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histmct
qfEL

THE

DEAMATIC EE

OOMFBISINO

Oefcttiott of mm for mMa in tkution

WITH

INT'RODUCTORY HINTS TO

BY JOHN ANDREW.

Instructor in Elocution, McOill College and Normal School, ami Master
(f Elocittwit, JMgh Scliool Department qfMcGill College, Montreal.

lonittnl :

DAWSON BROTHEES.
1869.

""'•^^'^m^mimmmm

■■■■1

■x%

PREFACE. '

In making Selections for this volume, the Compiler has
been guided by his experience as a Teacher of Elo-
cution for upwards of ten years. The extracts are
unhackneyed, easily understood and of a nature to interest
or amuse pupils, and at the same time, they are drawn from
authors of reputation in the world of letters. The pieces
aro mostly unabridged; and in place of time-honoured
declamatory speeches, the book is composed largely of extracts
from the best dramatists, including scenes from Shakespeare,
few of which have hitherto appeared in any class*book.

The " Practical Hints to Readers " which form the
introductory part of this work are intended to serve the
two-fold purpose of a Class Text-Book and a Manual for
Teachers who have not made a specialty of the art of
reading.

Montreal, September, 1869.

PRACTICAL HINTS TO READERS.

The first and most important requisite for eiFective
reading is distinct utterance. Most persons have uncon-
sciously acquired habits of slovenly articulation, — unac-
cented syllables being made almost inaudible; words
joined ; much feebly mumbled that should be spoken
clearly — and frequently, where two words come together, the
first ending, and the second beginning, with the same
letter, one sound is made to do duty for both.

It must bo understood that distinct articulation depends
wholly on the organs of speech, and on the force and pre-
cision of their execution. The student, whose utterance is
the result of casual habit only, requires therefore a tho-
rough organic training, before he can pass successfully to
the firm and exact mode of using his voice which distin-
guishes public reading and speaking from ordinary dis-
course. In connection with the necessary physical training
he nmst give strict attention to elementary sounds, because
exactness of articulation cannot exist without close discrim-
ination and careful analysis ; and because faulty pronun-
ciation is owing to apparpntly slight oversights of the true
sounds of letters; for however inseparable the elements of a
syllable may seem to the ear, they are in reality separate
and wholly independent formations. '

When the syllabic elements are pronounced singly, each
may receive an undivided energy of organic effort — a
corresponding clearness and firmness, and a well-defined
outline, which make an excellent preparation for distinct
pronunciation when they are combined in speech. Few
persons, howevel', will be able at first, to command a prompt
utterance of these sounds, particularly of the consonants
or articulations (Table II) ; indeed it is remarkable that
sounds, which are pronounced readily in combination require
considerable practice on the part of the learner before they
can be uttered separately. It should be, notwithstanding,

PRACTICAL HINTS TO READERS.

his first duty to give his earnest attention to their
acquirement. The readiest mode of mastering an ele-
ment, at first found difficult, is to place it at the end of a
syllable, and observe carefully the position of the lips
and tongue when pronouncing it in connection with other
sounds; — for example, to acquire the exact formation of
the whispered consonant " t", pronounce the syllable " put"
and by slightly prolonging it the exact sound of " t" will
be readily perceived. Note particularly that no consonant
sound is complete until the tongue or lips are detached
from their position.

The following tables of the elementary sounds in the
English language form the most complete and systematic
arrangement with which the writer is acquainted. They
are borrowed from the works of Mr. Melville Bell, the
talented inventor of " Visible Speech" to which tho en-
quirer is referred for a full exposition of the system.

TABLE I.

ENGLISH VOWEL SCHEME AND NUMERICAL NOTATION.

No, 1

ee(l) (p)u(ll) (p)d6(l)

13 No,

" 2

1((11) (Os^oo) o(ld)

12 "

" 3

a(le) (a^o ) 6(re)

11 «

« 4

6(11) e(re) 6(n) a(ll)

10 "

« 5

a(n) u(p) u(rn

9 «

" 6

a(sk)

(3)ir (h)er

8 «

No. 7

1 ah

•

COMBINATIONS.

7-1, AH^ee (isle.) 7-13, AH^oo (OWl.)

lO-l, A Ws^oo (oil.) y-13-(use.)

In order to bring this scheme into practical application,
the student must commit it to memory discarding letters
as names of the sounds, and adopting instead a numerical
nomenclature, in accordance with the arrangement in the
above Table. Thus, he must associate the sound ee with
Number 1, and speak of the vowel in the words be, fee, te«,

t>RA(mOAL HtKTtS TO RBADBSft.

