would sit down and talk together till he
retiH'ned. This conmiand Miranda seemed not at all
disposed to disobey.

When Prospero left them, he called his spi?it Ariel,
who quickly appeared before him, eager to relate what
he had done with Prospero's brother and the King of
Naples.

Ariel said he had left them almost out of their senses
with fear at the strange things he had caused them to
see and hear. When fatigued with wandering about,
and famished for want of food, he had suddenly set
before them a delicious banquet ; and then, just as they
were going to eat, he appeared visible before them in the
shape of a harpy, a voracious monster with wings, and
the feast vanished. Then, to their utter amazement,
this seeming harpy spoke to them, reminding them of

l"T"i '1

.SOS

F FIT 1 1 Kl'UDKK.

llirir criK'lty i" <irivin«;' l^rospcio from liis (lukcrloiii, and
Ica-viiio" liiiM and Ins iiil'jnit djiu^Iitcr to perish in the
sea; Hfiyiiit^", tliat I'or tins cause, thes«; tcci'ors were
sufiercid to afflict tlicni.

The King of Njiplcs, and Antonio, the false brother,
repented the injustice they had done; to Prospero; and
Ariel tcjld his master he was certain their penitence was
sincere, and that he, though a spirit, could not but X)ity
them. ■• 'vM ;-.-'■: ,-:''^ ■■'■-■',.■■■>■',•:;!,. /-.-:■. .,:,."■■■.,■,■.;,,,','.•■ ■ - -

"Then bi-ing them hither, Ariel," said Prospero. "If
you, who are but a spirit, feel for their distress, shall
not I, who am a human being like themselves, have
compassion on them { Bring them (piickly, my dainty
Ariel."

Ariel soon returned with the king, Antonio and old
Gonzalo in their train, who had followed him, wondering
at the wild music he played in the air to draw them on
to his master's presence. This Gonzalo was the same
who liad so kindly provided Prospero formerly with
books and provisions, when h^'s wicked brother left him,
as he thought, to perish in an open boat in the sea.

Grief and terror had so stupetied their senses, that
tliey did not know Prospero. He first discovered him-
self to the good old Gonzalo, calling him the preserver of
liis Kie; and then his brother and the king knew that
lie was the injured Prospero.

Antonio, with tears, and sad words of sorrow and true
repentance, implored his brother's forgiveness, and the
king expressed his sincere remorse for having assisted
Antonio to depose his brother, and Prospero forgave
them ; and, upon their engaging to restore his dukedom,
he said to the King of Naples, " I have a gift in store for

Tin: Tkmi'Kst.

'MY.)

ue
lie
ed
ve
m,
or

you too;" ami, opcniiii^ a door, sIiowimI liiiu lii.s son
Ferdinand playing at chess with Miranda.

Notliini;- could exceed the joy of the father and the
son at this uin>xpect«'(l nuM'tin^;", for they each thought
the other drowned in the storm.

"() Monder!" said Miranda, "what noble creatures
these a!e ! It nmst surely l)e a brave world that has
such people in it."

The King of Naples was ahnost as much astonished at
the beauty and excellent graces of the 3^oung Miranda,
as his son had been. "Who is this maid?" said he;
"she seems the gochless that has parted us, and brought
us thus together."

"No, sir," answered I'^erdinand, smiling to find his
father had fallen into the same mistake that he had
(lone when lie iirst saw Miranda, "she is a mortal, but
she is mine ; I chose her when I could not ask j^ou, my
father, for your consent, not thinking you were alive.
She is the daughter of this Prospero, who is the famous
Duke of ]\Iilan, of whose renown I have heard so nnich,
but whom I never saw till now. Of him I have received

a new life: he has made himself to me a second father,
nivino- me this dear lady."

"Then I must b<i her father," said the king; "but
oh ! how oddly will it sound, that I must ask my child
forufiveness !"

"No more of that," said Pr( ;spero; "let us not remem-
ber our troubles past, since they so happily have ended."
And then Prospero endjraced his brother, and again
assured him of his forgiveness; and said that a wise,
over-ruling Providence luul permitted that lie should be

:u()

Fifth Hkader.

driven lioin liis poor dukedom of Milan tliafc liis daugh-
ter niitj^lit inherit the crown of Naples, for that by tlieir
meeting in tliis desert island, it liad lia2)pened that the
king's son liad loved Miranda. «

These kind words which Prc^spero spoke, meaning to
comfort liis brother, so filled Antonio witli shame and
remorse, tliat he wept, and was una])le to speak; and tJje
kind eld Gonzalo wept to see this joyful reconciliation,
and prayed for blessings on the young couple.

Prospero now told them that tlieir ship w^as safe in the
harbor, < nd the sailors all on board her, and that he and
his daughter would accompany them home the next
morning. "In the meantime," said he, "partake of such
refreshments as my poor cave affords; and for your
evening's entertaimnent I will relate the liistory of my
life from my first landing in this desert island." He
then called for Caliban to prepare some food, and set
the cave in order; and the company were astonished at
the uncouth form and savage apjiearance of this ugly
monster, who, Prospero said, was the only attendant he
had to wait upon him.

Before Prospero left the island, he dismissed Ariel
from his service, to the great joy of that lively little
spirit ; who, i/hough he had been a faithful servant to
his master, was always longing to enjoy his liberty, to
wander uncontrolled in the air, like a wild bird, mider
green trees, among pleasant fruits, and sweet-smelling
flowers.

"My quaint Ariel," said Prospero to the little sprite
when he made him free, "I shall miss you; yet you
shall have your freedom." — "Tliank you, my dear mas-
ter," said Ariel ; " but give mo leave to attend your ship

Thk Temi'kst.

811

lie

•iel

:tle

der

iiig

•ite

las-
hii)

home w'\{]\ prospcroiiH «j;ales, before you l)i<l faiewell to
the assistaiice of yom* faithful spirit; aud tlieu, master,
wheu 1 ani free, how meri-ilv I slwill live I"

Here A I'iel Huug this pretty Hong: —

'* Where the lioo sin'hs, there Hiu'k 1 ;
111 a cowslip's bell 1 lie :
There 1 couch when owls do cry.
Oil the but'8 hnck I do tly,

After summer, merrily. -

Merrily, merrily, shull 1 liv*; now
. ' I'lider the blosaom thnt luings on the liough."

ProHpero then buried deep in t]\e earth his magical
lx)oks and waiid, for he was resolved never more to
make use of the magic art. And having tluis overcome
his enemies, and being reconciled to his brother and the
King of Naples, nothing now remained to complete his
happiness but to revisit his native land, to take posses-
sion of his dukedom, and to witness the happy nuptials
of his daughter ]\riran(ia and Prince F<'rdinand, which
the king said should be instantly celebrated with great
splendor on their return to Naples; at whicli place,
under the safe convoy of the spirit Ai'iel, tlioy, after a
pleasant voyage, soon nrrived.

—-Charlen Lamb.

Beneath the rule of men entirely gieat

The pen is mightier than the sword. Behold

Tlie arch enelianter's wand I itself a nothint;

Bat taking sorcery from the master's hand - ^

To paralyze the Caesars and to strike

The loud earth breathless ! Take away tlu5 sword —

States can b(^ saved without it.

— Uulwer Lytton.

;u2

FuTii Kladek.

TO NIGHT.

Mysterious Ni^lit ! W'licn <mi' first j)}u<'nl knew

'riicc fiom report divine, and heard tliy name, ,.

I)i«l he not trenil)le for this h)vely frame,

This glorious (!anoj)y of Hi^ht and hhie?

Yet, 'neatli the curtain of translucent dew,

llatlied in the rays of tlwt great setting tlame,

Hesperus with the host of heaven can»e,

And lo ! Cremation wideiu^d on nuui's view.

W'lio could have thought such dai'kness lay concealed

Within thy heains, () sun ( or who could lind,

While fly and leaf and insect lay revealed,

That to such countless or])s thou mad'st us })lind ?

Why do we, then, shun J^eath with anxious strife ?

If Light can so deceive, wherefore not JJfe ?

— liltiiii'ii White.

THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH WITH US.

The world is too much with us : late aiul soon.
(Jetting and speiuling, we lay waste our powers :
Little we see in Nature that is ours ;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon I
This Sea that l)ares lier l)osom to the moon ;
The winds that will be howling at all hours.
And are up-gatluMTd now like slr-ping il<>wers ;
For this, for every thing, we arc out of tune ;
It moves us not. — Great GckI ! I'd rather be
A Pagan suitkled in a creed outworn :
80 might I, standing on this ple.asant lea.
Have glim})ses that would make me less forlorn :
Have sight of Proteus rising fj-om the sea ;
Or hear old Ti'i((Hi blow his wi-eathe<l hoiii.

— Williiim Wiirdsirorth.

WaI'KN'TAKK.

M 1 1]

THE POETRY OF EARTH IS NEVER DEAD.

T\u' |«)(!try (if c.'irtli is never dead :

When all tluj ))ir<lH are faint with the hot sun,
A-i.i hi<l«! in cocjlin*; trees, a voieo will run

From he(l<r(» to he(l<^e ahout the new-mown mead ;

That is the ^rasshopiXM-'s he takes th(^ lead
III summer luxury, — Ir has never done
With his delii^hts ; for when tired out with fun

Ho rests at eas(^ beneath sr)mej)l(;asant wee<l.

The poetry of eai'th is ceasing never :

On a lone winter evening, when the frost

Has \vrought a silence, from the stove there shrills

The Cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever,

. And seems to one in drowsiness half lost,

The (jlrasshopper's among some grassy hills.

—John Keats.

WAPENTAKE.

Poet ! I come to touch thy lance with mine ;

Not as a knight, who on the listed field

Of tourney touched Ids adversary's shield

In token of detiance, hut in sign
Of homage to the mastery, which is thine,

In English song ; nor will I keep concealed,

And voiceless as a rivulet frost-congealed,

My admiration f(.r thy verse divine.
Not of the howling dervishes of song,

Who craze the ])iaiii with their deliiious dance.

Art thou, O sweet histoi'ian of the heart !
Therefore to tnee the laurel-leaves ])elop.g,

To thee our love and our allegi'ince,

For thy allegiance to the j)oet's art.

_. — Ileniij II'. Longfellow.

814

FuTii Uj:ai)EK.

FROM DAWN TO DAWN IN THE ALPS.

Stand upon tlui peak of somo isolattMl mountain at
flav})i'('ak, wljcn th(3 ni^jlvt mists first rise from oft* tlie
plains, and watcli their white and hik('-lilv(^ fields as they
float in level bays and windin^^ (J^ult's about the islan<led
sunnnits of tlie k)wer liills, untouclied yet by more tlian
dawn, eolder and more (luiet than a windless sea under
tlie moon of midnight; watch when the first sunbi^am is
sent upon the silver chaiuiels, how the foam of their
undulatiiiL^ surface parts an<l passes away ; and down
under their depths, th(^ ^littiu'ini^ city and jj^reen pasturi^
lie like Atlantis, betwe<'n the V\diit(; paths of winding
rivers; the flakes of light falling every moment faster
and broader among the stany spires, as the wreathed
surgi's break and vanish above them, and the confused
crests and ridges of tlu^ dark hills shoi-ten their gray
shadows upon the ])lain. •

Wait a little longer, and you shall see those scattered
mists rallying in the ravines, and floating up towards
you, along the winding valleys, till they couch in (juiet
masses, iridescent with the morning light, up(m the broad
breasts of the higher bills, whose leagues of massy undu-
lation will melt back r«,nd back into that robe of material
light, until they fade away, lost in its lustre, to appear
again above, in tlie serene heaven, like a wild, bright,
impossible dream, foundationless and inaccessible, their
very bases vanishing in tlu; unsu])stantial and mocking
blue of the deep lake below.

Wait yet a little longer, and you shall see those mists
gath'H' themselves into white towers, an<l stand like fort-
rwft..wS al<;ng the promontories, massy and motioidess.

Fkom Dawn to Dawn i\ tiik Alps.

'I'l

ill

hear

1(1'

lit,

lu'ir

:ing-

lists
i>rt-

h'ss.

only piled witli cnciv iiistjinl lii^licr and lii^licf into tin;
sky, and casting longer shadows athwart the rocks; and
out of tlio palo bhie ot" tlio liorizon you will s(3e forming
and advancing a troop of narrow, dark, pointed vapors,
which will cover the sky, inch by inch, with their gray
network, and take the liglit oft' the landscapes with an
eclipse which will stop the singing of the hiids and the
motion (»f the leaves together; and then you will see
horizontal bars of black shadow foi'iiiing undi'r them,
and lurid wreaths create themselves, you know" not how,
along the shoulders of the hills; you never see them
form, but when you look back to a place which was clear
an instant ago, there is a cloud on it, hanging by the
precipices, as a hawk pauses over his i)rey.

And then you will hear the sud<l"n lush of aAvakened
Avind, and yo\i will see those watch-towers of vaj)or swe|)t
away from their foi ndations, and waving curtains of
opa(iue rain let down to tins valleys, swinging from the
bur<lene<l clouds in 1) ( k, bending fringes, or pacing in
pahs columns along tne lake level, grazing its surface
into foam as they go.

' And then, as the sun siidvs, you shall see tlus storm
drift for an instant from oft' the hills, leaving their l)road
sides smoking, and loaded yet with snow-white, torn,
steam-like rags of capricious vapor, now gone, now
gathered again; while the smouldering sun, scheming not
far away, but burning like a red-hot ball beside you, and
as if you could ri^ach it, plunges througl^ th ' I'ushing
wind and rolling cloud with lieadlong fall, as if it meant
to rise no more, dyeing all the air about it with blood.

And ther you shall hear the faiiiting ti'mpest die in
th(! hollow of the night, an<l you shall see a green halo

'^■■l

■It'

NMH

3 If)

Fifth Readei!.

ifi

kiiKlliiiti^ oil tlu^ Huminit of tlio eastern hills, hriolitor —
brigliter yet, till the large white circle of tlie slow moon
is lifted up among the barred clouds, step by step, line
by line ; star after star she quenches with her kindling
light, setting in their stead an ai*my of pale, penetrable,
fleecy wreaths in the heaven, to give light upon the
earth, which move together, hand in hand, company by
company, troop by troop, so measured in their iniity of
motion, that the whole heavc^n seems to roll with them,
and the earth to reel under them.

And then wait yet for one hour, until the east again
becomes purple, and the heaving mountains, rolling
against it in darkness, like waves of a wild sea, are
drowned one by one in the glory of its burning ; watch
the white glaciers blaze in tlieir winding paths about the
mountains, like mighty serpents with scales of fire;
watch the colunniar peaks of solitary snow, kindling
downwards, chasm by chasm, each in itself a new morn-
ing ; their long avalanches cast down in keen streams
brighter than the lightning, sending each his tribute of
driven snow, like altar-smoke, up to the heaven ; the
rose-light of their silent domes flushing that heaven
about them and above them, piercing with purer light
through its purple lines of lifted cloud, casting a new
glory on every wreath as it passes by, until the whole
heaven — one scarlet canopy, — is interwoven with a roof
of waving flame, and tossing, vault beyond vault, as with
the drifted wings of many companies of angels; and
then, wlien you can look no more for glachiess, and when
you are bowed down with fear and love of the Maker
and Doer of this, tell me who has best delivered this His
messaije unto men !

~iIo(h*rii Painters^ John RuHkin(hy airattuement with George Allen).

new

rhole

I roof

with

and

ak
His

Tkial Scene, Mekcuant of Venice.

817

TRIAL SCENE FROM THE MERCHANT OF

VENICE.

Scene— A Court of Justice. Present — Thk Dukk, the Magniticoes,
Antonio, Bassanio, Gratiano, Solanio, uml otheis.

Duke. What, is Antonio here 1

Antonio, Ready, so please your grace.

Dnke. I am sorry for tliee : thou art come to answer
A stony adversary, an inhuman wretch
Uncai)able of pity, void and empty
From any dram of mercy.

Antonio. I have lieard

^"^our grace hath ta'en great pains to (juahfy
^iis rigorous course ; but since he stands obdurate,
And tliat no hiwful means can carry me
Out of his envy's reach, I do oppose
My patience to his fury ; and am arm'd
To suffer, with a quietness of spirit,
The very tyranny and rage of his.

Dnke. Go one, and call the Jew into the court.

Solanio. He's ready at the door : he comes, my lord.

Enter Shylock.

Dnk ■ like room, and let him stand before our face. —
Shy lock, i < world thinks, and I think so too,
That thou but lead'st this fashion of thy malice
To the last hour of act ; and then 'tis thought
Thou'lt show thy mercy and remorse, more strange
Than is thy strange apparent cruelty ;
And wiiere thim now exact'st the penalty, —
Whicli is a pound of tliis poor merchant's flesh, —
Thou Wilt not only loose the forfeiture,

men).

318

Fifth Reajjeu.

But, toucli'd with human gentleiif^s and love,

Forgive -a, moiety of the principal ;

(Jlancing an eye of pity on liis losses,

That have of late so huddled on his back.

Enough to press a royal merchant down

And pluck connniseration of his state

From brassy bosoms and rough hearts of Hint,

From stubborn Turks and Tartars, never train'd

To offites of tender courtesv.

We all expect a gentle answer, Jew.

Shylock. 1 have possess'd your grace of what I purpose

And by our holy Sabbath have I sworn

To have the due and forfeit of my bond :

If you deny it, let the danger light

Upon your charter and your city's freedom.

Yni'll ask me, why I rather choose to have

A weight of carrion fl(\sh than to receive

Three 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 ducats

To 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 otliers, when the baj'pipe sings i' the nose,

Cannot contain themselves : for affection.

Master of passion, sways it to the mood
' Of what it likes, or loathes. Now, for your answer :

As there is no firm reason to be render'd,

AVhy he cannot abide a gaping pig ;

Why he, a harmless necessary cat ;

Why he, a woollen bagpipe, — but of force

Must yield to sue' . inevitable shame

As to offend, himself being offended ;

Trial Scene, Merchant of Venice.

319

So can I give no reason, nor I will not,

More than a lodg'd hate and a certain loathing

I Ijear Antonio, that I follow thus

A losing suit against him. Are you answerd I

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.

Baatianio. Do all men kill the things they do not love I

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 pines
To 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 lr)eseech you.
Make no n'ore offers, use no further means.
But, with all brief and plain converiency,
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 ducats
Were in six parts, and every part a ducat,
I would not draw them ; I would have my bond.

Duke. How slialt 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 nuiles.
You use in abject and in slavish parts,

320

Fifth Kkadeu.

Because you bought them : shall I say to you,

I^et them be free, marry them to your heirs ?

Why sweat they under bui-d(»'is ? let their beds

Be made as soft as yours, and let their palates

Be season'd with such viands? You will answer,

"The slaves are ours :" so dj 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? V

Duke. Upon my power I may dismiss this court,
Unless Bellario, a learned doctor.
Whom I have sent for to determine this,
Come here to-day. .

Sulanio. My lord, here stays without . ■

A messenger with letters from the doctor, , «

New come from Padua.

Duke. Bring us the letters ; call the messenger.

Basswnio. Good :^heer, Antonio ! What, man, courage yet !
The Jew shall have my flesh, blood, bones, and all,
Ere thou shalt lose for me one drop of bhjod.

Antonio. I am a tainted wether of the flock,
Meetest for death : the weakest kind of fruit
Drops earlie c to the ground, and so let me :
You caimot better be employ 'd, Bassanio,
Than to live still, and write mine epitaph.

Enter Neuissa, dressed like a lawyer's clerk.

Duke. Came vou from Padua, from Bellario ?

Nerissa. From lK)th, my lord : Bellario greets your grace.

\l\esents a letter.
Jiiissanio. Why dost thou whet thy knife so earnestly?
/Sht/lock. To cut the forfeiture from that bankrupt there.

Trial Scene, Merchant of Venice.

;i21

yet!

Itter.

Gratiano. Not on tliy sole, but on thy soul, haisli .Jow
Thou nmk'st thy knife keen ; but no metal can,
No, not the hangman's axe, l)ear lialf the keenness '^

Of thy shai'p envy. Can no prayers pierce thee ? ^

Shylork. No, n(me that thou hast wit enough to make.

Gratimio. 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 themselves
Into the trunks of men : thy currish spirit
Govern'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 desires
Are wolfish, bloody, starv'd, and ravenous. .

Shylnck. Till thou canst rail the seal from ott" my l)()nd,
Thou but offend'st thy lungs to speak so hmd : •

Repair thy wit, good youth, or it will fall '^ ;

To cureless ruin. I stand here for law. ; 5; ■

Duke. This letter from Bellario doth conunend v , <

A young and learned doctor to our court : —
Where is he ?

Nerissa. He attendeth here hard bv.
To know your answer, whether you'll admit him.

Duke. With all my heart.— Some three or four of yiju
Go give him courteous conduct to this place. —
Meantime the court shall hear Bellario's letter. '

[Clerk reads.] Yottr grace shall linderstaiid^ that, at the re-
ceipt i^ your letter, I am very sick: hut, in the itistant that your
messenger came, in loving visitation vas ivith me a young
doctor of Rome; his name is BaUhuznr. I aaiuainted him
irith the cause in controversy hetw^^cn the Jnc and Antonio the
merchant : we turned o'er many books together : hj is furnished

322

FiKTii Kkadek.

7vith my ojjiniou : trhich, hfttered iv'dh his otvtt Ifartiing^ the
greatness whereof I can not enough commend, comes loith him,, at
my im,2Jortunity, to fill up your graced s reqnest in my stead. J
beseech you., let his lack of years he no imjjedimeiit to let him
lack a rei'erend estimation ; for I never knew so young a body
urith 80 old a head. I leave him to your gracious accej)tance,
whose trial shall better publish his amimetulation,

Duke. You hear the learned Bellario, wliat lie writes :
And here, I take it, is the doctor come. —

■ if

Enter Portia, dressed like a doctor of laivs. ;

Give me your hand : oanie you from old JJellario ?

Portia. I did, my lord.

Duke. You are welcome ; taki; your place.

Are you acquainted with the difference
That holds this present questi(m in the court ?

Portia, I am informed throughly of the cause.
Which is the merchant here, and which the Jew ?

Duke. Antonio and old Shy lock, both stand forth.

Portia. Is your name Hhylock 1

JShylock. Shy lock is my name.

Portia. Of a strange nature is the suit you follow ;
Yet in such rule that the Venetian law
Cannot impugn you, as you do proceed. —
You stand within his danger, do you not? [To Axtomo.

Antonio. Ay, so lie 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.

2\rrtia. The quality of mercy is not strain'd ;
It droppeth as the geniJe rain froir. heaven
Upon the place beneath : it is twice bless'd ;

Trial kScene, Mkiuhant of Venice.

323

It blesseth liim tljat gives, and him that takes :

'Tis mightiest in the mightiest : it becomes

The throned monareli better than his crown ;

His sceptre sliows tlie force of temporal power,

The attributi-i to awe and majesty,

Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings ;

But mercy is alx^ve this sceptred sway ;

It is enthroned in the hearts of kings,

It is an attribute to God liimself ;

And earthly power doth then sliow likest God's

When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew,

Though justice be thy plea, consider this, —

That, in the course of justice, none of us

Should see salvation : we do pray for mercy ;

And that same prayer doth teach us all to render

The deeds of mercy. I have spoke thus much

To mitigate the justice of thy plea ;

Which if thou follow, this strict court of A'enico

Must needs give sentence 'gainst the merchant thert^

Shy lock. My deeds upon my head ! I crave the law,
The penalty and forfeit of my bond.

Portia. Is he not able to discliarge the mont^y ?
' Bassauio. Yes, here I tender it for him in the court;
Yea, twice the sum : if that will not sulHce,
I will be bound to pay it ten times o'er.
On forfeit of my hands, my head, my heart :
If this will not sutHce, it must appear
That malice bears down truth. And i besi'cch 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 n(jt be ; there is no })ower in Venice
Can alter a d(!cree established :
'Twill be recorded for a precedent ;

ii24>

FiiTM Keadkk.

And iiiHiiy an t'l ror, by tlui .same rxuiiiplo,
Will rush into tho Htato. It caiuiot \h\

SJijjlock. A Daniel conio to judgment ! yea, a Daniel !
O wise younj^ judge, how do 1 lionor th(;e !

Portia. I pray you, let me look npon the ])ond.

Shylock, Here 'tis, moat revei'end doctor, here it is.

Portia. Shylock, there's thrice thy money otier'd thee.

Shyhx'k. An oath, an oath, I have an oath in heaven :
Shall I lay perjury upon my soul 1
No, not for Venice.

l\n'tia. Why, this l)ond is forfeit;

And lawfully l)y this the Jew may claim
A pound of flesh, to be hy hi'i) cut off
Nearest the merchant's heart. — Be mei'ciful ;
Take thrice thy money ; bid me tear the bond.

Shi/lock. When it is paid according to the tenor.
It doth appear you are a woi-thy Judge ;
You know the law, your exposition
Hath been most sound ; 1 charge you by the law.
Whereof you are a well-deserving pillar,
Proceed to judgment. By my soul I swear
There is no power in the tongue of man
To alter me : I stay here on my bond.

Antonio. Most heartily I do beseech the court
To give the judgment.

Portia. ^^'hy, then, thus it is :

You must prepare your bosom for his knife ; —

Shylock. O n(>blc judge ! O excellent young man !

Portia. For the intent and purpose of the law
Hath full relation to the penalty.
Which here appeareth due upon the bond.

Shylock. 'Tis very true : O wise and upright judge !
How nmch more elder art thou than thv looks !

Portia. Therefoi'e, lay baie your bosom.

'I*

rniAL ScKNK, Mkuciiant < H" VllNKi:.

:i25

Shj/lnrk. Ay, Iii'm bi'caxt ;

So sayK tlu' hond : — dutli it not, nohh^ judge ?—
"Nearest liis Ijeart :" those an? the very vords.

I\>rfio. Jt is so. Are tliei-e halaiice here, t<» weii^ii
Tlie flesh ?

Shi/fork. T liave them ready.

Portia. Have l>y some surgeon, Shyloek, on your charge,
To stop his wounds, lest ho do bleed to death.

Shj/lork. Is it so nominated in the Ixmd ?

Portia. It is not so express'd ; hut what of that?
'Twere good you do so much for charity.

Sliijlork. I cannot find it; 'tis not in the bond.

Portia. Come, merchant, have you anything to say ?

Antonio. IJut little : I am arm'd, and well prepai'd. —
Give me your hand, Bassanio : fare you well !
(jlri<'ve not that I am fallen to this for you ;
For herein Fortune shows herself more kind
Than is her custom : it is still her use
To let the wretched man outlive his wealth,
To view with hollow eye and wrinkled hrow
An age of poverty ; from which ling'ring [KMiance
Of such a misery doth she cut me off.
Commend me to your honorable wife :
Tell her the process of Antonio's end ;
8ay how I lov'd you, speak me fair in death ;
And, when the tale is told, bid her be judge
Whether Bassanio liad not once a love.
Repent not you that you shall Bse 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.

Bai'isanio. Antonio, I am married to a wife
Which is as dear to me as life itself ;
But life itself, my wife, and all th(^ world.

ill

32G

Fii III Hi:aih;u.

ia\e

Aif umI will) MM' cstcfMnM ;iIk»\<' lliy litV ;
I wouM loso Jill, ay, .sacriticii tlwin •ill
Hero to this (l(»vil, to deliver you.

Portia. Your \vif<^ would give you little thanks for that,
If she were by, to hear you make the ofVei-.

(rrfffurno. I have a wife, whom, I })i'otest, I lov(! :
I would she were in heaven, so she could
Entreat some power to change this currish Jew.

Nerissa. 'Tis well you offer it behind liei- back;
The wish would make else an umjuiet house.

Shylock. \^Asulc.\ These Ix^ the Christian husbands ! I 1
a daughter ; \ •

Would any of the stock of IJiin-abas ■

Had b(?en her husband rather than a Christian ! —
[7'o PoKTiA.] We triHe time ; 1 })ray thee, pursues sentence.

Portia. A pound of that same merchant's tiesh is thine :
The court awards it, and the law doth give it.

Shylock. INfost rightful nulge !

Portia. And you must cut this flesh fi-om off his breast :
The law allows it, and the court awards it.

Shylock. Most leai'ned judge ! A sentence ! — Come, prepare.

Portia. Tarry a little ; there is something else.
This bond doth give thee here no jot of blocKl ;
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 shed
One drop of Christian blood, thy lands and goods
Are, by the laws of Venice, confiscate
Unto the state of Venice.

Gratlano. O upright judge! — Mark, .lew: () learned judge I

Shylock. Is that the law ]

Portia. Thyself shalt see the act :

For, as thou urgest justice, be assur'd
Thou shalt have justice, more than thou desirest.

TiUAi. ScKNK, Mkikhant < u' Vknkk.

327

ave

wo,.

ire

(imtimio. O h'juiHMl jiid;;*' ! M uk, .lew : a Ic.ii'ImmI ju<lgr !

Sln/loik. I t.ikr tliis nlVcr, llu'ii : pay tljc Im»iu1 tliii<*«',
Aiul l«'t tlu» Chi'istiaii ^o,

lUiHstniin. Here is tlio luoiu'y.

Pnrtin. Soft!
The Jew shall iiavo all justice ; — soft ! no haste : —
He siiall have nothing Init the ptMialty.

Orat'uDio. O Jew ! an upright judge, a leariu'<l judge!

Pin'tia. Therefore, prepare thee to cut oil' the flesh.
Shed thou no hlcMxl ; nor cut thou less nor niorti
liut just a pound of flesh : if thou tak'st more
Or less than a Just })ound, — 1x3 it Imt so niueh
As makes it light, or heavy, in the substance,
Or the division of the twentieth part,
Of one poor scruphi ; nay, if the scale do tuin
Hut in the estimation of a hair, —
Thou diest, and all thy goods are confiscat

Grdtiano. A second Daniel, a Daniel, Jew !
Now, infidel, I have thee on the hip,

J'ortia. Why doth the Jew pause? Take thy forfeitur<\

SJiyhu'k. Give me my princi{>al, and let me go.

Basxanio. I have it ready for thee ; here it is.

Portia. He hath refus'd it in the open coui-t :
He shall have merely justice, and his Ixind.

Gratiano. A Daniel, still say I ; a second Daniel I—
I thank thee, Jew, for teaching me that word.

Shylock. Shall I not have barely my principal ?

Portia. Thou ahalt 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 questi<m.

Portia. Tarry, Jew :

The law hath yet another hold on you.
It is enacted in the laws of Venice,

:i2s

Fifth Kkader.

■

It' it 1)0 provVl against aii alien
That by direct or indirect ati(;nipts
He seek the life of any citi/en,
The party 'gainst the which he doth contrive
Shall seize one half his goods ; the other half
Conies to the privy coffer of the state ;
And the ofiender's life lies in the mercv
Of the duke only, 'gainst all other voice.
In which predicament, I say, thou stand'st ;
For it appears, by numifest proceeding,
That, indirectly, and directly too.
Thou hast contriv'd against the very life
Of the defendant ; and thou hast incurr'd
The danger formerly by me rehears'd.
Down, therefore, and beg mercy of the duke.

Gratiauo. Beg that thou mayst have leave to hang thyself
And yet, thy wealth being forfeit to the state, *

Thou liast 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.

ShyJock. Nay, take my life and all ; pardon not that :
You take my house when you do take the ptop
That 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 1

Gratiauo. 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 have

TiUAL Scene, ]\Jekchaxt of Venice. t^-n)

The otlier liaif in u.se, to render it,

Upcn his death, unto the gentleman

That 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°poLsess'd,

Unto his son Lorenzo and his daugliter.

JMke. He shall do this ; or else^I do recant
The pardon that I late pronounced here.

Pcrfia. Ai-t thou contented, Jew I what dost thou sav ?

^hylock. I am content.

^'''''^''*- Clerk, draw a deed of gift.

Shyhck. I pray you, gixe me leave to go from hence •
I am not well : send the deed after me,
And I will sign it.

•^"^''^- <^'«t thee gone, but do it.

Gratiano. In christening thou shalt have two godfatlu-rs •
Had I been judge, thou sho.ild'st have had ten nu^re.
To bring thee to the gallows, not the font. [AV.7 ShyJorh

Duke. Sir, I entreat you home with me to dinner.
Portia. I humbly do desire your grace of pardon :
T must away tiiis night toward Padua,
And it is meet I presently set forth.

Jhike. I am sorry that your leisure servers v„„ not.
Antonio, gratify this gentleman,
For, in my mind, you are much Ixnuul to hi.,.. [Kreunt omurs.

~S/takenj)eare.

Truth crushed to earth shall rise again ;
'•'he eternal years of God ai-e heis ;
]hit Error, wounded, writhes in pain,
And dies among his Morsln'ppers.

— William ('„ll,-n linimtt.

330

Fu'Tii Keadeu.

THE GREAT CARBUNCLE.

iU^

At niglitfall, once in the olden time, on the rugged
side of one of the Crystal Hills, a party of adventurers
were refreshing themselves, after a toilsome and fruitless
quest for the Great Carbuncle. They had c(jme thither,
not as friends nor partners in the enterprise, but each,
save one youthful pair, impelled by his own selfish and
solitary longing for this wondrous gem. Their feeling of
brotherhood, however, was strong enough to induce them
to contribute a nuitual aid in building a rude hut of
branches, and kindling a great fire of shattered pines,
that had drifted down the headlong current of the
Amonoosuck, on the lower bank of j^N'hich tliey were to
pass the night. There was but one of their number,
perhaps, wlio had become so estranged from natural
sympathies, by tlie absorbing spell of tlve pursuit, as to
acknowledge no satisfaction at the sight of human faces,
in the remote and solitary region whitlier they had
ascended. A vast extent of wilderness lay between
them and the nean-t settlement, while scant a mile
above their lieads was that black verge where the hills
tlirow off' their shaggy mantle of forest trees, and either
robe themselves in clouds or tower naked into the sky.
The roar of the Amonoosuck would have been too awfr.l
for endurance if only a solitary man had listened, wiiile
the mountain stream talked witli the wind.

The adventurers, therefore, exchanged hospitable greet-
ings, and welcoHKid one another to the hut, wliere each
man was tlie host, and all were the guests of the wliole
company. '^Plxy spi!'«'a<l tln'ir individual supplies of food

Vui: Great Cahhuncf.e.

831

oacli
food

on the Hat surface of a rock, an<l partook of a general
repast ; at the close of which, a sentiment of good fellow-
s!iip was perceptible among the party, though repressed
'by the idea, that the renewed search for the Great Car-
buncle must make them strangers again in the morning.
Seven men and one young woman, they warmed them-
selves together at tlie fire, which extended its bright
wall along the whole front of their wigwam. As they
observed the various and contrasted figures that made
up the assemblage, each man looking like a caricature
of himself, in the unsteady light that flickered over liim,
they came mutually to the conclusion, that an odder
society had never met, in city or wilderness on mountain
or plain.

The eldest of the group, a tall, lean, weather-beaten
man, some sixty years of age, was clad in the skins of
wild animals, whose fashion of dress he did well to
imitate, since the deer, the wolf, and the bear, had long
been his most intimate companions. He was one of
those ill-fated mortals, such as the Indians told of, whom,
in their early youth, the Great Carbunde smote with a
peculiar madness, and became the passionate dream of
their existence. All who visited that region knew him
as the Seeker, and by no other name. As none could
remember wlien lie first took up the search, there went a
fable in the valley of the Saco, that for his inordinate lust
after the Great Carbuncle, he had been condennied to wan-
der among the mountains till the end of time, still with
the same feverish hopes at sunrise — the same despair at
eve. Near this miserable Seeker sat a little elderly per-
sonage, wearing a high-crowned hat, shaped somewhat
like a crucible. He was from beyond the sea, a Doctor

:vs2

Fifth Headeu.

'f ;

III

Cacapliodel, wlio liad wilted and diied liiinself into a
nmnnny by continually stoopintr over charcoal furnaces,
and inhaliii<( unwliolcscMiie finncs during his researches
in chemistry and alchemy. It was told of liim, whether
truly or not, that, at the conmiencement of liis studies,
he liad drained his body of all its richest blood, and
wasted it, with other inestimable ingredients, in an
unsuccessful experiment — and had never been a well
man since. Another of the adventurers was Master
Ichabod Pigsnort, a weighty merchant and selectman
of Boston, ajid an elder of the famous Mr. Norton's
church. His enemies had a I'idiculous story that Master
Pigsnort was accustomed to spend a \^■h(3le hour after
prayer time, every morning and evening, in wallowing
naked among an innneiise (piantity of j)ine-tree shillings,
which were tlie eai'liest silver coinage of Massachusetts,
The fourth whom we shall notice had no name that his
companions knew of, and was chiefly distinguished by a
sneer that always contorted his thin visage, and by a
prodigious pair of spectacles, which were supposed to
deform and discolor the whole face of nature, to this
gentleman's perception. Tlie fifth adventurer likewise
lacked a name, which was the greater pity, as he ap-
peared to be a poet. He was a bright-eyed man, but
woefully pined away, which was no more than natui'al,
if, as some people aflirmed, his ordinary diet was fog,
morniuix mist, and a slice of the densest cloud within his
reach, sauced with moonshine, whenever lie could get it.
Certain it is, that the poetry which flowed from him had
a smack of all these dainties. The sixth of the party
was a young man of haughty mien, and sat somewhat
apart from the rest, wearing his plume(l hat loftily

The Great CAiinixci.E,

383

ill

iionii' liis elders, while (lie fire olitttM-ed on tin rich

lap-
ibut
[ral,

I his

it.

lad

•ty

hat

i])r()i(U

of liis (h

(1 <d

til

eiiiDroKleiy ol Jiis dress, and (gleamed intensely oi tJie
jewelled ponunel of his sword. This Avas the Lord do
Vere, who, when at home, was said to spend nuich oi his
time in the ])urial vault of his dead progenitors, rum-
maging their mouldy coffins in seareli of all the earthly
pride and vainglory that was hidden among bones and
dust ; so that, besides his own share, he had the collected
haughtiness of his whole line of ancestrv.

Lastly, there was a handsome youth in rustic garb,
and by his side a blooming little person, in whom a
dehVate shade of maiden reserve was just melting into
the rich glow of a young wife's affection. Her name
w^as Hannah, and her husband's Matthew ; two homely
names, yet well enough adapted to the simple pair, who
seemed strangely out of place among the whimsical
fraternity whose wdts had been set agog by the Great
Carbuncle.

Beneath the shelter of one hut, in the bright blaze of
the same fire, sat this varied group of adventurers, all so
intent upon a single object, that, of whatever else they
began to speak, their closing words w^ere sure to be
illuminated with the Great Carbuncle. Several related
the circumstances that brouglit them thither. One had
listened to a traveller's tale of this marvellous stone in
his own distant country, and had immediately been
seized wath such a thirst for beholding it as could only
be quenched in its intensest lustre. A^nother, so long
ago as when the famous Captain Smith visited these
coasts, had seen it blazing far at sea, and had felt no rest
in all the intervening years till now that he took up the
search. A third, being encamped on a hunting expedi-

lit

384.

Finn Kkadkk.

tion full furty miles soutli of the Wliiie Moui'.tains,
awoke at midnight, and beheld the Great Carbuncle
gleaming like a meteor, so tliat the shadows of the trees
fell backward from it. They spoke of the innumerable
attempts wliicli had been made to reach tlie spot, and
of the singular fatality which had hitherto withheld
success from all adventurers, though it might seem so
easy to follow to its source a light that overpowered the
moon, and almost matched the sun. It was observable
that each smiled scornfully at the madness of every
other in anticipating better fortune than the past, yet
nourished a scarcely hidden conviction tliat he would
himself be the favored one. As if to allay their too
sanguine hopes, they recurred to'tlie Indian traditions
that a spirit kept watch about the gem, and bewildered
those who sought it either by removing it from peak
to peak of the higher hills, or by calling up a mist frrm
the enchanted lake over wiiich it hung. But these tales
were deemed unworthy of credit, all professing to believe
that the search had been baffled by want of sagacity or
perseverance in the adventurers, or such other causes as
might naturally obstruct the passage to any given point
among the intricacies of forest, valley, and mountain.

In a pause of tlie conversation the wearer of the pro-
digious spectacles looked round upon the party, making
each individual, in turn, the object of the sneer which
invariably dwelt upon his countenance.

" So, fellow-pilgrims," said he, " here we are, seven
wise men, and one fair damsel — wlio, doubtless, is as
wise as any gi-aybeard of the company : here we are, I
say, all bound on tlie same goodly enterprise. Methinks,
now, it were not amiss that each of us declare what he

TiiK (Jkkat rAijnrxci.K.

IVM

.')

proposes to do with tlic (Jrcat ( 'arlmnck'-, provided lie
have tlie good liap to ehitcli it. Wliat says our friend
in the bear skin ? How mean you, good sir, to enjoy tlie
prize which you have been seeking, tlie Lord knows liow
long, among the Crystal Hills ? "

"How enjoy it!" exclaimed the aged Seeker, bitterly.
"I hope for no enjoyment from it; that folly has passed
long ago ! I keep up the search for this accursed stone
because the vain ambition of my youth has become a
fate upon me in old age. The j^ursuit alone is my
strength, — the energy of my soul, — the warmth of my
blood, — and the pith and marrow of my bones ! Were I
to turn my back upon it I should fall down dead on the
hither side of the Notch, which is the gateway of this
mountain region. Yet not to have my wasted lifetime
back again would I give nj) my hopes of the Great Car-
buncle ! Having found it, 1 shall bear it to a certain
cavern that I wot of, and there, grasping it in my arms,
lie down and die, and keep it buried with me forever."

" O wretch, regardless of the interests of science ! "
cried Doctor Cacaphodel, with philosophic indignation.
" Thou art not worthy to behold, even from afar off, the
lustre of this most precious gem that ever was concocted
in the laboratory of Nature. Mine is the sole purpose
for which a wise man may desire the possession of the
Great Carbuncle. Immediately on obtaining it — for I
have a presentiment, good people, that the prize is re-
served to crown my scientific reputation — I shall return
to Europe, and employ my remaining years in reducing
it to its first elements. A portion of the stone will I
grind to impalpable powder; other parts shall be divS-
solved in acids, or whatever solvents will act upon so

880

FiiTFi Kk.\i>i:i{.

admirahl*' a coiiipositioii : niul tlic i( inMindiT I <l<'si<^u to
melt ill tlie enicible, or set on fire with tli(; l)Iow-pip(3.
By tliese various mctliods I sliall gain an accurate
analysis, and final ly bestow the result of luy labors upon
the world in a folio volume."

"Excelh^nt!" (juoth the man with the spectacles.
"Nor iie(!fl you hesitate, learned sir, on account of the
necessary (histruction of the gem ; since the perusal of
your folio may teach every mothei-'s son of us to concoct
a Great Carbuncle of liis own."

" But, verily," said Master Ichabod Pi«j;snort, "for mine
own part I object to the making- of these counterfeits, as
being calculated to reduce the marketable value of the
true gem. I tell ye frankly, sirs, I have an interest in
keeping up the price. Here have I quitted my regular
traffic, leaving my warehouse in the care of my clerks,
and putting my credit to great hazard, and, furthermore,
have put myself in peril of death or captivity by the
accursed lieathen sava<j;es — and all this without dariiifj
to ask the pi'ayers of the congregation, because the quest
for the Great Carbuncle is deemed little better than a
traffic with the Evil One. Now think ye that I would
have done this grievous wrong to my soul, body, reputa-
tion, and estate, without a reasonable chance of profit ? "

"Not I, pious Master Pigsnort," said the man with
the spectacles. " I never laid such a gTeat folly to thy
charge."

" Truly, I hope not," said the merchant. " Now, as
touching this Great Carbuncle, I am free to own that I
have never had a glimpse of it ; but be it only the
hundredth part so bright as people tell, it will surely
outvalue tlie Great Mooful's best diamond, which he

The (iiiEAT Cauiu'xcle.

387

liolds at an iiK'al(Mil}il)l(; sum. WluM-ot'oic, 1 am min(1o<l
to put tlie (ii'i'at CarhuMclc on .sliipl)oai<l, aiul voyage
with it to Ent^land, France, Spain, Italy, or into Heatlicn-
doni, if Providence nliould send nie thitlier, and, in a
word, dispose of tlie gem to tlie best bidder among the
potentates of tlie earth, that he may phice it among his
crown jewels. If any of ye hav(; a wiser plan, let him
expound it."

"That have I, thou sordid man !" exclaimed tlie poet.
"Dost thou desire nothing brighter than gold that thou
wouldst transnnite all this ethereal lustre into such dross
as thou wallowest in already ? P'or mystdf, hiding the
jewel under my cloak, I shall liie me back to my attic
chamber, in one of the darksome alleys of London,
TherO; right and day, will I gaze upon it; my soul shall
drink its radiance ; it shall be diffused tliroughout my
intellectual j:)Gvvers, and gleam brightly in every line of
poesy that I indite. Thus, long ages after I am gone,
the splendor of the Great Carbuncle will blaze around
my name ! "

- " Well said, Master Poet ! " cried he of the spectacles.
"Hide it under thy cloak, sayest thou? Why, it will
gleam through the holes, and make thee look like a
jack-o'-l j,ntern ! "

" To think ! " ejaculated the Lord de Vere, rather to
himself than his companions, the best of whom he held
utterly unworthy of his intercourse — " to think that a
fellow in a tattered cloak should talk of conveying the
Great Carbuncle to a garret in Grub Street ! Have not
I resolved within myself that the whole earth contains
no fitter ornament for the great hall of my ancestral
castle ? There shall it flame for ages, making a noonday

M.'i8

Finn IvKADKK.

1 ,

111

55-

of iiii(liii<jjlit, <,Mitt('i'in^ on iW snitH of armor, tlic ban-
norH, and escutclicons, tliat liaii^ around the wall, and
keeping ^n*i^lit the menioiy of herocH. Wlicrefore have
all other adventurern sought the prize in vain but that
I mi<^ht win it, and make it a symbol of the glories of
our lofty line ? And never, on the diadem of the White
Mountains, did the Great Carbuncle hold a place half
80 honored as is reserved for it in the hall of the
De Veres ! "

"It is a noble thought," said the cynic, with an ob-
sequious sneer. " Yet, might I presume to say so, the
gem would make a rare sepulchral lamp, Jind would
display the glories of your lordshiji's prcjgenitors more
truly in the ancestral vault tiian in the castle hall."
. " Nay, forsooth," observed Matthew, the young rustic,
who sat hand in hand with his bride, " the gentleman
has bethought himself of a profitable use for this bright
stone. Hannah here and I are seeking it for a like
purpose."

" How, fellow ! " exclaimed his lordship, in surprise.
" What castle hall hast thou to hang it in ? "

" No castle," replied Matthew, " but as neat a cottage
as any within sight of the Crystal Hills. Ye nnist
know, friends, that Hannah and I, being wedded the
last week, have taken up the search of the Great Car-
buncle, because we shall need its light in the long winter
evenings ; and it will be such a pretty thing to show the
neighbors when they visit us. It will shine through the
house so that we may pick up a pin in any corr^.r, and
will set all the windows aglowing as if there w^ere a
great fire of pine knots in the chimney. And then how
pleasant, when we awake in the night, to be able to see
one another's faces ! "

TifK rjlU'lAT r.\i!iu^vri.K.

830

There was a mMHTjil smile ainoiiix Dw ad venturers at
the Hiiiiplicity of the youiit^ couple's project in regard to
this woiuh-ous and invahiablo ntone, with which the
greatest inoiiarcli on earth might have been proud to
adorn his pahice. Especially the man with spectacles,
who had sneered at all the company in turn, now twisted
his visage into such an expression of ill-natured mirth,
that Matth( \v asked him, rather peevishly, what he
himself meant to do with the Great Carbuncle.

" The Great Carbuncle ! " answered the Cynic, with
ineffable scorn. " Why, you blockhead, there is no such
tiling in rerum natura. I \uive come three thousand
miles, and am resolved to set my foot on every peak of
these mountains, and poke my head into every chasm,
for the sole purpose of demonstrating to the satisfaction
of any man one whit less an ass than thyself that the
Great Carbuncle is all a humbug ! " ' <

Vain and foolish were the motives that had brought
most of the adventurers to the Crystal Hills ; but none
so vain, so foolish, and so impious too, as that of the
scoffer with the prodigious spectacles. He was one of
those wretched and evil men whose yearnings are down-
ward to the darkness, instead of heavenward, and who,
could they but disting^aish the lights which God hath
kindled for us, would count the midnight gloom their
chiefest glory. As the Cynic spoke, several of the party
were startled by a gleam of red splendor, that showed
the huge shapes of the surrounding mountains and the
rock-bestrewn bed of the turbulent river with an illumi-
nation unlike that of their fire on the trunks and black
boughs of the forest trees. They listened for the roll of
thunder, but heard nothing, and were glad that the tern-

13 ■

340

FiiTir Kkadkh.

[K^st c.'Uiin not iH'jir IIkmii. 'V\w, Htjirs, llioso <]\a\ points of
lu'jivcn, now \varn«'(l tlio julvrnturrrs (o close tlwir ovtm
on tlio bla/in<>- loos, and op«>n llicni, in dn^anis, to the
i^low of the (jircat Carbuncle.

Tlio young niarriod couplij liad taken their lo<loinuis in
the farthest coiiier of the wi^wani, and \v«'re H«,'parated
from the rest of the p«irty by a curtain of curiously-
woven twigs, such as might liaxe hung, in deep festoons,
around tl\o bridal-bower of Eve. The modest little wife
had wrought this piece of tapestry whi'e the other guests
were talking. She and her husband fell asleep with
hands tiMulerly clapped, and awoke from visions of un-
earthly radiance to meet the nujre blessed light of one
another's eyes. They awoke at the same instant, and
with one happy smile beamiiig over their two faces,
wliich grew brighter with their consciousness of the
reality of life and love. But no sooner did she recollect
wliere they were, than the bride peeped through the
interstices of the leafy curtain, and saw that the outer
room of the hut was deserted.

" Up, dear Matthew ! " cried she, in haste. " The
strange folk are all gone ! Up, this very minute, or
we shall lose the Great Carbuncle!"

In truth, so little did these poor youncr people deserve
the mighty prize which had lured tlunn thither, that
they had slept peacefully all night, and till the summits
of the hills were glittering with sunshine; while the
other adventurers had tossed their limbs in feverish
wakefulness, or dreamed of climbing precipices, and set
off to realize their dreams with the earliest peep of dawn.
But Matthew and Hannah, after their calm rest, were as
light as two young deer, and merely stopped to say

•n^

Vm: Oheat C'AHiirxcLK.