▼ii

key, ceil, field, people, pique, &c., as UDiformly No. 1,
independently of the diverse vowel letters which represent
the sound. And so with all the other vowels. He has to
deal with sounds, not letters.

TABLL II.
TABLE OF ARTICULATIONS OR CONSONANTS.

Initial.

Final. Between Vowels. Before a Consonani

• • •

pay

ape- .
glebe

paper

apricot

• • •

bee

neighbour

ably

• • •

mar

arm

army

arm'd

Wh,

• • •

why

.. *

awhile

— *

• • •

way

away

• • •

fed

deaf

definite

deftness

• • •

veal

leave

evil

ev(e)ning

Th,

• • •

third

dearth

ethic

ethnic

Th,

• • •

these

seethe

either

wreathed

• • •

sell

less

essay

estuary

• ••

zone

nose

rosy

rosebush

• •

rare

rarity

• • •

left

fell

fellow

fell'd

• • •

tale

late

later

lateness

• • •

day

aid

trader

tradesman

• ••

nave

vain

waning

mainland

Sh,

• • •

shelf

flesh '

fisher

fishmonger

Zh,

• • •

gira£fe

rouge

pleasure

hedgerow

• • •

fille (French)

beyond

__*

• •

cap

pack

packet

packthread

• •

gum

mug

sluggard

smuggler

ng.

• •

sing

singer

singly

Every articulation consists of two parts — a position
and an action. The former brings the organs into approxi-
mation or contact, and the latter separates them, by a smart
percussive action of recoil, from the articulative position.
This principle is of the utmost importance to all persons
whose articulation is defective. Distinctness entirely de-
pends on its application. Let it be carefully noted: —
audibly percussive organic separation is the necessary action
of every articulation.

* These articulations do not occur in this position in English.

viii

PRAOTIOAL HINTS TO BEADERS.

The Breath Obstructives, P-T-K, have no sound in their
POSITION, and thus depend on the pufiF that accompanies
the organic separation for all their audibility. This there-
fore must be clearly heard, or the letters are practically
lost. The Voice Obstructives, BtD-G, have a slight audi-
bility in their !* positions," from the abrupt murmur of
voice which distinguishes them from P, T, and K ; but
they are equally imperfect without the organic " action" of
separation and its distinctive percussiveness. All the other
elements being continuous, have more or less audibility in
their ''positions;" but in every case distinctness and flu-
ency depend on the disjunctive completion of the articu-
Jative " action." *

A practice now fallen into disuse in schools, but which
might be revived with great benefit to pupils, is the resolv-
ing of a syllabic into its elementary sounds. Take, for
instance, the word " neighbour." It consists of the ele-
ments ?t, a, (No. 3) h, ir, (No. 8). Let these sounds be
uttered separately in a distinct and forcible manner and
afterwards combined. Words which have been imperfectly
sounded may be selected and *' spelled" in this manner.
The exercise will furnish a kind of vocal gymnastics well
calculated for strengthening and training the voice, and
making it obedient to the will of the speaker.

It is suggested also, that a sentience be selected and the
pupil subjected to the following drill, his attention being
confined as much as possible to the mere act of enunciation j

1. Utter every element separately.

2. ** '' syllable "

3. " " word "

4. Read the whole in a loud whisper.

The last exercise is a very valuable one. The reader,
to be heard, is obliged to pause frequently in order to re-
cruit his lungs with the extra air which is necessary, and
the larynx, the primary organ of speech, being inactive, he
is compelled to exert the other organs to their fullest ex-
tent. It is proper to caution the learner against overdoing

* Boll's Elocutionary Manual.— Also his rrinciples of Speecb and Dic-
tionary of iSouucls. London ; Hamilton, Adams & Co.

PEAOnOAL BINTS TO READERS. IX

this exercise, as it is fatiguing and might be injurious to
persons of weak lungs.

It need scarcely be added, that the best conceived plan
of vocal training will be of little avail if not persistently
followed. The indolent will find the exercises irksome, and
the capricious will soon abandon them, but the learner who
carries them out faithfully, will attain what he desires — a
precise and firm articulation.

In connection with this part of the subject, it may be
necessary to warn the student against giving a strained and
unusual prominence to individual sounds when reading ;
since the least deviation from the assumed standard of pro-
nunciation will distract the attention of his audience
from the subject of the reading, and convert them into
critics of his utterance. In this, as in other branches of this
Art, he must '* acquire and beget a temperance that may
give it smoothness."

GROUPING.