^41

The
or

jrve

:liat

pits

I the

•ish

set

wn.

3ay

their prayers and wasli themselves in a cold [kh)! of the
Aiiion(K)snck, and tlieii to taste a morsel of fcnnl, ore they
turned their faet'S to the mountain-side. It was a sweet
end)iem of conju<^al afi'ection, as they toiled up the diffi-
cult ascent, t;}ithriing strm^rth from the nuitual aid
which they atibrded. Aftta* sevei-al little accidents, Ruch
as a torn robe, a lost slu^e, and the entan«;l«'m('nt of
Hannah's liair in a bough, they reached the upper verge
of the forest, and were now to puisne a more adventur-
ous course. The inmnnerable trunks and heavy foliage
of the trees liad liitherto shut in their thoughts, wdiich
now shrank attrio;hted from the remonof wind and cloud
and naked rocks and desolate sunshine, that rose innneas-
ui'ably above them. They ga/ed back at the obscure
wilderness wdiich they had traversed, and longed to be
buried again in its depths rather than trust themselves
to so vast and visible a solitude.

" Shall w^e go on ? " said Matthew, throwing his arm
round Hannah's waist, both to protect her and to com-
fort his heart by drawing her close to it.

But the little bride, simple as she W7is, ha<l a woman's
love of jewels, and could not forego the hope of possess-
ing the very brightest in the w^orld, in spite of the perils
with which it must be w^on.

"Let us climb a little higher," whispered she, yet
trenuilously, as she turned lu;r face upward to the
lonely sky.

"Come, then," said Matthew, mustering his manly
coura<re and drawinj^ her aloui*' with him, for she became
timid aijain the moment that he orew Ijold.

And upward, accordingly, went the pilgiims of the
Gn^at Carbuncle, ikjw treading upon the tops and thickly-

342

Fifth Keader.

interwoven branches of dwarf pines, whicli, })y tlie growth
of centuries, tliough mossy with age, had barely reached
thr(!e feet in altitude. Next, they came to masses and
fragments of naked rock heaped confusedly together,
like a cairn reared by giants in memory of a giant chief.
In this bleak realm of upper air nothing breathed, noth-
ing grew ; there was no life but what was concentrated
in their two hearts ; they had climbed so high that
Nature herself seemed no longer to keep them company.
She lingered beneath them, within the verge of the forest
trees, and sent a farewell glance after her children as
they strayed where her own green footprint? had never
been. But soon they were to be hidden from her eye.
Densely and dark the mists began to gather below, cast-
ing black spots of shadow on the vast landscape, and
sailing heavily to one centre, as if the loftiest mountain
peak had summoned a council of its kindred clouds.
Finally, the vapors welded themselves, as it W( ^-e, into a
mass, presenting the appearance of a pavement over
w^hich the wanderers might have troddju, but where
they would vainly have sought an aveiuie to the blessed
earth which they had lost. And the lovers yearned to
behold that green earth again, more intensely, alas !
than, beneath a clouded sky, they had ever desired a
glimpse of heaven. They even felt it a relief to their
desolation when the mists, creeping gradually up the
mountain, concealed its lonely peak, and thus annihilated,
at least for them, the wliole region of visible space. But
they drew closer together, with a fond and melanclioly
gaze, dreading lest the universal cloud should snatch
them from each other's sight.

Still, perhaps, they would liave been resolute to climb

The Gjieat Cakui ncle.

843

as far and as liigli, between earth and heaven, as they
coukl find footliold, if Haiuiali's strent^th had not begun
to fail, and witli that, her courage also. Her breath
iivew short. She refused to burden her husband with
her weight, but often tottered against liis side, and
recovered herself each time by a feebler effort. At
last, she sank down on one of the rocky steps of the
acclivity.

"We are lost, dear Matthew," said she, mournfully.
" We shall never find our way to the earth again. And
oh how happy we miglit have been in our cottage ! "

" Dear heart ! — we will yet be happy there," answered
Matthew. " Look ! In this direction, the sunshine pene-
trates the dismal nust. By its aid, I can direct our course
to the passage of the Notch. Let us go back, love, and
dream no more of the (jrreat Carbuncle ! "

" The sun cannot be yonder," said Hannah, with des-
pondence. " B}^ this time it nuist be noon. If there
coukl ever be any sunshine here, it would come from
above our heads."

" But look !" repeated Matthew, in a somewhat altered
tone. " It is brightening every moment. If not sun-
shine, what can it be (" ^ ' ■

Nor could the young bri<le any longer deny that a
radiance was breakintf throuy-h the mist, and chanirintr
its dim hue to a dusky red, whicli contiiuially grew more
vivid, as if brilliant particles were interfused with the
gloom. Now, also, the cloud began to roll away from
the mountain, wliile, as it luiavily withdi-i!W, one object
after another started out of its impenetra])le obscurity
into sight, with precisely the effect of a new creation,
before the indistinctness of the old chaos had been com-

844

Fifth REAi)f:H.

m ''

pletely swallowed up. As the process went on, they saw
the gleaming of water close at their feet, and found
themselves on the very border of a mountain lake, deep,
bright, clear, and calmly beautiful, spreadiiig from brim
to brim of a basin that had been scooped out of the solid
rock. A ray of glory flashed across its surface. The
pilgrims looked whence it should proceed, but closed
their eyes with a thrill of awful admiration, to exclude
the fervid splendor that glowed from the brow of a cliff*
impending over the ench.anted lake. For the simple pair
had reached that lake of mystery, and found the long-
sought shrine of the Great Carbuncle!

They threw their arms around each other, and trembled
at their own success ; for, as the legends of this wondrous
gem rushed thick upon then' memory, they felt them-
selves marked out by fate — and the consciousness was
fearful. Often, from childhood upward, they had seen
it shining like a distant star. And now that star was
throwing its intensest lustre on their hearts. They
seemed changed to one another's eyes, in the red bril-
liancy that flamed upon their cheeks, while it lent the
same fire to the lake, the rocks, and sky, and to the
mists which ha<l rolled back before its power. But, with
their next glance, they beheld an object that drew their
attention even from the miohty stone. At the base of
the cliff*, directly beneath the Clreat (Jai'buncle, apjjeared
the flmire of a man, with his arms extended in the act of
clin)bing, and his face turned upward, as if tc; drink the
full gush of sphnidor. lint he stirred not, no mori. than
if changed to marble.

"It is the Set^ker," whispered Hannah, convulsively
grasping her husbaiKl's .'inn. "Matthew, he is dead."

■ ifeliT-v

T I i K ( J H K A T ( ' A i{ I '.rxn.E.

845

« MM

lie
in

Tlie joy ol' success luis l<ill('(l liini," replied Mattliew,
treiiiblini^ violently. " Or, 2)«'J"liaps, tlie voiy H<jht of the
Great Carbuncle was death 1 "

"The Great Carbuncle," cried a peevish voice belli nd
them. "The Great Huinbu<r! If you have found it,
prithee point it out to nie."

They turned their heads, and there was tlie Cynic,
with his prodigious spectacles set carefully on liis nose,
staring now at the lake, now at the rocks, now at the
distant masses of vapor, now right at the Great Car-
buncle itself, yet seemingly as unconscious of its light
as if all the scattered clouds were condensed about his
person. Though its radiance actually threw the shadow
of the unbeliever at his own feet, as he turned his back
upon the glorious jewel, he would not be convinced that
there was the least glimmer there.

" Where is your Great Humbug ? " lie repeated. " I
challenge you to make me see it!"

"There," said Matthew, incensed at such perverse
blindness, and turning the Cynic i-ound towards the
illuminated clift'. "Take otf those abominable spec-
tacles, and you cannot help seeing it ! "

Now these colored spectacles probably darkened the
Cynic's sight, in at least as great a degree as the smoked
glasses through which people ga/e at an eclipse. With
resolute bravado, however, he snatched them from liis
nose, and iixed a bold h ire full upon the ruddy blaze of
the Great Carbuncle. nt scarcely had he encountered
it, when, with a deep, shuddering groan, he dropped his
head, and pressed both hands across liis miserable eyes.
Thenceforth tliero was, in very truth, no light of tlie
Great Carbuncle, nor any other light on eartli, nor light
'23

346

Firm Header.

of licavfju itself, for tlu^ poor Cynic. So lon^ ;icoustoniofl
to vie; vv^ all objoets tlirougli a iiicdiuiu that drprived thoin
of every gliinjjso of hriohtness, a single flash of so glori-
ous a phenoiiHMioii, striking upon his naked vision, had
l)linded him forcvei-.

"Matthew," said Hannah, clinging to him, "let us go
lence !

Mattliew saw tliat slu; was faini, and kneeling down,
supported lu;r in liis arnjs, while he threw some of the
thriliingly cold water of the enchanted lake upon her
face and hosom. It revived her, but could not renovate
lier courage.

"Yes, deai'est!" cried Matthew, pressing her trennilous
foi'm to his breast, — " W(; will go lunice, and return to
our luind)le cottage. The blessed sunshine and the quiet
moonlight shall come through our window. We will
kindle the cheerful glow of our hearth, at eventide, and
be happy in its liglit. But never again will we desire
more light than all tlie world may share with us."

" No," said his bride, " for how could we live by day,
or sleep by night, in this awful blaze of the Great

(Wbunclel" ■ :,.....,■./■,;•;,•. ,. :.-;v;., .■:;■.,,- v,:. :- :.;;,.. -^^

Out of the hollow of their hands, they drank each a
draught from the lake, which presented them its waters
uncontaminated by an earthly lip. Then, lending their
guidance to the blinded Cynic, who uttered not a woi'd,
and even stifled his groans in his own most wretched
heart, they began to descend the uiountain. Yet, as tliey
left the shore, till then untrodden, of the spirit's lake,
they threw a farewell glance towards the clift', and
beheld the vapors gathering in dense volumes, through
which the gem burned <luskily.

TiiK (Jkkat Cakiunclk.

:u"

As touc'liiii^j;' Uh' oilirr ]>il^riiiis of tlici (iivat ( ';u-l)iiii('l(',
the legend goes on to tell, that the worshipful MaHter
Ichabod Pigsiiort soon ^ave up the quest as a desperate
speculation, and wisely resolved to betake himself again
to his warehouse, near the town doek, in Boston. But,
as he jmssed through the Notch of the mountains, a war
party of Indians captiu'ed our unlucky mcirchant, and
carried him to Montreal, there holding him in bondage,
till, by the payment of a, heavy ransom, he had woefully
subtracted from his hoard of pine-tree shillings. By his
long absence, moreover, his affairs had become so dis-
ordered that, for the rest of his life, instead of wallov/ing
in silver, he had seldom a sixpence worth of copper.
Doctor Cacaphodel, the alchemist, returned to his labo-
ratory with a prodigious fragmcTit of granite, which
he ground to powder, dissolved in acids, melted in the
crucible, and burned with the blow-pipe, and published
the result of his experiments in one of tlie heaviest folios
of the day. And, for all these purposes, the gem itself
could not have ansAvered better than the granite. The
poet, by a somewhat similar mistake, made prize of a
great piece of ice, which he found in a sunless chasm of
the mountains, and swore that it cori-esponded, in all
points, with his idea of the Great Cai'buncle. The
critics say, that, if his poetry lacked the splendor of the
gem, it retained all the coldness of the ice. The Lord
de Vere went back to his ancestral hall, where he con-
tented himself with a wax-lighted chandelier, and filled,
in due course of time, another coffin in the ancestral
vault. As the funeral torches gleamed within that dark
rec(^ptacle, there was no need of the Great Carbuncle to
show the vanity of earthly pomj).

FiiTir Keaf)eh.

The Cynic, having cast asirlo liis spectacles, wandered
about the world, a miserable object, and was punished
with an agonizint^ desire of li^^ht, for the w^illful blind-
ness of his fcjrnier life. He finally perished in the great
fire of London, into the midst of which he had thrust
himself, with the desperate idea of catching one feeble
ray from the blaze that was kindling earth and heaven.

Matthew and his bride spent many peaceful years, and
were fond of telling the h^gend of the Great Carbuncle.
The tale, however, towards the close of their lengthened
lives, did not meet wdth tlie full credence that had been
accorded to it by those wdio had remembered the ancient
lustre of the gem. For it is affirmed that, from the
hour when two mortals had shown themselves so simply
wise as to reject a jewel which would have dinnned all
earthly things, its splendor waned. When other pil-
grims reached the clifi', they found only an opaque stone,
with particles of mica glittering on its surface. There
is also a tradition that, as the youthful pair departed,
the gem was loosened from the forehead of the cliff", and
fell into the enchanted lake, and that, at noontide, the
Seeker's form nxay .itill be seen tb bend over its quench-
less gleam.

Some few believe that this inestimable stone is blazing
as of old, and say that they have caught its radiance,
like a flash of sunnner lightning, far down the valley of
the Saco. And be it owned that, many a mile from the
Crystal Hills, I saw a wondrous light around their sum-
mits, and was lured, by the faith of poesy, to be the
latest pilgrim of the GREAT CARBUNCLE.

— Nathaniel Hawthorne.

TiiK Cotter's Satiudav Nkjiit.

:i4y

THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT.

My loved, my honored, much respected friend !

No mercenary bard liis 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 sequestered 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

NovemlKH' chill ])laws loud wi' angry sugh ;

The shortening winter-day is near a close ;
The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh ;

The blackening trains o' craws to their repose :

The toil-worn Cotter frat* his labor goes,
This night his weekly moil is at an end,

Collects liis spades, his mattocks, and his hoes.
Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend.
And weary, o'er the moor his course does haraeward bend.

of
the

'•tie.

At length his lonely cot appears in view, ;

Beneath the shelter of an aged tree ; •

The expectant wee-things, toddlin, stacher through

To meet their Dad, wi' iiichterin noise an' glee.

His wee bit ingle, blinking bonnily, • -

His clean hearthstane, his thriftie wifie's smile,

The lisping infant prattling (m his knee,
Does a' his weary cai'kiiig cares beguile,
An' makes him quite forget his lalK>r an' his toil.

350

Fifth Ekadkr.

f'l

««

Belyve the elder bairns come (lrHf)pin«^ in,
At service out, aniaiig the farnjers roun',

Some ca' the pleugh, some ht^rd, some tentie rin
A caiinie errand to a neel)or town :
Tlieir eldest hope, their Jenny, woman giown,

Tn \(»uthfu' bloom, love sparkling in her e'e,

Comes hame, perhaps, to shew a braw new gown,

Or de})osite her sair-won penny-fee,
I'o help her parents dear, if they in hardship b<'.

AVi' joy unfeigned brothers and sisters meet,
An' each for others weelfare kindly spiers :

The social hours, swift-winged, unnoticed fleet ;
Kach tells the uncos that he sees or hears :
The i)arents, partial, eye their hopeful years ;

Anticipation forward points the view.

The mother, wi' her needle an' her shears,

(jiars auld claes look amaist as weel's the new ;
The father mixes a' wi' admonition due.

^|1

Their masters' and their mistresses' command.

The younkers a' are warned to obey ;
An' jnind tlieir labors wi' an eydent hand,

An' ne'er, though out o' sight, to jauk or play :

"An' O ! be sure to fear the Lord alwav !
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 ;

.JeiHiy, 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 seey the conscious Hame

The Coitek's Satukdav XuiHT.

'Sol

SpHikle iti Jenny's e'e, and flush lier clieek ;

AVi' lieart-struck aiixi<jus care, in((uires liis naiiu*,
\Vliile Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak :
Weel pleased the niotlier hears it's nae wild, vvoithlcss rake.

■ I-' ' . ' • .■

Wi' kindly welcome .lenny l)iings him hen,
A strappan youth ; he taks the mother's eye j

Blithe Jenny sees the visit's no ill-ta'en ;

The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye :
The youngster's artless heart o'erfiows wi' joy.

But })late and laithfu', scarce can weel l)ehave ;
The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy

What makes the youth sae l)ashfu' an' sae grave ;
Weel pleased to think her bairn's respected like the lave.

() hapj)y lov(! ! where love like this is found !

O heartfelt raptures ! bliss beyond compare !
I've paced much this weary mortal round,

And sage experience bids me this declare —

" If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure s])aie,
One cordial in this melancholy vale,

'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair,
In otliei''s arms l)reathe out the tender tale,
Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the (evening gale."

But now the supper crowns their simple board,
The halesome parritch, chief o' Scotia's food :

The soupe their only Hawkie does afford.

That 'yont the hallan simgly chows her cood :
The dame brings forth in complimental mood,

To grace the lad, her weel-hained kebbuck, fell,
An' aft he's prest, an' aft he ca's it guid ;

The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell.
How 'twas a towmond auld, sin' lint was i' the bell.

352

Fifth Kkadeu.

Tho flieerfu' Hup})er done, wi* Horioiis face,

Tlicy louiul tlio in^l(i form a circlo wide ;
Tlie sire turns o'er, with patriarchal };ia(;e,

The bi<^ ha' l>il)lc, aiico his father's pride :

His hoiinct rev'rently is hiid aside,
His lyart haffets wearing thin an' hare ;

Those strains tliat once did sweet in Zion gli<le,
H(^ wales a portion with judicious care ;
And "Let us worship God ! " he says, with solemn air.

They cliant their artless notes in simple guise ;

They tune tlunr hearts, by far the noblest aim :
Perhaps *' Dundee's" wild-wai'bling measures rise,

Or plaintive " Martyrs," worthy of the name :

Or noble " Elgin " beets the lieavenward llame,
Tiie sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays :

Compared with these, Italian trills are tame ;
The tickled ears no heartfelt 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 higli ;
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, .Jo])'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 Aolume is tli3 theme,

How guiltless blood tor 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 ;

'I'llK ColTKU's SaTLHDAV XlUHT.

'^ry,i

The precepts .sage tliey wrote to many a lainl :

ilow }ie, who lone in Patinos ]<anislie<l,
Haw in the sun a niiglity angel stntnl,
And lieard great Hal)'lon's doom pro!K»uneed ])V Heaven's
eonunand.

■,* ■.'■,■■■:

Then kneehng down, to Heaven's Eternal King,

The saint, the father, and the liushand }>rays :
Hope "springs exulting on triumphant wing,"

That thus they all shall meet in futurt; days :

There ever bask in uncreated rays,
No more to sigh, or shed the Ijitter tear,

Together hymning their Creator's praise.
In such society, yet still more dear ;
AVhile circling time moves round in an eternal sphere.

Then homeward all take off their several way;

The youngling cottagers retire to rest :
1'he parent pair their secret homage pay,

And })roffer up to Heaven the warm request

That He who stills the raven's clamorous 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 gr.ice divine preside.

From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs.
That makes her loved at home, revered 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 pt)mp !- a cumbrous load,

DisiTuisin*' oft the wretch of human kind,
Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refined !

:5^

354

Firm JiKADKK.

() Scotia ! my <leai-, my native soil !

For whom my v\arme.>st wish to Heaven is sent !
Ijonj^ may thy liardy sons of rustic toil

lit; l)lest witli healtli, and peace, and sweet co

And, () ! may Heaven their simple lives prevei. i
From Luxury's contagion, weak and vile !

Then howe'er ci'owns and coronets be rent,
A virtuous populace may rise the while,
And stand a wall of fire around their much-loved Isie,

O Thou ! who poured the patriotic tide,

'i'hat stieamed through Wallace's undaunted heart ;
Who dared to nobly stem tyrannic jjride,

Or nobly die, the second glorious part,

(The patriot's God, peculiarly thou art,
His friend, inspirer, guardian, and rewar<l I)

O never, never, Scotia's realm desert ;
liut still the patriot, and the patriot ])ard,
In bright succession raise, her ornament and guai-d !

— Rolx'it lliinis.

Oh, may I join the choir invisible

Of those immortal dead who live again

In minds made better l)y their presence : Jive

In pulses stirred to generosity,

Tn deeds of daring rectitude, in scorn

For miserable aims that end with self,

In thoughts sublime that pierce the night like stars,

And Avith their mild persistence urge man's search

To vaster issues !

—George Eliot.

VtJUKH l>L>|v>UNCEI).

VERRES DENOUNCED.

km q|Milikl hn^^ ]()ii;r prv vailed, iatlu'is, tiiat in public
prtweciftions iiu . 'f \veallh, Iiowcn cr clearly convictcMJ,
jire aiwjiys mikiM*. . is opinion, so injuiious to your
<»'"<1» r. »^ AetrJiiK'fital lo tlic state, it is now in your
}p(nver to i futc. A man is on trial Ix-fore you who
is ric^u, a^«l who hopes liis riches will compass his
ac(|uitlLiil ; Hit whoso life and actions are his sufficient
condt inrut ,on in the eyes of all candid men. I speak
of Cain , Vcnxis, who, if he now receive not the sentence
his crimes deserve, it shall not be throuo-h the, lack of a
criminal, or of a prosecutor; but through the failure of
the ministers of justice to do their duty. Passinu- oM-r
the shameful irregularities of his youth, what does the
(lua3Htorship of Verres exhibit but one continued scene
of viUanies ? The public treasure s(|uandered, a consul
stripped and betrayed, an army deserted and reduced to
want, a province robbed, the civil and religious rights of
a people trampled on ! But his <iujestorship in Sicily
•has crowned his career of wickedness, and completed the
lasting; monument of his infan)V. His decisions have
violated all law, all precedent, all light. His extortions
from the industrious poor have been beyond computaticjn.
Our most faithful allies have been treated as enemies.
Roman citizens have, like slaves, been put to death with
tortures. Men the most worthy have been condennied
and banished without a liearing; while the most atro-
cious criminals have, with money, purchased exemption
from the punishment due to their guilt.

I ask now, Verres, what liave you to advance against

ILA ^il

\ \

FiiTH Kkader.

tliese clmrge.s ? Art tliuu not tlie tyrant praetor m'Iio,
at no gi-eater distance than Sicily, within sight of tlic
Italian coast, dared to jnit to an infamous death, on the
cross, that ill-fated and innocent citizen, Publius Gavins
Cosanns ? And what was his offence ? H(; had declared
his intention of appealing to the justice of his country
against your brutal persecutions ! For this, when about
to embark for home, he was seized, brought before you,
charged with being a spy, scourged and tortured. In
vain did he excl.'um : " I am a Roman citizen ! I have
served under Lucius Pretius, who is now at Panormus,
and who will attest my innocence !" Deaf to all remon-
strance, remorseless, thirsting for innocent blood, you
ordered the savage punishment to be inflicted! While
the sacred words, "I am a Koman citizen," were on his
lips — words which, in the remotest region, are a. passport
to protection — you ordered him to death, to a death upon
the cross !

O liberty! O sound cmce delightful to every Roman
ear ! O sacred privilege of Roman citizenship) ! once
sacred — now tiampled on ! Is it come to thi^ ? Shall
an inferior magistrate, a governor, who holds his wdiole
power of the Roman people, in a Roman province?, within
sight of Italy, bind, scourge, torture, and put to an infa-
mous death a Roman citizen ? Shall neitlier the cries of
innocence expiring in agony, the tears of pitying specta-
tors, the majesty of the Roman commonwealth, nor the
fear of the justice of his country, restrain the merciless
monster, who in the confidence of his riches, strikes at
the very root of liberty, and sets mankind at defiance ?
And shall this man escanc i Fathers, it nuist not In* !
It must not be, unless you would undermine the very

^amam

A'lHTlTK.

foundations of social safety, stian^rl,, justice, and call
down anarchy, nuissacrc, and ruin on the connnon-

-Ci^ern.

VIRTUE.

Sveet Day, so coo], so cairn, so bri^dit,

Tlie bridal of the Eartli and Sky,
The ].)ew shall weep thy fall to ni<,dit,
For thou must die.

Sweet Rose, whose hue, angiy and brave,

Bids tlie rash gazer wipe Jiis 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,
My music shows you have your closes,
Ami all must die.

Only a sweet and virtuous soul,

Like seasoned timber, nevtn- gives ;
Bat, though the whole world turns to coal,
Then chieHv lives.

—Georfje Iterbert.

Man is his own star, and the soul that can
Render an lionest and a perfect man.
Commands all light, all intluence, all fate ;
Nothing to him falls early or too late.
Our acts our angels are, or good, or ill,
Our fatal shadows that walk by us still,

— <h>hn Flrtrhrr.

■J^

:ir)8

FiiTiF Ki;\i)Ku.

Iw%

HAROLD'S SPEECH TO HIS ARMY.

Mi ■

"Tliis (lay, () i'l-iciids {ind Eiitj^lisluiuMi. scjiis of onr
coininou land — this day ye fight for liberty. The count
of the Normans hath, I know, a niiulitv ai'niv : I diso-iiise
not its strength. That ai'niy he hath collected toijetlier,
by proinisino- to each man a share in the spoils of
England. Alr«'ady, in his court and his camp, lie hath
parcelled out the lands of tiiis kingdom ; and fierce are
the robbers who fight for the hope of plunder ! But he
cannot offer to his gi'eatest chief boons nobler than those
I offer to mv^ meanest freeman — libertv, and riMit, and
law, in the soil of his fathers! Ye have heard x,'i the
miseries enduicd in the old time under the Dane, but
they were flight in<leed to those which ye may expect
from the Norman. The Dane was kindred to us in lan-
guage and in law, and wIkj now can tell Saxon from
Dane ? But yon men would rule ye in a l.-vnguage ye
know not, bv a law tliat claims the crown as the riaht
of the sword, and divides the land anions' i^he liirelint>s
of an army. Outscoiu'ings of nW niitions, they come
against you ! Ye fight as bi'others under the eyes of
your fathers and chosen chiefs ; ye figlit for tl)e children
ye would guard fi-om eternal bondage; ye fight for the
altars which yon banner novr darkens! Let no man
dream of retreat; every inch of groun<l that ye yield is
the soil of your native land. For me, on this field I
peril all. Thiidv that mine eye is upon you ^\herever ye
are. If a line waver or shi-ink, ye sliall hear in tiie
midst tlie voice of your king. Hold fast to your raziks,

1*1

t;i

i'HE Si.EKP.

nrA)

J-oi.hmmW, snci, amongst you as foiiul.t will, iii. ;.^aiMst
Har.lnuln,--rcrnf.inhrr that, it. uas net till the XorscnxM.
lost, })y rash salli(.s, tlioi,- serried array, that our arms
prevail(>(l aoair..sc them. Bc^ warned bj tiieir fatal error
break not the form of the ])attle ; and I t,'ll you on the'
faith of a soldier who never yet hath ](d't field without
victory ,-that ye cannot be beaten. While I speak tlie
wnids swell the sails of the Norse ships, bearing home
the corpse of Har.lrada. Accomplish this day the last
triumph of P:noland; add to these hills a nesv mount
of the coiKpiered dead 1 And when, in far times and
strange lands, scald and scop shall praise the brave man
for some valiant deed wrought in some holy cause, they
shall say, ' He was brave as those who fought by the
side of Harold, and swept from tlie sward of England
the hosts of the haughty Norman '"

—Buliver Li/tton.

THE SLEEP.

Of uU the thoughts of God that are
Borne inward unto souls afar,
Along the Psalmist's music deep,
Now tell nie if that any is,

For gift or grace, surpassing this

" He giveth His l)eloved, sleep "i

What would we give to ou!- beloved ?
The hero's heart, to be unmoved,
The poet's star-tuned harp, to sweep,

360

FiiTi[ Header.

The senate's shout to patriot vows

The inouurcli's crown, to light the brows •.—

"He giveth His beloved, sleep." .

What do we give to our beloved ?

A little faith all undisproved,

A little dust to overweep,

And bitter memories to make

The whole earth blasted for our sake !

"He giveth His beloved, sleep."

"Sleep soft, beloved !" we sometimes say,
But have no tune to charm away
Sad dreams that through the eyelitls creep.
But never doleful dream again
Shall break the happy sluml)er when
* He giveth His beloved, sleep."

O earth, so full of dreary noises !
() men, with wailing in your voices !
O delved gold, the wallers heap !
O strife, O curse, that o'er it fall !
(t(k1 makes a silence through you all.
And giveth His beloved, sleep.

His dews drop mutely on the hill ;
His cloud above it saileth still.
Though on its slope men sow and reap ;
More softly than the dew is shed,
Or cloud is floated overhead,
" He giveth His Woved sleep "

Yoa! men may wonder whi e they scan
A livings thinking, feeling man
in M}'Ai a i-est his heart to keep

rii

8t)]

THANAT()i\SlS.

But angels say, Hiicl througli the word
I think their blessed smile is hect/rd--
"He giveth His beloved, sleep."

For me, my heart tliat erst did go
^lost like a tired child at a show,
That sees through tears the jugglers leap,
Would now its wearied vision close,
Would childlike on His love repose.
Who giveth His beloved, sleep !

And, friends ! dear friends,— When it shall be

That this low breath is gone from me.

And round my bier ye come to weep,

Ijet one, most loving of you all.

Say, ' Not a tear nmst o'er her fall ';

"He giveth His beloved, sleep."

-Elizaheth Barrett Browning.

THANATOPSIS.

To him who in the love of Natiue holds
Communion with her visible forms, she sp(^•.ks
A various language : ior his gayer hours
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile
And eloquence of beauty ; and she glides
Into his darker musings with a mild
And healing sympathy, that steals away
Their sharpness ere he is aware.

AViien thoughts
Of the last bitter hour come like a blight
Over thy si)irit, and sad images
Of the stern agony, and slu-oud, and pall,
And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,

iiOtfif^ffemimmimf^'WSSm- -

362

Fimi Reader.

Make thee to sliucMcr and grow sitk at licart,

Go forth under tlie open sky and list

To Nature's teachings, wliile from all around —

Earth and her waters, and the ilepths of air -

Comes a still voice : Yet a few days, and thee

The all-beholding sun shall see no more

In all his course ; nor yet in the cold ground,

Where thy pale form was laid with many tears,

Nor in the embrace of ocean shall exist

Thy image.

Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim
Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again ;
And, lost each human trace, surrendering up
Thine individual being, shalt thou go
To mix forever with the elements —
To be a brother to the insensible rock,
And to the sluggish clod which the rude swain
Turns with his share and I'uadh ip<jn. Tlie oak
Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mold.

Yet not to tliine eternal resting-place
Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wish
Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down
With patriarchs of the infant world — with kings,
The powerful of the earth — the wise, the good —
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past.
All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills.
Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun — the vales
Stretching in pensive quietness between —
The veiterable woods — rivers that move
In majesty, and the complaining brooks
That make the meadows yfreen ; and poured rounc

waste —

1 all

^^y

loly

Are but the solemn decollations all
Of tlu; ijfreat tomb of man.

Thanatofsis.

8U3

Tlie golden sun,
The planets, all tlie infinite host of heaven,
Are shining on the sad abodes of death,
Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread
The globe are but a handful to the tril)es
That sluml^er in its bosom. Take the wings
Of morning, and the Barcan desert pierce.
Or lose thyself in the continuous woods
Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound
Save his own dashings — yet the dead are there ;
And millions in those solitudes, since first
The fiight of years began, have laid them down
In their last sleep^ —the dead reign there alone.

So shalt thou rest ; and what if thou withdraw

In silence from the living, and no friend

Take note of thy departure? All that l)i'eathe

Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh

When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care

Plod on, and each one, as before, will chase

His favorite phantom ; yet all these shall leave

Their mirth and their employments, and shall come

And make their bed with thee. As the long train

Of ages glide away, the sons of men —

The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes

In the full strengtli of years, matron, and maid,

And the sweet bal)(^ and the gray-headed man —

Shall one by one ))e gathered to thy side

By those who in their turn shall follow them.

So live, that when thy summons comes to join
The innumerable caravan which moves
To that mvsterious realm where each shall take
His chamber in the silent halls of death,
Thou go not like the quarry-slave at night,

304 FiFTit Keadek.

Scourged to liif* dungeon : l)ut, sustained and sootJied
]}y an unfaltering tru;st, ai)j)roacli tliy grave
Like one who wi'a{>s the (h'a]>eiy of lii.s coucli
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.

— WilUain Culleu linjant.

DREAM UPON THE UNIVERSE.

According- to Herschel, tlie most remote of the o-ahixies
wiiicli the telescope discovers, lie at sucli a distance from
us that their li^i^lit, M'hich reaches lis at this day, must
have set out on its journey two millions of years ago; and
thus by optical laws it is possible that whole S({uadrons
of the starry hosts may be now reaching us with their
beams, which have themselves perished ages ago. Upon
this scale of comjnitation for the dimensions of the
world, what heiglits and depths and bi-eadths must there
be in this universe — in comparison of which the positive
universo would be itself a nihility, were it crossed,
pierced, and belted about by so illimitable a wilderness
of nothing ? To these and similar reflections succeeded
the following dream : —

Methought my body sank down in ruins, and my inner
form stepped out apparelled in light; and by my side
tliere stood another Form which resembled my own,
except that it did not shine like mine, but lightened
imceasingly. "Two thoughts," said the F(jrm, "are the
winii^H with which 1 move: the thouiiht of Here and the
thought of Their. And, behold! I am yonder," — pointing
to a distant wojld. " CoiiHi, then, and wait on lue with

Dream Trox hik rxivKHsK.

305

itii

thy thong'lits ;m<l witli thy tli^lil, dial I may show to
thee tlie iiiii verse uiirl<'r a veil." And T llcw aloiiE^ with
the Foi'iM. Ill a inoiiieiit our earth fell back, l)ehin(l our
coriHiiinin^iiiglit, into an abyss of distance : a faint gleam
only was rotlected from the summits of the Cordilleras,
and a few moments more reduee<l the snn to a little star;
and soon tlicre remaiiuMi nothing visil)le of our system
except a comet which was travelling from our sun with
angelic speed in the direction of Sirius. Our flight now^
carried us so rapidly through tlie llocks of the solar
l)odies — flocks past counting, unless to their heavenly
Shepherd — that scarcely could they expand themselves
before us into the magnitude of moons, Ix^foiu' they sank
behind us into pale nebular gleams : and their planetary
earths could not reveal themselves for a moment to the
transcendent rapidity of our course. At length Sirius
and all the brotlierhood of our constellations, and the
galaxy of our hea\'ens stood far below our feet as a little
nebula amongst other yet more distant nebuhe. Thus
we flew on through the starry wildernesses : one heaven
after another unfui'led its immeasuralile banners before
us, and then rolle<| up l)ehind us : galaxy behind galaxy
towered up into solemn attitudes before which the spirit
shuddered ; and they stood in long array througli which
the Infinite Being might pass into progress. Sometimes
the Form that li<ifhtened Avould outflv mv weary thoutrhts;
and then it w^ould be s(M»n far off* before me like a corus-
cation amongst the stars — till suddenly I thouglit again
to myself tlie thoughf of There, and fhen I was at its side.
But as we were tlius swallowed up by one abyss of stars
after another, and the heavens above our heads were not
emptier, neither w<'re the heavens below them fuller; and

'iif'i'iri^'rm

mmm

IWii]

FiiTii Kkadkh.

as suns witliout intci'iiiission fcli into the solar ocean
liko watc'i'-spouts of a stoiin whit'li fall into tliu ocean of
waters ; then at length tlie liunian lieart witliin me was
overburdened and weary, and yearned after some narrow
cell or quiet oratory in this metropolitan cathedral of
the imiverse. And I said to the Form at my side, " Oh,
Spirit ! has then this universe no end ? " And the Form
answered and said " Lo ! it has no begiiming."

Suddenly, however, the heavens above us appeared to
be emptied, and not a star was seen to twinkle in the
mighty abyss ; no gleam of light to break the unity of
the infinite darkness. The starry hosts behind us had
all contracted into an obscure nebula, and at length that
also had vanished. And I thought to myself, "At last
tln> universe has ended ; " and I trembled at the thought
of the illimitable dungeon of pure, pure darkness which
here began to imprison the creation : I shuddered at the
dead sea of nothing, in whose unfathomable zone of
blackness the jewel of the glittering universe seemed to
be set and buried for ever; and through the night in
which we moved I saw the Form which still lightened
as before, but left all around it unilluminated. Then the
Form S{iid to me in my anguish, " Oh ! creature of little
faith. Look up ! the most ancient light is coming ! " I
looked: and in a moment came a twilight — in the twink-
ling of an eye a galaxy — and then with a choral burst
rushed in all the company of stars. For centuries gray
with age, for millennia hoary with antiquity, had the
starry light been on its road to us; and at length out
of heights inaccessible to thought it had reached us.
Now, then, as through some renovated century, we flew
through new cycles of heavens. At length again came a

])HKAM Ul'ON' TUK rNIVKUSK.

.starloHH intrrvjil ; ;in<l far lon^j^ci- it »iitlun'<l, before ihv
beaiHH of a starry host aj^ain lia<l reaelied us.

As we tluiH advaneecl for iver tlirout^^li an interchange
of ni<^lits and solar lieavens, and an tlio interval grew
still lont^er and longer befor<> the last heaven we had
({uitted contracted to a point, and as once we issned sud-
denly from the middle of thickest night into an Aurora
Borealis, the herald of an expii-ing world, and w«^ found
throughout this cycle of solar systems that a day of
judgment Inid indecMl arrived; the siujs had sickene*!,
and the planets were heaving — rocking, yawning in con-
vulsions, the su])terraneous waters of the great deeps
were breaking up, and lightnings that were ten diam-
eters of a world in len^fth ran alontj — from east to west
— from Zenith to Nadir; and here and there, wdiere a
sun should have been, we saw instead through the misty
vapor a gloomy, ashy, leaden corpse of a solar body,
that sucked in flames from the perishing world, but gave
out neither light nor heat ; and as I saw, through a vista
which had no end, mountain tow(»ring above mountain,
and piled up with what seemed glittering snow from the
conflict of solar and planetary bodies; then my spirit
bent under the load of the univers(\ and I said to the
Form, " Rest, rest, and lead me no farther : I am too
solitary in the creation itself; and in its deserts yet more
so: the lull world is great, but the empty world is
greater; and with the universe increase its Zaarahs."

Then the Form touched me like the flowing of a
breath, and spoke more gently than before : — " In the
presence of God there is no emptiness: alx)ve, below,
between, and round about the stars, in the darkness and
in the lignt, dwelleth the true and very Universe, the

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".nni ;nir| i'omilMiu of all tli.it is. Hut tliy spirit c.-ni Ixsir
only cjirtlily iiiiaoos of the uncartlily: now tlicn I cleanse
thy sio'lit with eu[)lira,sy; look forth, aiul behold the
iinjioes." Inuiiecliately my eyes were opened; and I
IooIvcm], and I saw as it were an interniinal)le sea of lio-Jit
— sea inniieasniahle, sea uiifatli()iiia])le, sea witliout a
shoi'e. All spaces between all heavens were filled with
ha})|)iest liglit : and tliere was a thundering of floods;
an«l there were seas above tlu^ seas, and seas below the
seas : and- I saw all the ti'ackless retjions that we had
voyatj^ed ovci- : and my eye comprehended the farthest
an<l the nearest: and darkness had become H;:jbt, and the
li^^ht darkness: for the deserts and wastes of the creation
were now tilled with the sea of li«^ht, and in this sea the
sinis floated like ash-gray blossoms, and the planets like
black grains of seed. Then my heart comprehended
that innnortality dwelle(l in the spaces between the
worlds, and death ojily amongst the w^orlds. Upon all
tlie suns there walked upright shadow^s in the form of
men; but they were gloi'ifled when they quitted these
perishable w^orlds, and when they sank into the sea of
liglit. and the murky planets, I perceived, were but
cradles for the infant spirits of the univei-se of light.
In the Zaarahs of tbe creation I saw — I heard — I felt —
the glittering — the echoing— the breathing of life and
creative power. The suns were but as spinning-wheels,
the planets no moi'e than weavers' shuttles, in relation to
the inflnite WM^b which composes the veil of Isis, wdiich
veil is hung over the whole creation, and lengthens as
any linite being attempts to raise it. And in sight of
tliis immeasurability of life no sadness could endure, but
oidy joy that knew no limit, and happy prayeis.

DhKAM ri»()N THE TxrVKKSK.

:i()0

l)«'{ir*

J)Ut in the midst of < his ui-rnt vision of tlic univt isc
tlui Form that liolitpucd ctci-nally luul Ixromc iiivisil)l(",
or Jiad vaiiislu'd to its liomo in t\\v unseen world of
spirits : I was left alone in the centre of a universe of
life, and I yearned after some sympathizing^ beincr. Sud-
denly from tlie starry deeps there came floatinir tluou^di
tlie ocean of light a planetary Ijody ; and upon it there
stood a woman whcwe face was as the face of a Madonna;
and by her side tliere stood a child, whose countenance
varied not, neither was it mafrnified as he drew nearer.
'I'his cliild was a king-, for I saw that lie had a crown
upon his head: Imt the crown was a crov/n of tliorns.
Then also I perceived that the planetary Ixxly was our
unliappy earth; and, as the earth drew near, this child
who had conic forth from the starry- deeps to comfort nie
threw upon me a look of gentlest pity and of unutterable
love, so that in my heart I had a sudden rapture of joy
such as passes all understanding, and I awoke in tlu*
tumult of my happiness.

—ThomoM De tjuincejf.

ft is not growing like a ti'ee
In hulk, doth make Man better l)e ;
Or standing long an oak, three hundred year,
To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere :
A lily of a day
Is fairer far in IVIay,
Although it fall and die that night —
It was the plant and flower of Light.
In small proportions we just l)eauties see ;
And in short measures life may perfect be.

> —Ben Jomon,

.370

FiiTii Readkk.

BRUTUS AND ANTONY.

Scenp: II. — The same. The. Forum.
Enter BiiUTUS mid Cassius, a7id a throvif o/ Citiz(nis.

Cit. We will be satisfied ; let us be satisfied.

Jim. Then follow me, and give nie audience, friends. —
Cassius, go you into the other street,
And part the numbers. —

Those that will hear me speak, let them stay here ;
Those that will follow Cassius, go with him ;
And public reasons shall be rendered
Of Caesar's death.

1 Cit. I will hear Brutus speak.

2 Cit. I will hear Cassius; and compai-e their reasons.
When severally we iiear them rendered.

\Exit Cas., with so7ne oj' the Cit. Bru. ffoes into th' Kontrnm.

3 Cit. The noble Brutus is ascended : Silence !
Bru. Be patient till the last.

Romans, countrymen, and lovers ! hear me for my cause ; and
be silent tliat you may hear : believe me for mine honor ; and
have respect to mine honor, that you may believe : censure me
in your wisdom ; and awake your senses that you may the
better judge. If there be any in this assembly, any dear
friend of Caesar's, to him I say, that Brutus' love to Caesar
was no less than his. If then that friend demand, why
Brutus rose against Caesar, this is my answer, — Not that I
loved Caesar less, but that I loved Rome more. Had you
rather Caesar were living, and die all slaves; thfin that Caesar
were dead, to live all free men ? As Caesar loved me, I weep
for him ; as he was fortunate, I rejoice at it ; as he was
valiant, I honor him : but, as he was ambitious, I slew him :
There is tears, for his love ; joy, for his fortune ; honor, for

Brutus and Antony.

871

his vak»r ; and dealli, for his ambition. Wlio is here .so nasf,
th.at would be a l)()ii(hnan ? J£ any, speak; for him hav;5 J
oft'ended. Who is here so rude, that would not be a ]lomaii?
If any, .speak ; for him have I oft'ended. Who is here so vile,
that will not love his country f Jf any, speak ; for him have
I offended. I })ause for a reply.

Cit. None, Brutus, none.

\_Sei'>eral »ppaking at once.

Brn. Then none have I offended. I have done no more to
Caesar, than you iihould do to ]>i-utus. The question of his
death is enrolled in the Capitol : his glory not extenuated,
wherein he was worthy ; nor his offences enforced, for which
he suffer'd death.

and
and
re me
f the
dear
aesar
why
lat I
you

Enter Antony and Others^ with Caksah's Jiody.

Here comes his body, mourned by Mark Antony : who,
though he had no 1 and in his death, shall receive the benefit
of his dying, a place in the connnonwealth ; As which of you
shall not 1 With this I depart ; That, as I slew my })est lover
for the good of Rome, I have the same dagger for myself,
when it shall please my country to need my death.
Cit. Live, Brutus, live ! live !

1 Cit. Bring him with triumph home unto his house.

2 Cit. Give him a statue wif,h his ancestors.

3 Cit. Let him be Caesar.

4 Cit. Caesar's better parts
Shall now be crown'd in Brutus.

1 Cit. We'll bring him to his house with shouts and clamors.
Bru. My countrymen, —

2 Cit. Peace ; silence ! Brutus speaks.
1 Cit. Peace, ho !

Brn, Good countrymen, let me depart alone,
And for my sake, stay here with Antony :
Do grace to Caesar's corpse, and grace his speech

tM'2

FlKTM ReaDKH.

Tonditig to (Japsui's glorios ; wliidi Mark Antotiy,
By our permission, is ullowM to make.
I do entreat 3'ou, not a nuin depart,

Save I alone, till Antony have spoke. [Krit.

1 CiL Stay, ho! and let us hear Mark Antony.

3 Cit. Jjet him go up into tlie public chair ;
We'll hear hijii : — Noble Antony, go up.

Ant. For ]5rutus' sake, I am ])eholden to vou.

4 CiL What does he say of l^rutus ?

3 CiL He says, for Brutus' sake,
He finds himself beholden to 11s all,

4 CiL 'Twere best he speak no harm <»f Brutus here.

1 Cit. This Caesar was a tyrant.

3 f^it. Nay, that's eeitain :

We are bless'd that Home is rid of him.

2 Cit. Peace : let us hear what Antonv can sav.
Aid. You gentle liomans, -

Cit. Peace, ho ! let us hear him.

A>it. Friends, liomans, countrymen, lend me your ears;
I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.
The evil, that men do, lives after them ;
The good is oft interred with their bones ;
So let it be with Caesar. The noble Brutus
Hath told you, Caesar was ambitious :
If it were so, it was a grievous fault ;
And grievously hath Caesar answei-'d it.
Here, under leave of Brutus, and the rest,
(For Brutus is an lionoral)le man ;
So are tliey all, all honorable men,)
Come I to speak in Caesar's funeral.
He was my friend, faithful and just to me :
'But Brutus says he was aml)itious;
And Brutus is aii honorable man. •

He hath brought many captives home to Home,

Bkitis and Ant<jny.

a78

Whose rausoius did the general L-offeix fill :

Did tuis ill Caesar seem ambitious '{

When that the poor have cried, Caesai- hath wept:

Ambition should be made of sterner stuff:

Yet Brutus says he was aml)itious;

And Brutus is an honorable man.

You all did see, that on the Lupereal,

I thrice presented him a kingly crown.

Which he did thrice refuse. Was this ambition 'I

Yet Brutus says he was ambitious ;

And, sure, he is an honorable man.

I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke.

But here 1 am to speak what I do know.

You all did love him once, not without cause ;

What cause withholds you, then, to mourn for him?

judgment, thou art fled to brutish beasts,
And men have lost their reason !— Bear with me ;
My heart is in the coffin there with Caesar,

And I must pause till it come back to me.

1 CU. Methinks there is much reason in his savimrs.

2 Cit. If thou consider rightl}' of the matt(M-,
Caesar has had i^reat wronir.

'' ^''^^' Has he, masters I

1 fear there will a M<jrse come in his place.

\ Cit. Mark'd ye his words ? He would not take the (■r(.wn ;
Therefore, 'tis certain, he was not ambitious.

1 Cit. If it be found so, some will dear abide it.

2 Cit. Poor soul ! his eyes are red as fire with weeping.

3 Git. There's not a nobler man in Rome than Antony.

4 Cit. Now mark him, he begins again to speak.
Ant. But yesterday, the word of Caesar iiiight

Have stood against the world : now lies he there,
And none so poor to do him reverence.
O masters! if T were divJM^s'd to stir

;i74

Firni Kkadkh.

Your lieartH and minds to mutiny and rage,

1 sliould do Brutus wrong, and Cassias wrong,

Wlio, you all know, are honora})le men :

I will not do tliem wrong ; I rather choose

To wrong the dead, to wrong myself, and you,

Than I will wrong such honorable men.

But here's a parchment, with the seal of Caesar :

I found it in his closet ; 'tis his will :

Let hut the commons hear this testament,

(Which, i)ardon me, I do not mean to read,)

And they would go and kiss dead Caesar's wounds,

And dip their napkins in his sacred bl<x)d ;

Yea, beg a hair of him for memory.

And, dying, mention it within their wills,

Beciueathing it, as a rich legacy,

Unto their issue.

4 Cit. We'll hear the will : Head it, Mark Antony.

Cit. The will, the will; we will hear Caesar's will.

Ant. Have patience, gentle friends, I must not read it;
It is not meet you know how Caesar lov'd you.
You are not wood, you are not stones, but men ;
And, being men, hearing the will of Caesar,
It will inflame you, it will make you mad :
'Tis good you know not that you are his heirs ;
For if you should, O, what would come of it !

4 Oit. Read the will ; we will hear it, Antony ;
You shall read us the will ; Caesar's will.

Ant. Will you be patient? Will you stay a while?
I have o'ershot myself to tell vou of it.
I fear I wrong the honorable men
Whose daggers have stabb'd Caesar ; I do fear it.

4 Cit. They were traitors : Honorable men !

Cit. The will ! the testament !

2 Cit, They were villains, mur<lerers: The will I n^ad the will!

Bkutus AM) Antony.

375

A7a. You will compel me then to read the will ?
Then make a ring ahout the coipse of Caesar,
And let me show you him that made the will'
Shall I descend ? And will you give me leave ?

Cit. Come down.

2 Cii. Descend.

[//« cornea dotcn/nnii the I'uljrit.

3 Cit. You shall have leave.

4 Cit. A ring ; stand round.

1 Cit. Stand from the hearse, stand from tiic |„,dv.

2 Cit. Koom for Antony ;— most nohle Antony.
Ant. Nay, press not so upon me; stand far off.
Cit. Stand back ! room ! bear back !

Ant. If you have tears, prepare to shed them now.
You all do know this mantle : 1 remember
The first time ever Caesar put it on ;
'Twas on a sunnner's evening, in his tent :

That day he overcame the Nervii :

Look ! in this place, ran Cassius' dagger through ;

See, wdiat a rent the envious Casca made :

Through this, the well-beloved Brutus stabb'd ;

And, as he pluck'd his cursed steel away,

INIark how the blood of Caesar f(jllow'd it ;

As rushing out of doors, to be resolv'd

If Brutus so unkindly knock'd, or no ;

For Brutus, as you know, was Caesar's angel :

Judge, O 3'ou gods, how dearly Caesar loved him !