The words in a sentence are not pronounced singly, nor
are they uttered continuously without break or rest. Words
in correct reading fall into expressive groups, which are
separated from each other, not always by a pause, but by
some break, some change of tone or variety of style w}iich
clearly marks to the ear the boundaries of each division. —
The commas and other points will be of little service to the
reader, as they are introduced with no reference to their use
in reading aloud ; they tell in fact, nothing more than that
the author, or rather the printer, is of opinion that at the
places of insertion the sentence is divisible into parts more
or less perfectly. Neither does grammar furnish a reliable
guide ; for grammatical sequences of words are often inter-
rupted by a pause as an important means of expressing
emphasis. The reader must make his own punctuation,
both in place and length of pause, being guided by the
meaning of the words, by a sense of fitness, by the ear and
by the requirements of breathing.

Perhaps the readiest mode of acquiring a correct idea of
grouping is to consider every cluster of words as one

2 PRAOTIOAL HINTS TO BBADES8.

"oratorical " word, and that these oratorical words must be
distinguished by breaks, of greater or less duration, in the
same manner as words are separated on the printed page.

The following may serve as an example :

To-be, or not-to-be, that-is-the-qaeetion,

Whether-'tis nobler in-the-mind to-suffer '

The-8lini(8-and-arrows of-outrageous-fortune:

Or to-take-arms against^-a-sea-of-troubleH

And-by opposinir, end-tbem? to-die, to-sleep,

No-more, and, Dj-a-sleep to-aay-we-end

rhe-heartaohe, and-the-tnousand-natural-shooks

That-flesh-is-hoir-to 'tis-a— consummation

Devoutly-to-be wished, To-die: to-sleep r

To-sleep! perohanoe-to-dream. Ay-there is-the-rub.

For . in-that-sleep-of-doath what dreams may-come,

Whon-we-hare-sbuifled-oif-this-mortal-coil,

Must gire-us pause: there's the-respcct

That-makps calamity of-so-long-life :

For-who would-bear the-whips-and-acorns of-time,

The-opprussor's wrong, the proud-man's contumely,

The-panffs-of despiseo-loTe, the-laws delay,

The-insoTenoe-of-omce, and-the spurns

That-patient-merit of-the-unworthy takes.

When he-himself might-his-quietua-make

With-a bare-bodkin? who would-fardels-bear,

To-groan-and-sweat under-a-weary-life ;

But that-the-dread of-something after death—

The-undiacovered-country, flrom-whose-bourne

No-traveller returns puzzles-the-will,

And-makes-us-rather bear those-ills we-have

Than-fly-to others that-we-know-not-of

Thus conscience does-ma l^^-co wards of-us all

And-thus tho-natlve-hue of-resolution

Is-sicklied-o'er with-the-pale-cast of-thought;

And-enterprises of-great-pith and-moment,

With-this-regard, tu^ir-currents turn-awry

And-lose tlie-name-of action.

Observe that the duration of the pauses, is not indicated
in the above illustrations. The learner must carefully

PBAOTIOAL HOnra TO READEBS. Xt

avoid abrupt pauses between the oratorical word?, or dis-
junctive downward inflexions, where the sense implies that
the members of the sentence should be connected. Indeed,
as has been before hinted, the pause is one only of the
modes of marking the group. Mr. Sheridan says on this
point '' The tones and inflexions appertaining to these
pauses, and the time taken up in them must be left to the
reader's own judg^aent ; and his best rule will be to reflect
what tones he would use, and what time he would suspend
his voice, were he to speak the words as his own imme-
diate sentiments."

ACCENT AND EMPHASIS.

Every word of more than one syllable in the English
language has one of its syllables distinguished by force of
articulation or vocal effort. This is called verbal or syl-
labic accent. There is also accent in sentences, which
points out the relative value of words and which is
named sentential accent. The position of the sentential
accent depends wholly upon the perceptions of the reader,
and forms the best test of the accuracy of his judgment ;
the regulation of the accent, so as perfectly to bring out the
sense of a passage, being often a very nice point requiring
muoh judgment and skill.

Emphasis is among sentential accents what syllabic ac-
cent is among syllables, a prominence given to one accent at
the expense of the others. Mr. Bell remarks, " The words
in a sentence which express ideas new to the context are pro-
nounced with the first degree of emphasis, while all words
involved in preceding terms are unemphatio. Words con-
trasted with preceding terms are more strongly emphasized
and words suggestive of unexpressed antithesis are empha-
tic in the highest degree." *

The purpose of emphasis and accent is to impress upon
the listener's mind the ideas on which it is desired to arrest
his attention in proportion to their relative importance. Care
must however be taken that due discrimination is made
between words which require accent only, and words which

* Bell's Elooutionary Manual.— Also bis rrinoiplea oi jSpoeoh and D1q«
tlonary of Sounds. London ; UamUtop, Adanis & Cp.