This was the most unkindest cut of all :

For when the noble Caesar saw him stab.

Ingratitude, more strong than traitors' arms,

Quite vanquish'd him : then burst his mighty heart ;

And in his mantle muffling up his face,

I'iven at the l)ase of Pompey's statue.

Which all the while ran ])lood, great Caesar fell.

.'i76

FlKTH KkADEK.

(), wliut a full was tliero, iiiv cDUiitrviueii !
Tluui I, and y<»ii, and all of us fell down,
Wliilst bloody treason HourislTd over us.
O, now you weep ; and, I perc-eivc!, yt>u feel
The dint of pity : these are jjjraeious drops.
Kind souls, what, weep you, when you ])ut l)ehold
Our Caesar's vesture woun<led ? Ivfok you here!
Here is himself, niarr'd, as you sec, with traitors.

1 Cif. O piteous spectacle !

2 CU. O noble Caesar !
:\ (Jit. O woful day !

4 Cit. O traitors, villains !

1 (yu. O most Ijloody sight !

2 CU. We will be revenged : revenge ; about, — seek, burn,
— lire, — kill,~slay !~ let not a traitoi- IInc.

Ant. Htay, countrymeji.

1 Cit. Peace there: — Hear the noble Antony.

2 Cit. We'll liear him, we'll follow him, we'll die with him.
Attt. Good friends, sweet friends, let Jiic not stir you uj)

To juch a sudden Hood of mutiny.

They that liave done this deed are lionorablc ;

What private griefs they have, alas, 1 know not,

That made them do 't ; they are wise and honoi-ablc.

And will, no doubt, with reasons answer you.

T come not, friends, to steal awav vour hearts

: )

am no orator, as ]>rutus is

l>ut, as you know me all, a plain blunt man.

That love my friend ; and that they know full well

That uave me public leave to speak of h

inn.

For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth.

Action, nor utterances, nor the ]>ower of speech,

To stir men's blood : J. only speak right on ;

T tell you that which you yourselves do know ;

Show vou sweet Caesar's wounds, (poor, poor dumb mouths !^

IlRIIMS AM) A.NTONV

4 /

l)uni,

til liiiii.
up

iths !)

And l»i(l Micin sppuk f, r iiir : Uiil, woiv | llimus,
Ami r.iiitiis Antony, (Ik i(? nvcit mm Antimv
W'niild nilfl.^ up your spirits, ;in<l j.iit. ii ton;;u(v
hi cv.'iy wound f>f Caosar, that, should nu»ve
Tlie stones of Konio to riso and niutinv.

Cit. We'll uiutinv.

1 Cit. We'll burn the house of Urutus.

3 Cit. Away then, come, seek the conspirators.

Ant. Yet hear me, countrymen ; yet hear me speak.

Cit. Peace, ho! Hear Antony, most noble Antony.

Ant. Why, friends, you «r,) to do you know not wlwit
\\ herein hath Cae.sar thus (ieserved your loves'?

Alas, you know not: — T must tell you then :

You have for<;ot the Avill T told y(.u of.

Cit. JNIost true:- the will ;— let's stav, a-id hear the

Ant. Here is the will, and under Ca(\sai's seal.
To every Roman citizen he L»'ives.
To every scneral man, seventy-five drachmas.

2 Cit. Most noble Caesar! w(«'ll revenire his death.

3 Cit. O royal Caesar !
A7it. Hear me with patience.
Cit. Peace, ho !

Ant. Moreovei', he hath left you all his walks.
His ju'ivate harbors, and new-planted orchard-s
On thi.s side Tyber ; he hath left them you.
And to your heirs for ever ; common })leasures,
To walk abroad, and i-ecreate j'oursehes.
Here was a Caesar :• When comes such another?

1 Cit. Never, never : — Come, away, away :
We'll burn his body in the holy place,
And with the brands fire the traitors' houses.
Take up the body.

'2 Cit. Go, fetch fire. -:

3 Cit. Pluck down benches.

will.

'MH

Finn "Hkadku.

I (y'if. IMiirk down foniis, windows, aiiy<liin;(.

\l'j.rrnnl Cits,, il'ith tlh' lindtf.

Ant. Now l(it. il w«»rk : Mist-liicf, tliou art afoul,,
'rak<» tliuii what course! liiou wilt! -How now, fellow?

Kikte/r tt, Servant.

Srrr. Sir, r)cta,viuM is already come lo Home.

.( nf. W'licro is li<' ?

tSWv. ilo and lirjiidus ar(? at Caesai-'s liouso.

Attt. And tlii(li(U* will I stiai;,dit to visit him :
Tie eomes upoji a wish. Fortune is merry,
And in this mood will i,dve us any thing.

JSrrv. I heard him say, F>i"utus and Cassius
Are rid like madmen through the gates of Home.

Atif. llelike, they had some notice of th<! ]»coj»l(',
How 1 had mo\ (1 tluMii. Hring me to Octavius. [A'.iv /*>//.

— Shakespeare.

KUBLA KHAN.

In Xanadu did Kuhla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree :
W'luM-e Alph, the sacred river, I'an
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunh^ss sea.
So twice five miles of f(Mtile ground
With walls and towers were girdled round :
And there \vei'e gardens bright with sinu<ms rills
Where })lossomed niany an incense-beai'ing tree;
And here were forests ancient as the hills,
Enfolding sunny spots of gi'eenery.

IU]t oh ! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
Down the green hill athwait a cedarn cover !
A savajro place ! as holy and enchanted

Kri'.LA Kii.w.

l\7^^

As v'i'V Ik'IU'hiIi ,1 \v(iniii<,' moon \v;is li;iuiiit(l

l»y woman wailing tor \\vv drnion loNrr !

And from this oliasm, with coaseless turmoil seething,

As if this earth in fast thick pants wn«' hrcatliing,

A mighty fountain momonlly was foircd ;

Amid whose sv, ift half intormittc*! hurst

II»ig(^ fragments vaulted like n'hoiinding liail,

Or chaiVy grain heneath the threslier's flail :

And 'mid tiioso dancing rocks at once ;md ever

It Ihmg up momently the saci-e<l river.

Five mil«!s meandering nith a, ma/,v motion

Thrc ugh wood and dale tl'(; saei'cd rivej- ran,

'I'hen rea(;h(Ml the caverns nieasui'eless to m;ui.

And sank in tunmlt to a lifeless »tcoan :

And 'mid this tumult Kuhla lieard from far

Ancesti'al voices i)!-oph(»sying war !

The shadow of the dome of phvisui-e

Floated midway on thi waves ;

Where was lieard the mingled m»'asur«^

Fi'om the fountain and the caves.
It was a ini;acle of rare device,
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice !

A damsel with a dulcimer

Tn a visioii once I saw :

It was an Ahvssinian maid,

And on her dulcimer she played,

►Singing of Mount Abora.

Could I revive within me

Her symphony and song,

To such a deep delight 'twould win me
That with music loud and long,
I would build that dome in air,
That sunny dome ! those caves of ic(^ !
And all who heard should see them there,

:^.so

FH'Tm Ukadkii.

I
P

Aihl all sliould c'i'v, Bewjire ! Bewnre !
His ihi.-sliing cyos, liis floating liaii- !
Weave a cir(;le round liiiii tlirice,
Vnd close your eyes with holy dicad, • .^
For lie on honey-dew hath fcnl, .

And drunk the milk of Paradis*',

—Samuel T. Coleridge.

PERSEUS.

PAirr I.

HO^v 1»KU.-4EIJS AND HIS MOTHER CAME TO SERIPHrs.

Onco upon a time tliere were two princes who were
twiuH. Their iiaiiies were Aci'isius and Proetus, and they
lived in tlie pleasant vale of Art^os, far away in Hellas.
Tliey had frnitful meadows and vineyards, sheep and
oxen, great herds of horses feeding down in Lcrna Fen,
and all that men could need to make them biest; and
yet they weie wretched, because they were jealous of
each other. From the moment they were born they
began to ([uarrel ; and when they grew up, each cried to
takti away the other's share of the kingdom, and keep
all for himself. So, first Aci'isius drove oat Proetus ;
and he went across the seas, and brought home a foreign
princess for Ivls wife, and foreign warriors to lielp him,
who were called Cyclopes ; and drove out Acrisius in his
tui'ii ; and then they fought a long wliile up and down
the land, till the quarrel was settled; and Acrisius took
Argos and one-half tlie land, and Pnetus took Tiiyns
and the other lialf. And Proetus and hi;, Cyclopes built

Pkkskis.

:^8I

his

)\vn

look

lyns

uilt

around Tiryn.s ^i
standinjr to this da\-.

t walls of uiilicwii stoiK

hicl

1 air

But there came a jn-opliet to tluit hard-lH'ai-t«*d Acri-
sius, and proj/aesied a<^ainst liini, and said: "Because
you liave risen up ai^ainst your own blood, your own
bk)od sliall rise up a^j^ainstyou ; because you liave sinned
a<^ainst your kindred, by your kindred you sliall be
punished. Your daughter Danae shall bear a son, and
by that son's hand you shall die. So the ^ods have
ordained, and it will surely come to pass."

And at that Acrisius was very much afraid ; but lie
did not mend his ways. He had been cruel to his own
family; and, instead of yepentin<i^ and beinj^ kind to
them, he went on to be moi'e cruel than ever; for he
shut up his fair dauj^hter Danae in a cavern under-
ground, lined with brass, that no one nn'^ht come near
her. So he fancied himself more cunning than the gods;
but you \. ill see presently wdiether he was able to escape
them.

Now it came to jmss that in time Danae bore a son;
so beautiful a babe that any but King Acrisius would
have had pity on it. But he had no pity. For he took
Danae and her babe down to the sea-shore, and put
them into a great chest, and thrust them out to sea, for
the w^inds and the waves to carry them whithersoever
they would.

The north-west wind blew freshly out of the blue
mountains, and down the pleasant vale of Argos, and
away and out to sea. And away and out to sea be-
fore it floated the mother and her babe, while all who
watched them wept, save thsit cruel father, King
Acrisius.

382

Finn Kkadkk.

So they floated on and on, and tlie chest danced up
and down upon tlic ])ilIovvs, and the ba])y slept upon its
iiH^ther's breast; but the poor mother could not sleep,
but watched and wept, and she san<^ to lier baby as they
Hojvted ; and the son*^" which she san«^' y(ju shall learn
yourself some day.

And now they are past the last blue headland, and in
the open sea; and there is nothing round them but the
waves, and the sky, and the wind. But the waves are
<4vntle, and the sky is clear, and the V>reeze is tender and
low ; for these are the davs when Halc\'one and Cevx
build their nests, and no storms ever ruiile the pleasant
suniiner sea.

And who were Halcyone and Ceyx ? You shall hear
while the chest floats on. Halcyone was a fairy maiden,
the daughter of the beach and of the wind. And she
loved a sailor boy, and married him ; and none on earth
were so happy as they. But at last Ceyx was wrecked ;
and before he could swim to che shore, the billows swal-
lowed him up. And Halcyone saw him drowning, and
leapt into the sea to him ; but in vain. Then the Im-
mortals took pity on them both, and changed them into
two fair sea-birds ; and now they build a floating nest
every year, and sail uj^ pud down happily forever, upon
the pleasant seas of Greece.

80 a ^'.ight passed and a day; and a long day it was
for Dfjiae; and another night and day beside, till Danae
was faint with lumger and weeping, and yet no land
appeared. And all the while the babe slept (piietly ; and
at last poor Danae dropped her head and fell asleep like-
wise, with her cheek against her babe's.

^ After a while she awakened suddenly; for the chest

ft!

l^KRSKrs.

,S8;?

ike-

lest

was jarring and <^rin<Hn<^, and tlio air was full of sound.
81ic looked np, and over her head were mighty ciitts, all
red in the setting sun, and around her rocks and breakers,
and flying flakes of foam. She claspe<l her hands to-
gether, and shrieked aloud for help. And when she
cried, help met her; for now there came over the rocks
a tall and stately man, and looked down wondering
upon poor Danae tossing about in the chest among the
waves.

He wore a rough cloak of frieze, and on his head a
broad hat to shade his face ; in his hand he carried a
trident for spearing fish, and over his shoulder was a
casting-net; but Danae could see that he was no com-
mon man by his stature, and his walk, and his flowing
golden hair and beard; and by the two servants who
came behind him, carrying baskets for his fish. But she
had hardly time to look at him, bc^fore he had lai<l aside
his trident, and leapt down the rocks, and thrown his
casting-net so surely over Danae and tl'e chest, that h^e
drew it, and her, and the baby, safe upon a ledge of rock.

Then the fisherman took Danae by the hand, and
lifted her out of the chest, and said : —

" O, beautiful damsel, what strange chance has brought
you to this island in so frail a ship ( Who are you, ami
whence / Surely you are some king's daughter ; and
this boy has somewhat more than mortal."

And as he spoke, he pointed to the babe ; foi- its face
shone like the morning star.

But Danae only held down her head and sobbed out : —

"Tell me to what lan<l 1 have come, nnha})py that I
am; and among what men 1 have fallen :* "

;i84

Finn ]{i:.\i)i;ii.

And li(i sai«l : "This isle \h called Sci'iphus, and T am a
Hollen, and dwell in it. I am tlio In-otlicr of P(jlydectes
the kin<;"; and men call me Dictys the netter, hecau.se 1
catch the fish of the shore."

Tluni ])anae fell d(3vvn at his feet, and end)raced his
knees, and ci'i(^d : —

"Oh, sir, have pity iij)on a stran<;er, Avhoin a cruel
doom lias driven to your land ; and let me live in y )ur
liousc as a servant; but treat me honorably, for I Avas
once a kni^^'s dau<;hter, and this my boy (as you liave
truly said) is of no connnon lace. I will not be a chai-<^e
to you, or eat the bread of idleness; for I am more skill-
ful in weaving and endjroidery than all the maidens of
my land."

And she was goin*;' on: l)ut J)ictys slopjx'd her, and
raised lier up, and said : —

"My daughter, I am old, and my hairs are growing
gray; while I have no children to make my Ik^uk;
cheerful. Come with me, then, and you shall be a
daughter to me and to my wife, and this babe shall
be our grandchild. For I fear the gods, and sli;)W hos-
pitality to all strangei-s ; knowing that good deeds, like
evil ones, always return to those who do them."

So Danae was comforted, and went home with ])ictys
the good fisherman, and was a daught<^r to him and to
his wife, till fifteen years wen^ 2)ast.

I'KRSKIS.

385

pAK'i; n.

}I()V; PEIISEIS VOWED A HASH VOW.

hos-
]\kv

Fifteen years wei'e past iind <;()n(^ aiul tlic l)al)(^ was
now o-rowii to b(3 a tall lad and a sailor, and went many
voyages after mercliandise to the islands round. His
mother called him Perseus: but all the people in Seri-
phus said that he was not tlie son of mortal man, and
called him the son of Zeus, the kin^jj of tlie Immortals.
For thouo-h he was but fifteen, he was taller by a head
than any man in the island ; and he was the most skillful
of all in running and wrestling and boxing, and in
throwing the quoit and the javelin, and in rowing with
the oar, and in playing on the harp, and in all which
befits a man. And he was brave and truthful, gentle
and courteous, for good old Dictys had trained him well;
and well it was for Perseus that he had done so. For
now Danae and her son fell into great danger, and
Perseus had neerl of all his wit to defend his mother and
himself.

1 said that Dict3's"s brother was Polydectes, king of
the island. He was not a righteous man, like Dictys :
but greedy, and cunning, and cruel. And when he saw
fair Danae, he wanted to mai-ry her. But she would
not; for she did not love him, and cared for no one but
her boy, and her boy's father, whom she never hoped
to see again. At last Polydectes became I'ui'ious ; and
while Perseus was away at sra, he took poor Danae
away from Dictys, saying, " H you will not be my wife,
you shall be my slave." So J)anae was made a slave,
and had to fetch water from the well, and gi'ind in the

:j.s(;

FiiTii Kkadkh.

mill, iiiid perhaps was beaten, and wore a heavy chain,
she would not mai-iy that cruel kin<^. But

)ccauso
^erseiis

was

ir aw

i>'

J over tlie seas in the isle of

Sanios, little thinking; how his mother was lan^uishin*^
in ^rief.

Now one day at Samos, while the ship was ladin<^,
Perseus wandered into fi. pleasant W(jod to ^'et out of the
sun, and sat down on the turf, and fell asleep. And as
he slept, a stranjj^o dream came to him ; the strangest
dream which he had ever had in his life.

There came a lady to him through tlu^ wood, tallei-
than he, or any mortal man : but beautiful exceedingly,
with great gi'ay eyes, clear and piercing, but strangely
soft and mild. On her head was a helmet, and in her
hand a spear. An<l over her shoulder, above her long
blue n^bes, hung a goatskin, which bore up a mighty
shield of brass, polished like a mirror. She stood and
looked at him with her clear gray eyes; and Perseus
saw that her eyelids never moved, nor her eyeballs, but
loc^kod straight through and through him, and into his
very heart, as if she could see all the secrets of his soul,
and knew all that he had ever thought or longed for
since the day that he was born. And Perseus dropped
his eyes, trembling and l)lushing, as die wonderful lady
spoke.

" Perseus, you nmst do an errand for me."

"Who are you, lady? and how do you know my
name i " .A''\.:- :■ ..< v ■ ■■.• <. ^ ■■' ;•-*

" I am Pallas Athene, and I know the thoughts of all
men's hearts, and discern their manhood or their base-
ness. And from the souls of clay I turn awa}'^ ; and
they are blest, but not by me. They fatten at ease like

Perseus.

;w"

rhty
and

slieep ill the pasture, and eat uliat tliey di(l not sow,
like oxen in tlie stall, 'i'liey <rrow and s])read like the
<jfourd along the groinid ; but, like the <;ourd, thry oive
no shade to the traveller; and \vhen they are ripe death
♦gathers them, and they jjjo down unloved into hell, and
their name vanishes out of the land.

"But to tlie souls of fire I give inore fire, and to those
who are manful I mve a mijiht more than man's. These
are the heroes, the sons of the Innuortals, who are blest,
but not like the souls of clay. For I drive them forth
by strange paths, P(u\seus, that they niay tight the
Titans and the monsters, the enemies of gods and men.
Thi-ough doubt and need, danger and battle, 1 drive
them; and some of them are slain in the flower of
youth, no man knows when or where ; and some of them
win noble names and a fair and green old age ; but what
will be their latter end I know not, and none save Zeus,
the father of gods and men. Tell me now, Perseus,
which of these two sorts of men seem to you more
blest?"

Then Perseus answered boldly : " Better to die in the
flower of youth, on the chance of witniing a noble name,
than to live at ease like the sheep, and die unloved and
unrenowned." ■

Then that strange lady laughed, and held up her
brazen shield, and cried, "See here, Perseus; dare you
face such a monster as this and slay it, that I may place
its head upon this shield ? "

And in the mirror of tlie shield there appeared a face,
and as Perseus looked on it his blood ran cold. It was
the face of a beautiful woman ; but her cheeks were pale
as death, and her brows were knit with everlasting jxiin,

,']88

Finn Hkadkk.

and Irt lips weru tliiii and bittiT lik(^ a siiukes; and
instead of liair, vipcrH wreatlied a]K)ut lier temples and
wliot out their forked ton<^iies, while round lier head were
folded win<;'s like an eaj^le's, and upon her bosom claws
of brass.

And Perseus looked awliile, and then said, "If there is
anything so tierce and foul on earth, it were a noble
deed to kill it. Where can I find the monster i "

Then the strange lady smiled again, and said, "Not
yet; you are too young and too unskilled; for this is
Medusa the Gorgon, the mother of a monstrous brood.
Return to your home, and do the work which waits
there for you. You must play the man in that before I
can think you worthy to go in search of the Gorgon."

Then Perseus would liave spoken, but the strange lady
vanished, and he awoke; and behold, it was a dream.
But day and night Perseus saw before him the face of
that dreadful woman, with the vipers writhing round
hei" liead.

So he returned home ; and wln;n he came to Seriphus,
the first thing which he heard was that his mother was
a slave in the house of Polydectes.

Grinding his teeth with rage, he went out, and away
to the king's palace, and through the men's rooms and
the women's rooms, and so through all the house (for no
one dared to stop him, so terrible and fair was he), till
he found his mother sitting on the floor turning the
stone hand-mill, and weeping as she turned it. And he
lifted her up, and kissed her, and bade her follow him
forth. But before they could pass out of the room,
Polydectes came in raging. And when Perseus saw
him, he flew upon him as the mastitt' flies on the boar.

Pkhskis.

:^S!)

"Villain ami tvrajit ! " Ik; crifil : "is tins \()ur rrfinrct fni*
tli(^ ^orls, and thy merry to stran«;;<'i's aiul widows :"
You shall die!" And l)ocaUHo ho had no sword \\v
caujjjlit up the stone hand-mill, and he lifted it to <lasli
out Polydectes's brains.

But Ids moth(!r clunjr to him, shriokinj^, "Oh, in}^ son,
we are stran»(ei"s and helpless in the land : and if you
l<ill the king, all the ^(;ople will fall on us, and we shall
both die."

Good Dictys, too, who 1 A come in, entreated him.
" RemendxT that hr, is my brother. Remend)er how I
have brought you up, and trained you as my own son,
and spare him for my sake."

Then Perseus lowered his hand ; and l^olydectes, who
had been trend)ling all this while like a coward, because^
he knew that he was in the wrong, hit Perseus and his
mother pass.

Perseus took his mother to the temple of Athene, and
tliere the priestess made her one of the temple sweepers;
for there they knew she would be safe, and not even
Polydectes would dare to drag lier away from the altar.
And there Perseus, and the good Dictys, and his wife,
came to visit her every da}^ , while Poly<lectes, not being
able to get what he wanted by force, cast about in his
wicked heart how he might get it by cunning.

Now he was sure that he could never get back Danae
as long as Perseus was in the island ; so he made a plot
to rid himself of him. And first he pretended to have
forgiven Perseus and to have forgotten Danae, so that
for a while all went as smoothly as ever. .^. . . :.'

Next he proclaimed a great feast, and invited to it
all the chiefs, and land owners, and the young men of

:u)0

Firm lh;.\i)KH.

the, isljiiid, and miiioii'j; lliciii I'ci'sriis, tluit llicv niiiilifc all
do liiiii lioinap! as tii<'ir l<in;^^ and cat of his l>aii<[ii(!t in
liis liali.

On i\\v a])j)()iMti'd day tlwy all came ; aixl, as the
custom was then, each (^iicst 1 i'on;j;ht his pivsont Avith
him to tho kiii;^"; <>ih' a hor.M', unotlici' a shawl, or a
rin<^, or a sword ; and thoso wlio Imd nothinjr ))etter
l)roii<jjht a basket of (grapes or oi' game : but Perseus
In'ouiibt iiothin«r, ior lie ]»ad notbin<r to brinif, l)eini»' but
a poor sailor lad.

IT(; was ashamed, however, to ^o into the king's
presencii without bis <^ift, and he was too proud to
ask Dictys to lend him one. So he stood at the door
sorrowfully, watchin<^ the i-ieh men ffo in ; and his face
grew very red as they pointed at him, and smiled, and
whispered, " What has that foundling to give ?"

Now tliis was what Polvdectes wanted ; and as soon
as he heard that Perseus stood wdthout, he bade them
bring him in, and asked him scornfully before them all,
"Am I not your king, l^;rseus, and have I not invited
you to my feast ? Wliere is your present, then ? "

Perseus blushed and stammered, while all the proud
men round laughed, and some of them began jeering him
openly. " This fellow was thrown ashore liere like a
piece of weed or drift wood, and yet he is too j^roud to
brinir a o-ift to the kine\" ^ . , .

" And though he does not know who his father is, he
is vain enough to let the ohl women call him the son of
Zeus." :-■,-•'•";* ■;

And so foi'tli, till poor Perseus grew mad wdth shame,
and hardly knowing what he said, cried out, "A present!

PKIISKI'S.

:ii)l

who are you wlio talk of ]H'('scii(s ! Src if I (lo not ln'iii;^
a iiol ler one tliaii all of yours to«^i'tlirr !"

80 lio said, Ijoastin^; and yet lie felt in his lu-art that
lie was braver than all thosiu se()tters,an(l more ahle to <lo

some (glorious deed.

"Hear him 1 Hear the boaster! What is it to be/"
cried they all, lau^^hinj;- louder than evei-.

TluMi his dream at Samos came into his mind, and he
cried aloud, " The head of the (JlorjLjon. "

He was half afraid after he had said the words ; for
nil laut^hed louder than ever, and Polydectes loudest
of all.

"You hav(; promised to brinj^ me the Ooi'^'on's head?
Then never appear a<i;ain in this island without it. (Jro!"

Perseus ground his teeth with ra^e, for he saw that he
had fallen into a trap; but his j)r()mis(! lay upon him,
and he went out without a word.

Down to the cliff's he went, and looked across the
broad blue sea; and he wondered if his dream were true,
and prayed in the bitterness of his soul.

" Pallas Athene, was my dream true ? and shall I slay
the (ioi'oon ^ If thou lidst really show me her face, let
me not come to shame as a liar and l)oastful. Rashly
and anj^rily 1 promiscMl : but cunnino^ly an<l patiently
will I perform."

But there was no answer-, nor si^n ; neithei- tinmder oi-
any appearance; not even a cloud in the sky.

And three times Pei-seiis called, weepin^jj. " Rashly
and an<i^rily I promised: but cunninoly and patiently
will I perform."

:u)2

FiiTii l?i:\i)i:ii.

Thru Ijo hhav al'MT nH' .ihovr tlio sm. s\. small whltr
cloiul, iiH l)ri;jlit hh .silxrr. A id it t'liiiio on, iiouror jiikI
Meaner, till its l)rij^litn«'ss «la/zl('<l jiis v.yrH.

VvvHi'UH AV()inl(!r('(| at that stran(;(' cloud, I'oi* thcro was
no other cloud all ui'ound the skv ; and ho tn^uihled as it
touclic<l the clitr hclow. And as it touched, it broke, an<l
parted, and within it Mppcned I'allas Athiuie, as he ha<l
seen lier at Sanios in his (hcani, and hesidci her a youn^
man moi*ei lioht-limhed tlian tlui sta*;', whose (^yes wore
like sparks of tire. By his side was a scitnitar ot* dia-
mond, all of one- cksar precious stone, and on his feet
were m)lden saiwlals, fivnn tlu^ heels oF which iirew livinir

win^s.

I'hey looked upon Perseus keenly, and yet they never
moved theii eyes ; an<l they came up the clifis towai'ds
liini more swiftly than the s(!a-<;ull, and yet they never
moved tlunr feet, nor did the bi'eeze stir tlu; i-obes about
their lind)s; only the win^s of the youth's sandals
(juivered, like a hawk's wlien lie hant:;s above the vViW.
An<l Perseus fell down and W'orship[)ed, for he knew
that tlu'y were mor(^ than man.

But Atliene stood befoin^ him and sj)oke ot-ntly, and
bid him havt^ no fear. Then, —

"Perseus," sIh^ said, ''lie who overcomes in one trial
mei'its there])y a shar])er trial still, Vou have braved
Polydectes, .ind done manfully. Dare you bi-ave Me(bisa
the Gorgon ? "

And Perseus said, " 'Vr\ n)e : for since you spoke to
me in Samos, a new soul has come into my bi-east, and I
should be ashame<l not to daiv anything which 1 can do.
Show me, then, how T can do this."

"Perseus," said Athene, " thiidv well before you at-

rEHSEl'S.

a»:3

and

ti'ial
aved
(lusa

:e to

BH'l I

do.
at-

tempt ; for this <ltM'<l nM|uii»'M a sovfii yL'ai***' journey, in
wliicli you cannot rt'pent or turn I)aek, nor eHcape ; Imt
if your licait fails you, you must dio in the uuHhapeii
land, wliere no man will ever find your boneH."

"Better so than Vwa licrc, useless and despised," said
Pei'seus. "'J'ell me, tiu'U, oh tell me, fair and wise (Jod-
desH, of your j^reat kindness and condrsccnsion, how I
can do Imt this one thin;^, and thru, if need he, die 1"

Tlieii Athene Hmih'<l, and said, —

" Be ])atient, and listen; for if you for;;;et my words,
you will indeed die. You must ^o northward to the
comitry of the Hyperboreans, who live Ix-yond the pole,
at the som'ces of the cold north wind ; till you find the
three (}ray Sisters, who have lait one eye and one tooth
between them. You nnist ask them the way to the
Nymphs, the dau*j;hters of the Eveninj^ Star, who dance
ab(jut the golden tree;, in the Atlantic island of the west.
They will tell yeu the way to the Gory,()n, that you may
slay her, my enemy, the mother of monsti'ous beasts.
Once she was a maiden as beautiful as moin, till in her
j)ride she sinned a sin at which the sun hid his face;
and from that day her hair was t\irned to vipers, and
her hands to eagle's claws; and her heai't was tilled with
shame an<l rage, and her lips with bitter venom; and her
eyes became ho terrible that whosoever looks on them is
turned to stone; and her childi-en are the winged horse,
and the giant of the golden sword ; and her grand-
children are Echidna the witchaddeir, and Ciervon the
three-headed tyrant, wli<. feeds his herds bt'side the
herds of hell. So she became the sister of the Gorgons,
Stheno and Eiiryale the abhorred, the (laughtei"S of the
Queen of the Sea. Touch them not, for they arc immor-
tal : but bring me oidy Mcidusa's head,"
26

394

Fifth Header.

"And J will brinj^ ic!" said Pei'Heiis; " but how am I
to eHcaj)o her eycH ? Will slie not freeze me too into
atone ? "

"You sliall take this ])olis]ied sliield," said Atliene;
"and wlien you come lu^ar lier, look not at lier hersell',
but at her ima«»'e in the brass; so you may strike her
safely. And when you have struck of!* her head, wrap
it, with your face turned away, in the folds of the goat-
skin on which tlie* shield hangs, the hide of Amalthea,
the nurse of the ^]gis-holder. 80 you will bring it
safely back to me, and win to yourself renown and a
place among the lieroes who feast with the Innnortals
upon the peak where no winds blow."

Then Perseus said, "I wnll go, though I die in going.
But how shall I cross the seas wntliout a ship ? And who
will show me my way ? And when I find her, how shall
I slay her, if her scales be iron and brass ? "

Then the young man spoke : " These sandals of mine
will bear you across the seas, and over hill and dale
like a bii'd, as they bear me all day long; for I am
Hermes, the far-famed Argus-slayei", the messenger of
the Innnortals who dwell on Olympus."

Then Perseus fell down an«l worshipped, while the
young man spoke again.

"The sandals themselves will guide you on the road,
for they are divine and cannot stray; and this sword
itself, the Argus-slayer, will kill h.er, for it is divine, and
needs no second strok;V. Arise, and gird them on, and
go forth."

So l*ei>ieus arose, and gii'ded on the sandals and the
SWOvd.

Peksei's.

895

And Athene cried, " Now Jeap IVom the cliff', and be
gone."

But PeivseuM linirered.

"May I not bid farewell to my mother and to ])ictys ?
And may I not offer burnt-oft'e rings to you, and' to
Hermes, the far-famed Argus-slayer, and to Father Zeus
above / "

"You shall not bid farewell to your mother, lest your
heart relent at her weei)ing. I will comfort her and
Dictys until you return in peace. Nor shall you offer
burnt-offerings to the Olympians ; for your offering shall
be Medusas head. Leap, and trust in the armor of the
Immortals."

Then Perseus looked down the cliff and shuddered ;
but he was ashamed to show his dread. Then lie thought
of Medusa and the renown before him, and he leaped into
the empty air.

And behold, instead of falling he floated, and stood
anrl ran along the sky. He looked back, but Athene
had vanished, and Hern^es; and the sandals led him on
northward eve!-, like a crane who follows the spring
toward the Ister fens.

the

396

Ffftfi Reader.

. .,,„,, ,„■:•:,. PART III. , _,,,. ^,, _^^^^^^.^

HOW I'KUSKrs SLEW THE (JOlKiON.

So Pei'sen.s started on liis journej^ ^'oiii^ drj^-sliod
over land and sea; and liis lieart was liitrh and joyful,
for tlie winged sanrlals bore liini eacli day a seven days'
journey.

And lie went by Cythnus, and by Ceos, and tlie j)leas-
ant Cyclades to Attica; and past Atliens, and Thebes,
and the Coj^aic lake, and u^) the vale of Cephisus, and
past the peaks of (Eta and Pindus, and over the ricli
Thessalian plains, till the sunny hills of Greece were
beliind him, and before l»im w^ere the wilds of ^he north.
Then he passed the Thracian mountains, and many a
barbarous tribe, Pcieons and Dardans and Triballi, till
he caine to the Ister stream, and the dreary Scythian
plains. And he walked across the Ister dry-shod, and
away through the moors and fens, day and night, toward
the bleak north-west, turning neither to the right hand
nor the left, till he came to the Unshapen Land, and the
place which has no name.

And seven days he walked through it, on a path which
few can tell ; for those who have trodden it like least
to sp(»ak of it, and those who go tliere again in dreams
are glad enough when they awake; till he came to the
edge of the everlasting night, where the air was full of
feathers, and the soil was liard with ice; and there lu^
found the three Gray Sisters, by the shore of the freez-

iniT sea, noddinjjf

upon

a white Ion" of drift wood, beneath

the cold, white, winter nicjon ; and th<'y chanted a low
souii" toijether, "Why the old times were better than the

new.

Pehsei's.

397

ath
low
I the

There was no living thing ai-oun«] thcni ; not a fly, not
a moss upon tlie rocks. Neither seal nor si'n-o-nll dare
come near, lest tlie ice should chiteh them in its claws.
The surge broke up in foan), but it fell again in flakes of
snow ; and it frosted the liair of th*^ three Gi'ay Sisters,
and the bones in the ice-cliff* above their hea<ls. They
passed the eye from one to the other, but for all that
they could not see ; and they passed the tooth from one
to the other, but for all that they could not eat; and
they sat in the full glare of the moon, but they were
none the warmer for her beams. And Pei'seus pitied the
three Gray Sisters ; but they did not pity themselves.

So he said, " Oh, venerable mothers, wisdom is the
daughter of old age. Y(;u, therefore, should know many
things. Tell me, if you can, the path to the Gorgon."

Then one cried, " Who is this who reproaclies us with
old age ? " And another, " This is the voice of one of the
children of men."

And he, " I do not reproach, but horror your old age,
and T am one of the sons of "men and of the heroes. The
rulers of Olympus have sent me to you to ask the way
to the Gorgon." . • -

Then one, — '' There are new rulers in Olympus, and all
new things are bad," And another, — " We hate your
rulers, and all the children of men. We are the kindred
of the Titans, and the Giants, and the Gorgons, and the
ancient monsters of the deep." And another, — "Who'.s
this rash and insolent man, who pusli<;s uiibidden into
our world?" And the first, — "There never was such a
world as oui-s, nor will be ; if we let him see it, he will
spoil it all."

Then one cried, "Give me the eye, that I may see

V :

398

Firm Readkh.

'*;-

liiiii "; and anotlioi', "Give mo tli(3 Uxitli, tliafc I may bite
liim." But PerseuH, wlieu Jio Hiiw that they were foolish
and proud, and did not love the cliildren of men, left oft'
pityin*^ th(>m, and naid to liimself, " Hungry men must
needs be hasty ; if I stay making many words hei-e, I
shall be starved." Then he stepped close to them, and
watched till they passed the eye from hand to hand.
And as they groped about between themselves, he held
out his own hand gently, till one of them put the eye
into it, fancying that it was the hand of her sister.
Tlien he sprang back, and laughed, and cried, —

" Cruel and proud old women, I have your eye ; and I
will throw it into the sea, unless you tell me the path to
the Gorgon, and swear to me tliat you tell me right."

Then they wept, and chattered, and scolded ; but in
vain. They were forced to tell the truth, though when
they told it, Perseus could hardly make out the road.

"You must go," they said, "foolish boy, to the south-
ward, into the ugly glare of the sun, till you come to
Atlas the Giant, who holds the heaven and the earth
apart. And you must ask liis daughters, the Hesperides,
who are young and foolish like yourself. And now give
us back our eve ; for we have foro;otten all the rest."

So Perseus gave them back their eye ; but instead of
Ufiing it, they nodded, and fell fast asleep, and were
turned into blocks of ice, till the tide came up and
washed them all away. And now they float up and
down like icebergs forever, weeping whenever they meet
the sunshine, and the fruitful sunnner, and the warm
south wind, which fill young hearts with joy.

I the southward, leavin

'erseus

leap

^ay

the snow and ice behind ; past the isle of the Hyper-

Perset'm.

J^OO

1x)n;ans, and t]i(> tin islos, nii*! IIk; long Ibrrinn slioro;
while the sun rose hi<^h«M', day hy day, upon a bii«;ht
blue summer sea. And the terns and the sea-<^ulls swt'pt
lau;;hing roiuid his head, and called to him to stop and
play, and the dolphins gand)olled up as he passed, and
ottered to carry him on their backs. And all night long
the sea-nymphs sang sweetly, and the Tritons blew upon
their conchs, as they played round Galatea their queen,
in her car of pearled sliells. Day by day the sun rose
higher, and leaped more swiftly into the sea at night,
and more swiftly out of the sea at dawn ; w hile Perseus
skimmed over the billows like a sea-gull, and his feet
were never wetted ; and leapt on from wave to wave,
and his limbs were never weary, till he saw, far away, a
mighty mountain, all rose-red in the setting sun. Its
feet were wrapped in forests, and its hea<l in wreaths of
cloud; and Perseus knew that it was Atlas, who holds
the heavens and the earth apart. ' : '

He came to the mountain, and leapt on shore, and
wandered upward among pleasant valleys, and water-
falls, and tall trees, and stratige ferns and flowers ; but
there was no smoke rising from any glen, nor house, nor

sign of man.

vmg
'^per-

At last he heard sweet voices singing ; and he guessed
that he was come to the garden of the Nymphs, the
daughters of the Evening Star. ' ' ' -

They sang like nightingales among the thickets, and
Perseus stopped to hear their song; but the words which
they spoke he could not understand ; no, nor no man
after him for many a hundred years. So lie stepped
forward and saw them dancing, hand in hand, around
the charmed tree, which bent under its golden fruit:

400

FiiTK Reader.

;iii(l round tlic. tree-foot was coilcl the dra<ron,ol(l Ladoii
the .sleepless snake, wlio lies there forever, listeiiinj^ to
tlie song of the niai(l(;ns, blinking and watcliing witli
dry bright eyes.

Then Perseus stopped, not ])eeaiise lie feared the dragon,
but because he was bashful before those fair maids; but
when they saw him, they t^jo stopped, and called to him
with trembling voices, —

" Who are you ? Are you Heracles the mighty, who
will come to rob our garden , and carry ofi* our golden
fruit ? " And he answered, —

"I am not Heracles the mighty, and I want none of
your golden fruit. Tell me, fair nymphs, the way which
leads to the Gorgon, that I may go on my waj^- and slay
her."

" Not yet, not yet, fair boy ; come dance with us
around the tree, in the garden which knows no winter,
tlie home of the south wind and the sun. Come hither
and play with us awhile ; we have danced alone here for
a thousand year-s, and our hearts are weary with longing
for a playfellow. So come, come, come ! "

" I cannot dance with you, fair maidens, for I must do
the errand of the Immortals. So tell me the way to the
Gorgon, lest I wander and perish in the waves."

Then they sighed, and wept, and answered : —

"The Gorgon ! she will freeze you into stone."

"It is better to die like a hero than to live like an ox
in a stall. The Inniiortals have lent me weapons, and
they will give me wit to use them."

Then they sighed again, and answered : " Fair l)oy, if
you are bent on your own ruin, be it so. We know not

Perseus.

tlic way to tli(3 (jJor^ou ; I)!!!/ wc will ask tlio ^aaiit Atlas,
above upon tlie mountain poak, the In'otliei* of our fatlior,
tlie silver Evening Star. He sits alt*ft, and sees across
the ocean, and far away into the Unsliapen Land."

So they went up the mountain to Athis, their uncle,
and Perseus went up with tln'ni. And tlu'y found tl»e
oiant kneeling, as he held the heavens and the earth
apart.

They asked him, and he answered mildly, pointing to
the sea-board with his mighty hand : " I can see the
Gorgons lying on an island far away, but this youth can
never come near them, unless he has the hat of dai'kness,
which whosoever wears cannot be seen."

Then cried Perseus, " Where is that liat, that I may
find it?" ' -

But the giant smiled. " No living mortal can find that
hat, for it lies in the depths of Hades, in the regions of
the dead. But my nieces are immortal, and they shall
fetch it for you, if you will promise me one thing and
keep your faith."

Then Perseus promised ; and the giant said : " When
you come back with the head of Medusa, you shall show
me the beautiful horror; that I may lose my feeling and
my breathing, and become a stone forever ; for it is
weary labor for me to hold the heavens and the earth
apart."

Then Perseus promised ; and the eldest of the nymphs
went down, and into a dark cavern among the clifiis, out
of which came smoke and thunder, for it was one of the
mouths of Hell.

And Perseus and the n^nnphs sat down seven days,

402

FlFTI£ Kk.VDKK

and uailcfl (icinbliii;^, till tlin iiympli cnnio up ,*i<;a,iir,
and licr I'.ico \vas j)jile, and her eyes da/zlcd Avith t\ni
li<;ljt, for hIio had 1)*'«mi loii^* in tlui dn^ary darkness; but
in licr liand was tlu; nia<:;ic li.it. ^^ '

Then all the nyniphs kissed Perseus, and wept over
him a long while ; hut ho was oidy impatient to be gone.
And at last they put the hat upon his head, and he
vanished out of their sight.

But Perseus went on boldly, past many an ugly sight,
far away into the heart of the Unshap(Mi Land, beyond
the streams of Ocean, to the isles where no ship cruises,
where is neither night nor day, where nothing is in its
right place, and nothing has a name; till he heard the
I'ustle of the Gorgons' wings, a-nd saw the glitter of their
brazen talons ; and then he knew that it was time to
halt, lest Medusa should freeze him into stone.

He thought awhile with himself, and remembered
Athene's words. He rose aloft into the air, and held
the mirror of the shield ab(jve his head, and looked up
into it that he miirht see all that was below him.

And he saw the three Gorgons sleeping, as huge as
elephants. He knew that they could not see him, be-
cause the hat of darkness hid him ; and yet he trembled
as he sank down near them, so terrible were those
brazen claws.

Two of the Gorgons were foul as swine, and lay sleep-
ing heavily, as swine sltu^p, with their mighty wings
outspread ; but Medusa tossed to and fro restlessly, and
as she tossed, Perseus pitied her, she looked so fair and
sad. Her plumage was like the rainbow, and her face
was like the face of a nymph, only her eyebrows were
knit, luid her lips clenched, with everlasting care and

Pehsecs.

403

the

lie

pain ; and lier lon^ neck gleaine*! so wliite in tlie mirror,
that Perseus luul not tlie lieart to strike, and anid : " All,
that it liad been either of her sisters ! "

But as he looked, from among her tresses tlie vipei-a*
heads awoke, and peeped up with their briglit dry eyes,
and showed their fangs, and liissed ; and Mechisa, as slie
tossed, tln-ew back lier wings, and showed her brazen
chiws ; and Perseus saw tliat, for all her beauty, she was
as foul and venenious as the rest. ' '

Then he came down and stept to her boldly, and
looked steadfastly on liis mirroi', and struck with Harpe
stoutly once ; and he did not need to strike again.

Then he wrapped the head in the goat-skin, turning
away his eyes, and sprang into the air aloft, fa^ster than
he ever sprang before.

For Medusa's wings and talons rattled as she sank
dead upon the rocks; and her two foul sisters woke, and
saw her lying dead. ^ ,^^ «

Into the air they sprang yelling, and looked for him
who had done the deed. Thrice they swung round and
round, like hawks who beat for a partridge ; and thrice
they snuffed round and round, like hounds who draw
upon a deer. At last they struck upon the scent of the
blood, and they checked for a moment to make sure;
and then on they rushed with a fearful howl, while the
wind rattled hoarse in their wings.

On they rushed, sweeping and flapping, like eagles
after a hare ; and Perseus's blood ran cold, for all his
courage, as he saw them come howling on his track;
and he cried : " Bear me well, now, brave sandals, for
the hounds of Death are at my heels ! "

And well the bi-ave sandals bore him, aloft through

404

FiiTii Kkaih:i{.

clond and smisln'Mc, hchwh tlic sliorrl^ss sea: nn<l fast
i'<)ll(jM'o(l tho IiouikIh of Dcatli, as tlit; roar of tlu'ir wiutrs
camo down tlio wind. Hut tlic, roar came down fainter
and faintci", and the liowl of tlieir voices died away;
for the sandals were too swift, even for Gordons, and
by ni<^htfall thcjy were far Ix'hind, two bhiek speeks in
the southern sky, till tlie sun sank and lie saw them
no more.

Tlien he came aj^ain to Atlas, and the garden of the
Nymplis ; and when the giant lieard him coming, he
groaned, and said : " Fulfill thy promise to me." 'J'hen
Perseus lield up to him the Gorgon's head, and lie Inid
rest from all liis toil ; for lie became a crag of stone,
which slee2)8 foi-ever far above tlie clouds.

Then he thanked the Nynn)hs, and asked tliem : "By
what road shall I go h(3meward again, for I wandered
far round in coming hither?"

And they w(^pt and cried : " Go home no more, but
stay and play with lis, the lonely maidens, who dwell
forever far away from gods and men."

But he refused, and they told him his road, and said •
"Take with you this magic fruit, which, if you eat once,
you will not hunger for seven days. For you must go
eastward and eastward ever, over the doleful Libyan
shore, wdiich Poseidon gave to Father Zeus, when he
burst open the Bosphorus and the Hellespont, and
drowned the fair Leetonian land. And Zeus took that
land in exchange, a fair bargain, much bad ground for a
little good, and to this day it lies waste and desert, with
shingle, and rock, and sand."

Then they kissed Perseus, and wept over Iiim, and he
leapt down the mountain, and went on, lessening and
lessening like a sea-gull, away and out to sea.

Pekseuh.

405

l^Airi' TV.

}1<>\V PEKSEIJS CAME To THE .KTHHH'S.

,)■•■'•

So PerseiiH fiitU'(l onward to tlie iioitli-cast ovtT many
a ]«'a<^ue of sea, till ho caiiio to tliu rolling sand-hilLs, and
the divary Libyan shore.

And lie flitted on across the desert, over rock-led^os,
and banks of shingle, and level wastes of sand, and shell-
drifts bleaching in the sunshine, and the skeletons of
great sea-monsters, and the dead Ixjnes of ancient giants,
strewn up ami down upon the old sea-fl(jor. And as he
went, the blood-drops fell to the earth fioin the Gorgon's
head, and became j)oisonous asps and a(Mers, which breed
in the desert to this day. '

Over the sands he went, he nexcr knew how far or
how long, feeding on the fruit which the Nymphs had
given him, till he saw the hills of the Psylli, and the
Dwarfs who fought with cranes. Their speara were of
reeds and rushes, and their houses of the egg-shells of
the cranes; and Pei'seus laughed, and went his way to
the north-east, hoping all day long to see the blue
JMediterranean S2)arkling, that he might fly across it
to his home.

But now came down a mighty wind, and swept him
back southward toward the desert. All day long he
strove against it ; but even the win' id sandals could not
prevail. So he was forced to float down the wind all
night; and when the morning dawned there was nothing
to be seen save the same old hateful waste of sand.

And out of the north the sand-stoi'ms rushed upcm
liim, blood red pillars and wreaths, blotting out the

40(1

Km II IIkadkh.

no<)n-«ljiy sun ; und Vvi'hvuh tied hct'ore thnn, lost lie
sliould 1)0 c1i<)I\«m1 l)y tliii ])ui'niM«^ (iust. At last tlio «(jilo
fell calm, and Ik; tried to ^o noitliward a<^aiu ; but a^ijain
caino down tin; .sand-storms, and swept him hack into
the \vast(3, and then all was calm and cloudless as before.
Seven days he strove a<.jainst the storms, and seven days
lie was driven back, till he was spent with thirst an(l
hunt^er, and his tongue clove to the roof of his moutlu
Here and there lie fancied that he saw a fair lake;, and
the Hunbeams shinint^ on the water; but when he came
to it it vanished at liis feet, and there was nought but
bnrnin<^ sand And if he had not been of the race of
the Immoitals, he would liave perished in the waste;
but his life was strong within him, because it was more
than man's.

Then he cried to Athene, and said, —

" Oh, fair and pure, if thou hearest me, wilt thou leave
me liere to die of drought ? I have brought thee the
Gorgon's head at thy bidding, and hitherto thou liast
prosjiered my journey ; dost thou desert me at the last?
Else why will not tlu'se immortal sandals prevail, even
agwinst the desert storms ? Shall I never see my mother-
more, and the blue ripj)le round Seriphus, and the sunny
hills of Hellas r'

So he prayed ; and after he Iiad prayed there was a
great silence.

The heaven was suW above his head and the sand was
still beneath his feet; and Perseus looked up, but there
was nothing but the blinding sun in tiie blinding blue ;
and around iiim, but there was nothing but the blinding
sand.

And rers<'UH stoo<l still awhile, and wnited, and said,

i'KKSKlS.

46fl

iiH a

"Surely T aiii nut lit'if without tha will of tlu; liinnor-
tiils, for Athene will not lie. Were not these HuiMhils to
lend mo in the ri^ht road ? Then the road in w hieh 1
ha\ e tried to ^o nraat be a wron^ r(jad."

Then .suddenly hi.s Gal's were opened, a-id hr hc.nd the
sound of runninjx water.

And at that his heart was lifted U|>, thou^di he searce-
ly dare boliero his eai's ; and w«'ary as ]\v. was, he hurried
forward, thou^'h he eouM scarcely stand upright; and
within a l)owshot o( him was a <;len in the saiid, and
marble rocks, and date trees, and a lawn of gay green
grass. And through tlie lawn a streandet sparkled and
wandered out bevond the trees, and vanished in the
sand.

The water trickled among the rocks, and a pleasant
breeze rustled in the dvy date branches; and Perseus
laughed for joy, and leapt down the cliti', and drank of
the cool water, and ate of the dates, and slept upon the
turf, and leapt up and went forward again ; but not
toward the noi'th this time, for he said, " Surely Athene
has sent me hither, and wdll not have me go homeward
yet. What if there be another noble deed to be done,
before I see the sunny hills of Helhis ? "

So he went east, and east forever, by fresh oases, and
fountains, date-palms, and lawns of grass, till he saw
before him a mighty mountain-wall, all rose-red, in the
setting sun.

Then he towered in the air like an eagle, for his lind)s
were strono- a^iain : and he ilew all lught across the
mouiitain till the day began to da.wn, and rosy-fingei'<'d
Kos came blushing up the sky. And then, behoM,

U, V

408

FrrrH Reader.

beneatli liim was th<; long tureen garden of Egypt, anil
the sinning stream of Nile.

And he saw cities walled up to heaven, and temples,
and obelisks, and pyramids, and giant gods of stone.
And he came down amid fields of barley, an<l flax, and
millet, and clambering gourds; and saw the people com-
ing out of the gates of a great city, and setting to work,
each in his place, among the watercourses, parting the
streams among the plants cuiniingly with their feet,
according to the wisdom of the Egyptians. But when
they saw hiai they all stopped their work, and gathered
round him, and cried, —

" Who ai-t thou, fair youth, and what bearest thou
beneath thy goat-skin there ? Surely thou art one of
the Innnortals; for thy skin is white like ivory, and
ours is red like clay. Thy hair is like threads of gold,
and ours is black and curled. Surely thou art one of
tlie Innnortals;" — and they would have worshipijed him
then and there, but Pei-seus said, —

"I am not one of the Innnortals, but I am a hero of
the Hellens. And I have slain the Gorgon in the wil-
derness, and bear her head with me. Give me food,
therefore, that I may go forward and finish my work."

Then they gave him food, and fruit, and wine, but
they would not let him go. And when the news came
into the city that the G(U"gon was slain, the priests
came o\it to meet him, and the maidens, with songs and
dances, and timbrels and harps ; and they would have
brought him to their temple and to their king; but
Perseus put on the hat of darkness, and vanished away
out of their sight.

Therefoi'e the Egyptians looked long foi* his return,

l^ERSEUS,

40f)

but in vain, and worsliippcd liim as a hero, and made a
statue of liirn in CJieiiiniis, which stood for many a
Imndred years ; and they said tliat lie appeared to them
at times with sandals a cubit long ; and that whenever
he appeared, the season was IVuitful, and the Nile rose
high that year.

Then Perseus went to the eastward, along the Red Sea
shore ; and then, because he was afraid to co into the
Arabian deserts, he turned northward once more, and
this time no storm hindered him.

He went past the Isthmus, and Mount Casius, and the
vast Serbonian bog, and up the shore of Palestine, where
the dark-faced ^Ethiops dwelt.

He flew on past pleasant hills and valleys, like Argos
itself, or Lacedajmon, or the fair vale of Tempe. But
the lowlands were all drowned by floods, and the high-
lands blasted by fire, and the hills heaved like a bubblin</
cauldron before the wrath of King Poseidon, the shaker
of the earth.

And Perseus feared to go iidand, but flev/ alon"- the
shore alnne the sea; and he went on all the day, and the
sky was black with smoke: and he went on all the ni<dit.
and the sky was red with flame.

And at the dawn of day he looked toward the cliflfs ;
and at the water's edge, under a black rock, he saw a
white imaixe stand.

" This," thought he, " nnist surely be the statue of some
sea-god ; I will go near and see what kinds of gods these
barbari an s worsl i i p. "

So he came near; but when he came, it was no statue,
but a maiden of flesh and blood; for he could see her

''i4

410

FiFTir Re.m)EH.

1 1-

•I
::l

trcHscH strcainin^ in the bi'ceze, jukI as lie came closer
still, he could see how she shrank an«l shivered when the
waves sprinkled lier with cold salt spray. Her arms
were spread above her head, and fastened to the rock
with chains of brass ; and her head drooped on her
bosom, either with sleep, or weariness, or grief. But
now and then she looked up and wailed, and called her
mother ; yet she did not see Perseus, for the cap of dark-
ness was on his head.

Full of pity and indignation, Perseus drew near and
looked upon the maid. Her cheeks were darker than
his were, and her hair was blue-black like a hyacinth;
but Perseus thought, "I have never seen so beautiful a
maiden; no, not in all our Isles. Surely she is a king's
daughter. ]^o barbai-iaiis treat their kings' daug'ttjr;
thus ? She is too fair, at least, to have done any wrong.
I will speak to her."

And lifting the hat from his head, he flashed into her
sight. She shrieked with terror, and tried to hide her
face with her hair, for she could not with her hands ; but
Perseus cried, —

" Do not fear me, fair one ; I am a Hellen, and no
barbarian. What cruel men have bound you ? But,
first, I will set you free."

And he tore at the fetters ; but they were too strong
for him, while the maiden cried, —

" Touch me not ; I am accursed, devoted as a victim to
the sea-gods. They will slay you if you dare to set mo
free."

" Let them try," said Perseus ; and drawing Harpe
from his thigh, he cut through the brass as if it had
been flax.

Persetts.

411

" Now," he said, " you belong to me, and not to these
sea-gods, whcjsoever they may be ! " But she only called
the more on her mother.

" Why call on your mother ? Slie can be no mother
to liave left you here. If a bird is dropped out of the
nest, it belongs to the man who picks it up. If a jewel
is cast by the wayside, it is his who dare wnn it and
wear it, as I will win you and will wear j^ou. I know
now wdiy Pallas Athene sent me hither. She Kent me to
gain a prize worth all my toil, and more."

And he clasped h(^r in his arms, and cried — " Where
are these sea-gods, cruel and unjust, who doom fair
maids to death? I carry the weapons of Immortals.
Let them measure their strength against mine ! But
tell me, maiden, who you are, and what dark fate
brought you here."

And she answered, weeping, —

" I am the daughter of Cepheus, King of lope, and my
mother is Cassiopea, of the beautiful tresses, and they
called me Andromeda as long as life was mine. And I
stand bound here, hapless that I am, for the sea-monster's
food, to atone for my mother's sin. For she boasted of
me once that I w^as fairer than Atargatis, Queen of the
Fishes ; so she in her wrath sent the sea-floods, and her
brother the Fire King sent the earthquakes, and wasted
all the land; and after the floods a monster bred of the
slime, wdio devours all living things. And now lie must
devour me, guiltless though I am — nie who never harm-
ed a living thing, nor saw a fish upon the shoi-e but I
gave it life, and threw it back into the sea; for in our
land w^e eat no fish, for fear of Atargatis their Queen

412

Ffith Keadf.i.

i'.

Yet the priests say that ii()thi]i<j^ hut my hlootl can atone
for a sin whicli I never committed."

But Perseus laughed, and said, — " A sea-monster ? I
liave fouglit witli worse tlian him; I wouUl have faced
Immortals for your sake ; how much more a beast of the
sea ? "

Then Andromeda looked up at him, and new hope
was kindled in her breast, so proud and fair did he
stand, with one hand round her, and in the other the
<^dittering sword. But she only sighed, and wept the
more, and cried, —

"Why will you die, young as you ai'e ? Is there !iot
death and sorrow enough in the woi'ld already ? It is
noble for me to die, that I may save the lives of a wliole
people ; but you, bettt^r tlian them all, wliy should I slay
you too ? Go you your way ; I must go mine."

But Perseus cried, — " Not so ; for the Lords of Olym-
pus, wdiom I serve, are the friends of the heroes, and
help them ,on to noble deeds. Led by them, I slew the
CJorgon, the beautiful liorror ; and not without them do
I come hither, to slay this monst<3r with that same
(Jorgon's 1 L^ad. Yet hide your eyes when I leave you,
li'st the sight of it freeze you too to stone "

But tlie maiden answered nothing, for she could not
believe his words. And then, suddenly looking up, she
jjoinied to the sea, and shrieked, —

" There he comes, with the sunrise, as they promised.
I nmst die now. How shall I endure it ? Oh, go !
Is it not dreadful enough to be torn piecemeal without
having you to look on ? " And she tried to thrust him
nwuy.

But he said, — "I go; yet promise me one thitig ere

y -

Perseus.

41:J

I ^o ; that if I slay this beast, you will be my wife, and
come back with me to my kiiiodom in frniti'ui Arcros,
for I am a kind's heir. Promise me, and seal it with a
kiss."

Then she lifted up her face, and kissed him; and
Perseus laughed for joy, and flew upward, while Andro-
meda crouched trembling on the rock, waiting for what
might befall.

On came the great sea-monster, coasting along like a
huge black galley, lazily breasting the ripple, and stop-
ping at times by creek or headland, to watch for the
laughter of girls at their bleaching, or cattle pawing on
the sand-hills, or boys bathing on the beach. His great
sides were fringed with clustering shells and sea-weeds,
and the water gurgled in and out of his wide jaws, as he
rolled along, dripj^ing and glistening in the ])eams of the
morning sun.

At last he saw Andromeda, and shot forward to take
his prey, while the waves foamed white behind him, tind
before him fish fled leaping.

Then down from the height of the air f(dl Perseus,
like a shooting star; down to the crest of the wavt^s,
while Andromeda hid her face as he shouted; and tlien
there was silence for a while.

At last she looked up trendjling, and saw Perseus
springing toward her ; and instead of the monster a long
black rock, with the sea rippling quietly round it.

Who then so proud as Perseus, as he leapt back to the
rock, and lifted his fair Andromeda in his arms, and flew
with lier to the cliff- top, as a falcon cames a dove ?

Who so proud as Perseus, and who so joyful as all the
iEthiop people / For they had stood watching the mou-

414

FiiTii 11i:ai)EU.

stcr from the cliffs, wailing for the maiden's fate. And
already a messenger had gone to Cepheus and Cassiopea,
where they sat in sackcloth and ashes on the ground, in
the innermost palace chambers, awaiting their daughter's
end. And they came, and all the city with thein, to see
the wonder, with songs and with dances, with cymbais
and harps, and received their daughter back again, as
one alive from the dead.

Then Cepheus said, — " Hero of the Hellens, stay here
with me and be my son-in-law, and I will give you the
half of my kingdom."

" I will be your son-in-law," said Perseus, " but of your
kingdom I will have none; for I long after the pleasant
land of Greece, and my mother who w^aits for me at
home."

Then Cepheus said, — "You nuist not take my daughter
away at once, for she is to us like one alive from the dead.
Stay w^ith us here a year, and after that you shall return
wi hli honor. " And Perseus consented ; but before he
went to the palace, he bade the people bring stones and
wood, and built three altars, one to Athene, and one to
Hermes, and one to Father Zeus, and offered bullocks
and rams.

And some said, — "This is a pious man ;" yet the priest
said, — " The Sea Queen w411 be yet more fierce against
us, because her monster is slain." But they were afraid
to speak aloud, for they feared the Gorgon's head. So
they went up to the palace: and when they came in,
there stood in the hall Phineus, the brother of Cepheus,
chafing like a bear robbed of lier whelps, and Avith liim
his sons, and his servants, and many an armed man j and
he cried to Cepheus,—

Perseus.

41.5

" You shall not iiiJUTy your (laughter to tliis stran<rer,
of whom no one knows even tlie iiaiiie. Was not Andro-
meda betrotlied to my son ? And now she is safe again,
has he not a right to claim lier ? "

But Perseus laughed, and answere<l, — "If your sou is
in want of a bride, let him save a maiden for himself.
As yet he seems but a helpless bridegroom. He left this
one to die, and dead she is to him. I saved her alive,
and alive she is 'to me, but to no one else. Ungrateful
man ! have I not saved your land, and the lives of your
sons and daughters, and will you reipiite !ne thus ? CJo,
or it will be worse for you." But all the men-at-arms
drew their swords, and nished on him like wild beasts.

Then he unveiled the Gorgon's head, and said, — "This
has delivered my bride from one wild beast; it shall
deliver her from many." And as he spoke, Phineus and
all his men-at-arms stopped short, and stiffened each
man as he stood ; and before Perseus had drawn the
goat-skin over the face again, they were all turned into
stone.

Then Perseus bade the people bring levera and roll
them out ; and what was done with them after that, I
cannot tell.

So they -made a great wedding-feast, which lasted
seven whole days, and who so happy as Perseus and
Andromeda ?

But on the eighth night, Perseus dreamed a dream;
and he saw standing beside him Pallas Athene, as he had
seen her in Seriphus, seven long years before; and she
stood and called him by name, and said, — •

" Perseus, you have played the man, and see, you have
your reward. Know now that the gods are just, and

4I()

Fifth IIkadkii.

lu^lp liim wlio helps liiinsolf. Now (^ive um hero Ilarpe
tlu3 Hword, and tlio .s.'ukIjiIh, and tlic hat of* darknosH, that
I may ^ivo tlicni back to th(iir owners ; but the Gordon's
liead you sliall keep awhile, for you will iu'imI it in your
hind of Greece. Then you sliall lay it up in my temple
at Seriphus, that I may wear it on my shield forever, a
terror to the Titans and the monsters, and the foes of
<^ods and men. And as for this land, I have appeased
the sea and the lirc^ and there shall be no more floods
nor earth<|uakes. But let the people l)uil«l altars to
Father Zeus and to me, and worship the Inmiortals, the
Lords of heaven and earth."

And Perseus rose to fijive her the sword, and the cap,
and the sandals; but he woke, and his di"eam vanished
away. And yet it was not altogether a r;vani; for the
<^oat-sivin with tlie head was in its phice ; but the sword,
and the cap, and the sandals w^ere gone, and Perseus
never saw them more.

Then a great awe fell on Perseus ; and he w^ent out in
the morning to the people, and told his di-eam, and bade
them build altars to Zeus the Father of gods and men,
and to Athene who gives wisdom to heroes ; and fear no
more the earth(|uakes and the floods, but sow and build
in peace. And they did so for a while, and prospei-e(l :
but after Perseus was gone, they forgot Zeus and Athene,
and worshipped again Atargatis the queen, and the un-
dying fish of the sacred lake, where Dcuicalion's deluge
was swallowed up, and they burnt their children before
the Fire King, till Zeus w^as angry w'ith that foolish
people, and brought a strange nation against them out of
Egypt; v/ho fought against them and wasted them utterly,
and dwelt in their cities for many a hundred years.

PEKSErs.

417

PAirr V.

HOW PERSEUS CAME HOME A<JAIX.

And when a year was ended, Perseus liircMl Plumicians
from Tyre, and cut down cedars, and Iniilt hiniselt' a
noble g.alley ; and painted its clieeks with vermilion, and
pitched its sides with pitch; and in it lie put Andro-
meda, and all her dowry of jewels, and rich shawls, and
spicos from the East ; and great was the weepin*^ when
they rowed away. But the remembrance of his brave
deed was left behind ; and AndrouK^da's rock was shown
at lope in Palestine, till more than a thousand yeara
were past.

So Perseus and the Phomicians rowed to the west-
ward, across the sea of Crete, till they came to the blue
yEgean and the pleasjmt Isles of Hellas, and Serii^hus,
his ancient home.

Then he left his galley on the beach, and went up as
of old; and he embraced his mother, and ])ictys liis
good foster-father, and they wept over each other a
long while, for it was seven years and more p.ince they
had met.

Then Perseus went out, and up to the hall of ]*olydec-
tes ; and underneath the goat-skin he bore the Gorgon's
head.

And wdien he came into the hall, Polydectes sat at the
table-head, and all his nobles and land-owners on either
side, each according to his rank, feasting on the fish and
the goat's-flesh, and drinking the blood-red wine. The
harpers Iiarped, and the revelk^rs shouted, and the wine-
cups rang merrily as they passed from hand to liand, and
great was the noise in the hall of Polydectes.

41cS

Firm Keadkii.

: i

:',HHi

Tlu3n PcM'Ki'Us stood ujx)!! tlio tlii'csliold, and called
to the kiii<j^ hy name. But none of the f^uests knew
PerseuH, for lie was changed by his long journey. He
had gone ©ut a boy, and he wjis conie h(jnie a hero;
his eye shone like an eagle's, and his beard was like
a lion's beard, and he stood up like a wild bull in his
pnde.

But Polydectes the wicked knew him, and hardened
his heart still more ; and scornfully he called, —

"Ah, foundling! Have you found it more easy to
promise than to f ullill ? "

"Those whom the gods help fulfill their pronn'ses;
and those who despise them reap as they have sown.
Behold the Gorgon's head ! "

Then Perseus drew back the goat-skin, and held aloft
the Gorgon's head.

Pale grew Polydectes and his guests, as they looked
upon that dreadful face. They tried to rise up from
their seats: but from their seats they never rose, but
stiffened, each man where he sat, into a rirg of cold gray
stones.

Then Perseus turned and left them, and went down to
his galley in the bay; and he gave the kingdom to good
Dictys, and sailed away with his mother and his bride.

And Polydectes and his guests sat still, with the wine-
cups before them on the board ; till the rafters crumbled
down above tl^eir heads, and the w^alls behind their
backs, and the table crumbled down between them, and
the grass sprung up about their feet ; but Polydectes and
his guests sit on the hill-side, a ring of gray stones, until
this day.

PKHSEl'S.

419

But PiTHouH rowed westward towaid Ai'^^os, and land-
ed, and wont up to tlio town. And when lie canio,
he found that Acrisius liis <rrandf'atlier liad fled. For
PrcetuH liis wicked brother liad ina<lo war aj^^ainst liini
afresh; and liad conio across the river from Tiryna, and
con([uered Ar<^os, and Aerisius had fle<l to Larissa, in the
country of the wild Pelas^i.

Then Perseus called the Ar<]jives together, and told
them who he was, and all the nohle deeds which he hsid
done. And all the nobles and the yeomen made him
kin<^, for they saw that he had a royal heart; and they
fou<j;ht with him against Argos, and took it and killed
Pro^tus, and made the Cyclopes servo them, and build
them walls round Argos, like the walls which they had
built at Tiryns: and there were ^reat rejoicinj^s in the
vale of Arj^os, because they had got a king from lather
Zeus.

But Perseus's heart yearned after his (^randfatlier, and
he said, "Surely he is my flesh and blood; and he will
love me now that I am come home with honor ; I will
go and find him, and bring him hor.ie, and we will reigu
together in peace."

So Perseus sailed away with his Phoenicians, round
Hydrea and Sunium, past Marathon and the Attic shore,
and through Euripus, and up the long Eubcit^an Sea, till
he came to the town of Larissa, where the wild Pelasgi
dwelt.

And when he came there, all the j)eople were in the
fields, and there was feasting, and all kimls of games;
for Teutamias their king wished to honor Aerisius,
because he was the king of a mighty land.

So Perseus did not tell his name, but went up to the

420

Firm llKADKii.

i i

^aTiit'H unknown ; for ]w said, "IT I ciny away tin; pri/o
in tho ^anioH, my grandlatlior's heart will bo Moftened
toward niu."

So ho tlirew oft' his lulmet, and his cnirasH, and all his
clothes, and .stood amonj^ the youths of Larissa, whilo all
M'ondoi-(Ml at him, and said, " Who is this youn<^ stranjjjor,
who stands liko a wild l)ull in his pridi; ? Sui'oly ho
is one of tho horoos, the sons of tho Immortals, from
Olympus."

And whon the games began, they wondered yet more;
for Perseus was the best man of all, at running, and
leaping, and wrestling, and thiowing the javelin ; and
he won four crowns, and took them, and then he said
to himself, "There is a fifth crown yet to be won; I
will win that, and lay them all upon tlu^ Icnees of my
grandfather."

And IS he spoke, he saw where Aci'isius by the

side of Teutamias the king, with his white bea,iu xlowing
down upon his knees, and his royal staff* in his han<l;
and Perseus wept when lie looked at him, for his heart
yearned after his kin; and he said, "Surely he is a
kingly old man, yet he need not be ashamed of his
grandson."

Then he took the (pioits and hurled them five fathoms
beyond all the rest; and the people shouted, "Further
yet, brave stranger ! There has never been such a hurler
in this land."

- Then Perseus put out all his strength and hurled.
But a gust of wind came from the sea, and carried the
quoit aside, rnd far beyond all the rest; and it fell on
the foot of Acrisius, and he swooned away with the pain.

l*^:KSK^^s.

421

I'crscus slirickc'l, ami ran up to liiiii ; but when th<y
lirt<'(l tli(> old iiuui up, ho wjiH (UnuI ; for lii.s life wjih slow
and i'cL'hlo.

Tlu'ii PfrHcus rent his clothes, and cast dust upon hi.-*
head, and wept a lonj^ while for his <^n*and lather. At last
he rose, and called to all the people aloud, and .said, —

"The gods are true, and v/hat tlu»y liavo ordained
nuist be. I am Pei'seus, the gi'andson of this dead man,
the far-fanu'd slayer of the (iorj^on."

Then he told them how the ])r()phecy ha<l declared
that lie shouhl kill his grandfather, and all the story
of his life.

So they made a great mourning for Acrisius, and
burnt him on a right rich pile; and IN^i-seus went to
the temple, and was purified from the guilt of the death,
because he had done it unknowingly.

Then he went home to Argos, and reigned there well
with fair Andromeda ; and they had four sons and three
daughters, and died in a good old age.

And when tliey died, the ancients say, Athene took
them up into the sky, with Ce2)heus and Cassiopea.
And there on starlight nights you may see them shining
still ; Cepheus with his kingly crown, and Cassiopea in
her ivory chair, plaiting her star-spangled tresses, and
Perseus with the Gorgon's head, and fair Andromeda
beside liim, spreading her long white arms across the
heaven, as she stood when chained to the stone for the
monster. All night long they shine, for a beacon to
wandering sailoi-s : but all day they feast with the gods,
on the still blue peaks of Olympus.

— Charles Kiiujsley,

422

Fifth Readek.

THE BATTLE OF THE LAKE REGILLUS.

Ho, trumpets, sound a war-notn ! Ho, lictors, clear tlie way !
Tlie Kniglits will ride in afl their pride along the streets

to-day.
To-day the doors and windows are hung with garlands all.
From Castor in the Forum to Mars without the wall.
Each Knight is robed in purple, with olive each is crowned ;
A gallant war-hoi'se under each paws haughtily the ground.
While flows the Yellow Tliver, wliile stands the Sacred Hill,
The proud Ides of Quintilis shall liave such honor still.
Gay are the IVIartian Kalends : Decem))er's Nones are gay :
But the proud Ides, when the s(juadron rides, shall he ]lome's

whitest day.

Unto the Great Twin Bretliren we keep this solemn feast.
Swift, swift, the Great Twin I»rethren came spurring from the

east.
They came o'er wild Parthenius, tossing in waves of pine.
O'er Cirrha's dome, o'er Adria's foam, o'er pui'ple Apennine,
From where with flutes and dances tlieir ancient mansion rings,
In lordly Laceda'mon, the City of two kings,
To where, by Lake Ilegillus, under the Porcian height,
All in the lands of Tusculum, was fought the glorious fight.

Now on the place of slaughter ai-o cots and sheepfolds seen,
And rows of \'ines, and fields of wheat, and apple-orchards

green ;
Tlie swine crush the big acorns that fall from Corne's oaks.
I'pon the turf by the Fair Fount tho reaper's pottage smokes.
The fisher baits his angle ; the hunter twangs his bow ;
Little they tliink on those strong limbs that moulder deep

Ik^Iow.
Littlci tliey tiiiidv how steridy that day the trumpets j)ealed ;

The Battle ok the Lake 1Ie(jii.lus.

428

5'^>

ilow in the slippory swa.np <.f h]un<] warrior an.! wai-l.orse
reeled ;

How wolves came with fierce ^^allop, and crows on ea-er
wings, *'

To tear the flesh of captains, and peck the eyes of kin-s ;
How thick the dead lay scattered under the Porcian hoi-dit •
How through the gates of Tusculum raved the wild strmni of
flight ;

And how the Lake Regilhis Imhbled with crimson foam,
What time the Thirty Cities came forth to war with Home.

But, Roman, when thou standest upon that holy ground,
Look thou with heed on the dark rock that girds the' <lar-k
lake round.

So Shalt thou see a hoof-mark stamped deep into the flint :
It was no hoof of mortal steed that made so strange a dint •
There to the Great Twin Brethren vow thou thy vows nm\
pray

That they, in tempest ami in fight, will kee^p thy head alway.

Since last the Great Twin Brethren of mortal eyes were seen,
Have yea"s gone by an hundred and fourscore and thirteen. '
That sunnner a Virginius wri. Consul first in place ;
The second was stout Aulus, of the Posthumian race.
The Hei-ald of the Latines from Gabii came in state :
The Herald of the Latines passed through Home's Eastern
Gate :

The Herald of the Latines did in our Forum stand ;
And there he did his oflice, a sceptre in his hand.

"Hear, Senators and peo{)le of the good town of Rome,
liie Thirty Cities charge you to ])ring the Tanpiins home;
And if ye still be Htublx^rn, to work the Tarc,uins wrong, '
The Thirty (^ities warn you, l,K>k that your walls be stmng."

424

Fifth Rkadkii.

Tlu'ii spuko the Coiiisul Aulus, he spake a Intter jest :

'* Once the jays sent a message unto the eagle's nest:

Now yield thou up thine eyrie unto the carrion-kite,

Or come forth valiantly, and face the jays in mortal fight.

Forth looked in wrath the eagle ; and carrion-kite and jay,

Soon as they saw his beak and claw fled screaming far away."

The Herald of the Latines hatli hied liim back in state ;
The Fathers of the City are met in high debate.
Thus spake the elder Consul, an ancient man and wise :
"Now hearken, Cons(;ript Fathers, to that which I advise.
In seasons of great peril 't is good that one bear sway ;
Then choose we a Dictator, whom all men shall obey.
Camerium knows how deeply the sword of Aulus bites,
And all our city calls him the man of seventy fights.
Then let him be Dictator for six months and no more,
And have a Master of the Knight«, and axes twenty-four."

So Aulus was Dictator, the man of seventy fights ;

He made iEbutius Elva his Master of the Knights.

On the third morn thei'eafter, at dawning of the day,

Did Aulus and ^^butius set forth with their arrav.

Seuipronius Atratinus was left in charge at home

With boy , and with gray-headed men, to keep the walls of

Home.
Hard ))y the Lake Ilegillus our camp was pitched at night ;
Eastward a mile the Latines lay, under the Porcian height.
Far over hill and valley their mighty host was sprea<l ;
And with their thousand watch-fires the midnight sky was red.

Up rose the golden inorning over the Poi-cian height.
The proud Ides of Quintilis marked evermore with white.
Not without secret trouble our bravest saw the f oes ,
For girt by threescore thousand speai's, the thirty standards
rose.

The Baitle of the Lake Regillus.

425

From every warlike city that l)oa.st8 the Latiau name,
Foredoomed to dogs and vultui-es, that gallant army came ;
From Setia's purple vineyards, from Norba's ancient wall,
From the white streets of Tusculum, the proudest town of all ;
From where the Witch's Fortress o'erhangs the dark-blue seas ;
From the still glassy lake that sleeps beneath Aricia's trees, —
Those trees in vdiose dim shadow the ghastly priest doth reign,
The priest who slew the slayer, and shall himself 1)0 slain ;
From the drear banks of Ufens, where flights of marsh-fowl

And l)uffaloes lie wallowing through the hot summer's day ;
From the gigantic watch-towers, no work of earthly men,
Whence Cora's sentinels o'erlook the never-ending feu ;
From the L^iurentian jungle, the wild hog's reedy home ;
From the green steeps whence Anio leaps in floods of snow-
white foam.

Is <»f

Aricia, Cora, Nor])a, Velitrie, with the might
Of 8etia and of Tusculum, were marshalled on the right :
The leader was Mamilius, prince of the Latian name ;
Upon his head a helmet of red gold shone like flame ;
High on a gallant charger of dark gray hue he rode ;
Over his gilded armor a vest of parple flowed.
Woven in the land of sunrise by Syria's dark-l)rowed daughters,
And by the sails of Carthai^e brouirht far o'er tin; southern
waters.

lis red

i(lai"(h

•( s

Lavinium and Laurentum had on the left their post,
With all the banners of the marsh, and banners of the coast.
Their leader was false Sextus, that wrought tlui deeil of shame:
With restless pace and haggard face to his last field he came.
Man said he saw strange visions which none beside might see.
And that strange sounds were in his ears which none might

hear but he.
A woman fair and stately, l>ut pale ns arc the dcjid,

2»

426

Fifth Reader.

Oft through th(! watches of the nigiit sat spinniTig })y liis ]>ed.
And as slie j)li('(l the distaff, in a sweet voice and low,
She sang of great old houses, and fights fought long ago.
So si)un she, and so sang she, until the east was gray,
Then pointed to her l)leeding ])reast, and shrieked, and fled
away.

But in the centre thickest were ranged the shiehls of foes,

And from (he centre loudest the cry of battle rose.

There Tihur niaiched .and Pedum beneath i)roud Tanjuin's rule,

And Ferentinum of the rock, and Gabii of the pool.

There rode the Volscian succc^rs : there, in a dai-k stern ring,

The Roman exih^s gathered close around the ancient king.

Though white as Mount Soracte, when winter nights are long,

His beard flowed down o'er mail and belt, his heart and hand

were strong ;
Under his hoary eyebrows still flashed forth quenchless rage,
And, if the lance shook in his gripe, 't was more with hate

than age. / - - ,

Close at his side was Titus on an Apulian steed,
Titus, the youngest Tarquin, too good for such a l)reed.

Now on each side the leaders gave signal for the charge ;
And on each side the footmen strode on with lance and targe ;
And on each side the horsemen struck their spurs deep in gore.
And front to front the armies met with a mighty roar :
And under that great battle the earth with blood was red ;
And, like the Pom})tine fog at morn, the dust hung ovei-head ;
And louder still and louder rose from the darkened field
The braying of the war-horns, the clang of sword and shield.
The rush of scpia.lrons sweeping like whirlwinds o'er the })lain,
The shouting of the slayers, and screectliing of the slain.

False Sextus rode out foremost ; his look was high and ])ol(l ;
His corselet was of l)ison's hide, plated with steel and gold.

■n"' I r r > rT<n

iHmE-

The Battle of the Lake Keuillus.

427

.in.

As glares the famished eagle from the Digcutian rock
On a choice laml) that bounds alone befoie Baiidusia's Hock,
Herrainius glared on Sextus, and came wi h eagle speed,
Herminius on black Auster, brave champion on brave steetl ;
Tn his right hand the broadsword that kept the bridge so \v(»ll,
And on his helm the crown he won when proud Fidente fell.
Woe to the maid whose lover shall cross his path to-day !
False Sextus saw, and trembled, and turned, and fled away.
As turns, as flies, the woodman in t/ie Calabrian brak",
When through the reeds gleams the round eye of that fell

speckled snake ;
So turned, so fled, false Sextus, and hid him in the rear,
Behind the dark Lavinian ranks, bristling with crest and

spear.

But far to ncrtli iEbutius, the Master of the Knights,
Gave Tubero of Korba to feed the Porcian kites.
Next under those red horse-hoofs Flaccus of Setia lay ;
Better had he been pruning among his elms that day.
Mamilius saw the slaughter, and tossed his golden crest,
And towards the Master of the Knights through tlu; thick

battle pressed,
^butius smote Mamilius so fiercely on the shield
That the great lord of Tusculum well nigh lolled on th(> field.
Mamilius smote ^butius, with a good aim and true,
Just where the neck and shoulder join, and pierced him

through and through :
And brave -^butius Elva fell swooning to the groimd,
But a thick wall of bucklers encompassed him around.
His clients from the battle bare him some little space,
And filled a helm from the tlark lake, and bathed his brow

and face ;
And when at last he opened his swinnning eyes to light,
Men say, the earliest word he spake was, " Friends, how goes

the fight r'

428

Fifth IIeadeu.

U 'i

But inonnwliilo in the centre great deeds of ann« v/erc wrought;
There Aulus tlie Dictator and there Valerius fouglit.
Auhis Avitli his good broadsword a l)loody })aKsago ch'ared
To where, amidst the thickest foes, he saw the hjng wliite

beard.
Fla^) liglited tliat good broadsword upon proud I'arcjuin's liead.
He dropped the hince; he (h-opped the reins; he fell as fall the

dead.
Down Aulus springs to slay him, with eyes like coals of fire ;
But faster Titus hath sprung d<nvn, and hath bcstnxle his sire.
Latian captains, Boman knights, fast down to earth they

spring,
And hand to liand they fight on foot around the ancient king.
First Titus gjive tall Ca'so a death wound in the face ;
Tall Cjeso was the })ravest man of the brave Fabian race :
Aulus slew Ilex of Ga])ii, the priest of Juno's shrine :
Valerius smote down Julius, of Rome's great Julian line ;
Julius, who left his mansion high on the Veb'-in hill,
And through all turns of weal and woe followed proud Taripun

still.
Now right across proud Tanjuin a corpse was Julius laid ;
And Titus groaned with rage and grief, and at Valerius made.
Valerius struck at Titus, and lopped off lialf his crest ;
But Titus stabbed Valerius a span deep in the breast.
Like a mast snapped by the tempest, Valerius reeled and fell.
Ah ! woe is me for the good house that loves the people well I
Then shouted loud the Latines, and with one rush they bore
The struggling Bomans backward three lances' length and

more ;
And up they took proud Tarquin, and laid him on a shield,
And four strong yeonjen bare him, still senseless, from the

field.

]^ut fiercer grew the fighting around Va!(u-ius dead ;

For Titus dragged him by the foot, and Aulus by the head.

the

The Battle of the Lake Kechlu's. 420

"On, Latinos, on !" <iu<,th Titus, "See Low the i-e],els iW "

- Romans, stand firm !" quoth Auhis, -and win this fWht or
die !

They must not give Valerius to raven and to kite •
For aye Valerius loathed the wrong, and aye upheld the ri<d,f
And for your wives and Imbies in the front rank he fell
I^ow play the men for the good house that loves tlie people
well ! " '

Then tenfold r.nind the body the roar of })attle rose,
Like the roar of a burning forest when a strong north-wind
blows.

Now backward, and now forward, rocked furiously the fray
Till none could see Valerius, and none wist where he lay
For shivered arms and ensigns were heaped there in a mound
And corpses stiff, and dying men that writhed and gnawed
the ground ;

And wounded horses kicking, and snorting purple foam ;
Right well did such a couch befit a Consular of Home.

But north looked the ])ictator; nortli looked he Ion., and
hard ; '^

And spake to Caius Cossus, the Captain of his Guard :
'' Caius, of all the Jiomans thou hast the keenest si<dit •
Say, what through yonder storm of dust comes iVom^'the' Latian
right ? "

Then answered Caius Cossus : " I see an evil sicrht •

The banner of proud Tusculum comes from the Latian ri'dit •

I see the plumed horsemen ; and far ))efore the rest "^ '

I see the dark-gray charger, I see the purple vest ;

I see the golden helmet that shines far off like flame •

So ever rides Mamilius, prince of the Latian name.'

" Now hearken, Caius Cossus : spring on thy horse's back •
Ride as the wolves of Apeiinine were all upon thy track ; '

430

Fifth Reader.

Haste to our s"ntlnvnnl hattU^, and lu'vor di-aw tliy I'eiil
Until thou find Jferniinius, and })id him conio amain."

(So AuluH spake, and turned him again to that fierce strife ;
And Caius Cossus mounted, and ro<le for d(^ath find life.
Loud clanged beneath his liorsc-hoofs the helmets of the (hsad,
And many a curdling pool of blood splashed him from heel to

head.
So came he far to southward, where fought the Roman host,
Against the banners of the marsh and banners of the coast.
Like corn before the sickle the stout Lavinians fell,
Beneath the edge of the true swortl that kept tlu; bi-idg(^ so

well.

"Herminius! Aulus gi-eets thee; he l)ids thee come with speed,
To help our central battle ; for sore is there our need.
There wars the youngest Tarquin, and there the Crest of Flame,
The Tusculan Mamilius, prince of the Latian name.
Valerius hath fallen fighting in front of our array,
And Aulus of the seventy fields alone upholds the day."

Herminius beat his Iwsom, but never a word he spake.

He clapped his hand on Auster's mane, he gave the reins a

shake.
Away, away went Auster, like an arrow from the bow ;
Black Auster was the fleetest steed from Aufidus to P(j.

Right glad were all the Romans who, in that hour of dread,
Against great odds bare up the war around Valerius dead.
When from the south the cheering rose with a mighty swell :
"Herminius comes, Herminius, who kept the bridge so well !"

Mamilius spied Herminius, and dashed across the way.

" Herminius ! I have sought thee through many a bloody da}^

One of us two, Herminius, shall nevermore go home.

T will lay on for Tusculum, and lay thou on for Rome ! "

TrrE P.ATTIJ-: ok tuk Lakk IhicaMj-s. 4:^|

All i-iHin.I \hv,u jwiuscd tl.o luitti.', wliilr .n.-t in n„..-lal fray
The Koinan and tlu^ Tusculaii, tho horsos l.lack ;.ii(| oray.
Herininius .sinoto iMainilius through bmistj.lato arid tluouirh
In'east ;

And fast flowed out the purph, l,lo(,d over the purple vest.
jVlaniiliu.s Hinote Henninius through head-piece aud through
head ;

And side by side those chiefs <»£ pride together fell down dead.
Down fell they dead together in a great lake of gorc^ ;
And still stood all who saw then, fall while men might count
a score.

Fast, fast, with heels wild spurning, the dark-gray charger fled;
He hui'st through ranks of fighting n.en, he'sprang oCr heaps
of dead.

His bridle far out-streaming, his flanks all blood and foam,
He sought the southern mountains, the mountains of his home.
Tiie path was steep and rugged, the wolves they howled and
whined ;

But he ran like a whirlwind up the pass, and he left the
wolves behind.

Through many a starthnl hamlet tlunu'ered his flying f(.et;

He rushed through the gate of Tusculum, he rushed up the
long white street ;

He rushed by tower and temple, and paused not from his race

Till lie stood before his master's door in the stately market-
place.

And straightway round him gathered a pale and trembling
crowd,

And when they knew him, cries of rage brake forth, and wail-
ing loud :

And women rent theii- tresses for their great prince's fal' •
And old men girt on their old swords, and went to man' the
wall.

432

FiiTii ]li:.\i)KU.

]Jufc, ]ik(! II <,'r.'iv((n iina^o, l)l{ick Auster kcjit liis j)l}ice,

And ever wistfully ho looked into his must/or's f;ice.

The raveu-iiiane that daily, with pats and fond carosHcs,

The young Honninia washed and combed, and twinf^d in even

tresses,
And docked with co1oi'(h1 ril)ands from her own gay attire,
}[ung sadly o'er her father's corpse in carnage and in mire.
Forth with a shout sprang Titus, and soi/ed black Auster's

rein.
Then Aulus swaro a f<'arful oath, .and ran at him amain.
"The furies of thy brother with me and mine abide,
Jf one of your accursed house upon ])lack Auster ride I "
As on an Alpine watch-tower from heaven comes down the

flame,
Full on the neck of Titus the blade of Aulus came ;
And out the red l)lood spouio'^l in a wide arch and tall,
As spouts a ibuntain in the court of some rich Capuan's hall.
The knees of all the Latinos were loosened with dismay
When dead, on dead Herminius, the bravest Tarquin lay.

And Aulus the Dictator stroked Auster's raven mane,

"With heed he looked uuta the girths, with heed unto the

r(un.
" Now bear me well, black Auster, into yon thick array ;
And thou and I will have revenge for thy good lord this day."

So spake he; and was buckling tighter black Auster's band,
When he was aware of a princely pair that rode at his right

hand.
So like they were, no mortal might one from other know ;
White as snow their armor was, their steeds were white as

snow.
Never on earthlv anvil did such r.are armor ffleara :
And never did suc\ gallant steeds drink of an earthly stream.

ill

The Battle of the Lake l?K<aLLus.

433

Ami Jill who saw flu!!!! troml.'lrd, ami palo ujrew every ciiet-k ;
And Aulus the ])ictat(>r scarce gathtMcd voice to s|K!ak.
"Say by what name nu'ii call you? what city is ycmr home?
And wherefore ride ye in such guise before the ranks of ]lonie1

"By many names men call us ; in many lands we dwell :

Well 8amothracia knows us ; Cyi-ene knows us well.

Our house in gay Tar-entum is hung each morn with flowers ;

High o'er the masts of Syracuse our mai-hle portal towers ;

But by the proud Eurotas is our dear native home ;

And for the right we come to fight before the ranks (»f Rome."

So answered those strange horsemen, and each couche<l low his

spear ;
And forthwith all the ranks of Home were bold, and of good

cheer.
And on the thirty armies came wonder and aflright,
And Ardea wavered on the left, and Cora on the right.
" ]^ome to the charge ! " cried Aulus; " the foe begins to yiehl !
Charge for the hearth of Yesta ! charge for the Gf)lden Shield I
Let no man stop to plunder, but slay, and slay, and slay ;
The gods who live forever are on our side to-day."

Then the fierce irumpet-flourish from earth to heaven arose.
The kites know well the long stern swell that bids the Homans

close.
Then the good sword of Aulus was lifted up to slay ;
Then, like a crag down Apennine, rushed Auster through the

fray.
But under those strange horsemen still thicker lay the slain ;
And after those strange hoises black Auster toiled in vain.
Behind them Rome's long battle came rolling on the foe, -^
Ensigns dancing wild above, blades all in line below.
So comes the Po in ilood-timc upon the Celtic plain;

4^4.

FiiTii Kkaukk.

So coinrs tli(» s«(iiall, blfu-kci" tli;m ni:,'lil, iijm»ii \\\r Adrian

main.
Now, l)y our Sire Quirinus, it was a j^oodly siglit
To see tho tliirty standards swept down tlio tide of flii^lit.
So flies the spi-ay of Adria when the hlack s(juall doth lilow,
So corn-slieaves in tlie ilood-tinie spin down the wliirlin^' To.
False Sextiis to the mountains tui'iied first his liorse's liead ;
And fast fled F^u'cntiiuun, and fast Lanuviuin il(Ml.
The horsemen of Nomentum spurred liai'd out of the fi'ay ;
The footmen of Velitne thnnv shield and spear away.
And underfoot was tramjilod, amidst the mud and gore,
The banner of proud Tuseulum, that never stoojied before.
And down went Flavius Faustus, who led liis stately ranks
From where the apple-blossoms wave on Anio's echoing banks.
And Tullus of Arpinum, chief of the Volscian aids,
And iMetius with the long fair curls, tho love of Anxui's

maids,
And the white head of V^ulso, the great Ai'ician seer,
And Nepos of J^aurentum, the hunter of the deer;
And in the back false Sextus felt the good Konian steel,
And wriggling in the dust he died, like a worm beneath the

wheel.
And fliers and pursuers were mingled in a mass.
And far away the battle Wt it roaring through the pass.

Sempronius Atratinus sate in the Eastern Gate,
Beside him were three Fathers, each in his chair of state ;
Fabius, whose nine stout grandsons that day were in the field,
And Manlius, eldest of the Twelve who kept the Golden

Shield ;
And Sergius, the High Pontiff, for wisdom far renowned ;
In all Etruria's colleges was no such Pontiff found.
And all around the portal, and high above the wall,
Stood a great throng of people, but sad and silent all ;

rnK HA'rri.E ov tuk Lakk KEuiu.rs.

4^5

Yoim^ IjuIs, ;iii(l strM)ping ciders (lifib ini<;lit. not Imvu* tlic mail,
Matn/ns with lips that (quivered, an«l inaitls with fa<*eH pu!««.
Siiico tho first gloaiu of daylit^ht, SiMiiproiiius had not ceased
To listen for tho rushing of horse hoofs from tho east.
Tho mist of evo was rising, the sun was hastening down,
When ho was aware of a princely pair fast pricking t<»wards

tho town.
So like they were, man n(n'er saw twins so like hefore ;
Red with gore their armor was, their st(!eds were red with

gore.

"Hail to the great Asylum ! hail to the hill-tops seven !

]lail to tho firo that burns for aye, and the shield that fell

from heaven !
This day, l)y Lake liegillus, under the Porcian lieight.
All in tho lands of Tusculum was fought a glorious fight;
To-morrow your Dictator shall hiing in triumph home
Tho spoils of thirty cities to deck the shrines of Rome ! "

Then burst from that great concourse a shout that shook the

towers, < ^

And some ran north, and some ran south, crying, "Tho day is

ours!" ■ ^

Bub on rode these strange horsemen, with slow and lordly

pace ; • .

And none who saw their bearing durst ask their name or race.
On rode they to the Forum, while laurel-boughs and fh)wers,
From house-tops and from windows, fell on their crests in

showers. -

When they drew nigh to Vesta, they vaulted down amain.
And washed their horses in the well that springs by Vesta's

fane.
And straight again they mounted, and rode to Vesta's door ;
Then, like a blast, away they passed, aiid no man saw them

more.

43(5

Fifth Keader.

AikI all til

)!<} ti-<^rnl)lo(l,

fl r)al(

•heek

iKi an the peopuj ii-<^rnhio(i, and j)aio grew every cric

And Scrgius the ]Iigli Pontiff alone found voice to speak :

"Tlie godH wlio live forev(;r lia\e fought for Kome to-day !

These be the Great Twin lirf'threii to whom the Dorians pray.

Back conies tlie Chief in tiiunipK who, in the hour of fight,

Hath seen the Great Twin B?-ethren in luirness on his right.

Safe comes the ship to haven, through billows and tlirougli

gales.

If once the Great Twin Brethren sit sliining on the sails.

Wherefore tluy washed th(ur horses in Vesta's holy well,

Wherefore they rode to Vesta's door, I know, but may not

tell.
Here, hard })} Vesta's Temple, build we a stately dome

Unto the Great Twin Brethren who fought so well for Rome.

And when the months returning bring back this doy of fight,

The proud Ides of Quintilis, marked evermore with white,

Ur^'^ the Great Twin Brethren let all the people throng,

With chaplets and with offerings, with music and with song ;

And let the doors and windows be hung with garlands all,

And let the Knights be summoned to Mars without the wall.

Thence let them ride in purple with joyous trumpet-sound,

Each mounted on his war-horse, and each with olive crowned ;

And pass in solemn order before the sacred dome,

Where dwell the Great Twin Brethren who fought so well for

Rome ! "

'Lord Macaulay.

Psalm xiai.

437

PSALM XLVI.

not

God is our refuge and strength,

A very present lielp in trouble.

Therefore will we not fear, though the eaith do i-han<'e, •
Aiid though the mountains be moved in the lieart of the

seas ;

• Though th J waters thereof roar and be trou])le(l,

Though the mountains sliake with the swelling thereof,
TuK LoiiD OF Hosts ih with us;
The God of Jacob is ouu KEFU(iE:

There is a river, the streams whereof mak(^ gl;id tlu! r\[y of

. God,
The holy place of the ta1)ernacles of the Most Kigli.

God is in the midst of her ; she shall not be moved :

God shall help her, and that right early.

1'he nations raged, the kingdoms were moved :

He uttered his voice, the earth melted.
The Lojjd of Hosts is with us;
The God of Jacob is ouii refuok!

Come, ])ehold the works of the Lord,
What desolations he hath made in the eartli.

He maketh wars to cease untt) the end of the earth ;

He breaketh the bow, and cutteth the spear in sunder;

He burnetii the chariots in the fire.
"Be still, and know that I am God :

I will be exalted among the nations, I will be exalted in

le earth.

The JiOHD OF Hosts is with us ;
The God of Jacob is ouit hefu«;k!

438

Fifth Reader.

PSALMS XLII AND XLIII.

As the hart paiitetli after tlie water brooks,

So paiiteth my soul after thee, O God.

My soul thirsteth for God, for the living God :

When shall I come and appear })efore (iod?

My tears have been my meat day and night.

While they continually say unto me. Where is thy God 1

These things I remember, and pour out my soul within me,

How I \\'ent with the throng, and led them to the house; of
CJod,

With the voice of joy and praise, a multitude keeping holy-

tla-y- -,.^ ;, .„:„;.,/:■:„;.;;

Whi/ art thou cast doirn, my soul ? .

Atid why art thou disquieted within tne ? '

Hope thou in God :

For I shafl yet 2)raise hitn,

]Vho is the health of tny contitetuiuce

And my God !

My soul is cast down within me !

Therefore do I remember thee from the land of Jordan,

And the Hermons, from the hill Mizar.

Deep calleth unto deep at the noise of thy waterspouts :

All thy waves and thy billows are gone cv'er me !

Yet the Lord will command his loving-kindness in the dav-
time,

And in the night his song shall be with me,

Even a })ray«!r unto the God of my life.

PsAJ.m;S Xl.Il A XI) XLITI.

439

I will «ay unto (J<k1, my rock, - Wl.y J.^st ih<.u forgotten
■ ine ?

Why go I mourning ]>ecause of the oppressic.n of the enemy?
As witJi a sword in my bones, mine adversaries reproacli me;
AVhile they continually say unto me, Where is thy God?"
ir% art thou cast dormi, mij soul ?
And whi/ art than, disqa'wtrd irithiu me ?

If ope thou in God :
For f shidl yet praise him,
II ho is the health of vnj eitnutenanrji
And my God I

Judge mo, () (iod, and plea.I iny cau.<;e against an ungodly
nation :

O deliver me from the deceitful and unjust man.

For thou art the God of my strength; why hast thou cast me
off?

Why go I mourning because of the oppression of the enemy?
O send out thy light and thy truth ; let them lead uk; :

.Let them bring me unto thy holy hill, und to thy taber-
iiacles,

TluMi will I go unto the altar of (Jod,

ITnto fJod my exceeci. ng joy :

Ami upon the harp will I praise thee, () (iod, my God.

Why rt tiiou cast dowx, o .aiv soul?

And why art tiiou I)1svuikt*;l> withix mk?
HoPK tiiou l\ God :

FOK 1 SHALL VKT PHAISK TIIM,

Who is JIIH HKALTH OK M V <<>U\TK\AXCK

Am) mv God!

440

Fifth Readeu.

LEAD, KINDLY LIGHT.

Lead, kiiidly Light, amid the encii-cliiig gloom,

Lead Tliou me on ;
Tlie night is dark, and I am far from liome,

Lead Tliou me on ;
Keep 'J'hoii my feet ; I do not ask to see
The distant ycene ; one step enough for me.

I was not ever thus, nor prayed that Tliou

^ Shouldst lead me on;

I loved to choose and see my path ; hut now

Lead Thou me on :
1 loved the garish day, and, spite of fears.
Pride ruled my will — remember not past years.

So long Thy power hath blest me, sure it still

AVill lead me on
O'er moor and f(ai, o'er crag and torrent, till

The night is gone.

And with the lorn those angel faces smile,

Which I have loved long since, and lost awhili!.

— Cardinal Neuntian.

Vina II.