FRAOnOAL HINTS TO READERS.

ought to be made emphatic. Let it be kept in view that
the power of emphatic stress is lost if it is overlaid, and that
the reading which is all. emphasis is, in reality, the reverse
of emphatic.

As this important branch of the. subject, will be most
readily understood by illustration, the following masterly
analysis by Mr. Bell, is quoted in full :

EXAMPLE OP EMPHASIS.

Lines on the burial of Sir John Moore.

1^ At the commencement of a Composition everything is,
of course, new ; and the first subject and predicate will
be emphatic unless either is in the nature of things implied
in the other.

" Not a drum | was haard, | not a fUnoral noto
As I his oorpso | to the ramparts | we hurried."

The subject '' drum " will be accented and the predicate

" was heard " unaccented, because the mention of a " drum"

involves, in the nature of things, recognition by the sense

of hearing. To accentuate " heard " would involve one

of the false antitheses,

" Not a drum was heard" (booauso we wore deaf)

or
" Not a drum was hoard," (but only seen or felt.)

The second subject " note" will be emphatic because it
is contrasted with " drum " and suggests the antithesis "not
a note" (of any instrument.) . " Funeral is unaccented be-
cause pre-understood from the title of the poem. In the
next line " as " will be separately accented, because it has
no reference to the words immediately following, but to the
verb " we hurried." " His corpse " will be unaccented,'
because a funeral implies a corpse, and there is no mention
in the context of any other than "his." The principal
accent of the line may be given to ** ramparts " or " hur-
ried ;" the former would perhaps be the better word, as it
involves the antithesis

" To the ramparts," (and not to a comotery,)

In the next two lines,

" Not a soldier | discharged I his fhrewoll shot
O'or tUo gravo | where | our horo | was budo4."

PRAOTIOAL HINTS TO READERS.

xiii

" Soldier" is implied in conneotion with " drum" and " ram-
parts," and the emphasis will fall on *' shot, discharged"
being involved in the idea of " shot," and " farewell" being
involved in the occasion to which ** shot," refers — a funeral.
In the next line the leading accent will be on "grave" —
but no word is emphatic, as a " grave" is of course implied.
*' O'er" is implied in the nature of things, as the shot could
not be discharged under the grave ; " our hero " is the same
as "his corpse," and " was buried " is involved in the men-
tion of " corpse" and " grave."
In the next lines

the first clause will be unemphatio, as the fact has been
already stated. To emphasize " buried" would suggest the
false antithesis

*' We buried him" (instead of leaving him on the battle-field.)

" Darkly " and "at dead of night" convey the same idea;
the latter being the stronger expression will receive the
principal accent — on " night ;" — and '* darkly" will be
pronounced parenthetically. " Turning the sods" is, of
course, implied in the act of burying ; the word " bayonets,"
therefore, takes the principal accent of the line, because
involving the antithesis

" With our bayonets," ( and not with spades.)

" By the struggling moonbeam's I misty light,
And the lantern | dimly burning.*'

In the first clause " moonbeam's" will be accented, and
" misty light" unaccented, because implied in " the strug-
gling moonhoixmy "Lantern" in the second line will take
the superior accent of the sentence, because of the two
sources of light spoken of, it is tlie more imnediately ser-
viceable on the occasion ; and " dimly burning" will bo
unaccented, unless the forced antithesis be suggested,

" Dimly burning," (as with shrouded light, to osoapo observation.)

" Xo useless ooifin | onolosod his breast;
Not in sheet | nor in shroud | wo wound him."

Emphasis on " coffin," because the word not only conveys
a now idea, but is suggestive of contrast: —

wimmmm

XIV

PRAOTIOAL HINTS TO READERS.

" No coffin," (as at ordinary interments,)

No accent on " useless," because it would suggest the false
antithesis.

"No useless coffin," (but only one of the least dispensable kind.)

" Enclosed his breast" without emphasis, because implied
in the mention of "coffin." Emphasis on "breast" would
convey the false antithesis

(Not) " his breast," (but merely some other part of his body.)

" Sheet" and " shroud" in the second line express the same
idea 5 the latter being the stronger term, takes the leading
accent. "We wound him" unaccented, because implied in
the idea of " shroud." The tones in these lines should be
rising to carry on the attention to the leading facts of the
sentence predicated in the next lines,

" Bat I ho lay | like a warrior | taking his rest.
With bis martial cloak | around him.

" But" separately accented, because it does not refer lo " he
lay," which is of course implied in the idea of the dead
warrior. To connect "but" with "he lay" would indi- *
cate the opposition to be

" But ho lay," (instead of assuming some other attitude.)
The reference is rather

(In " no coffin" or " shroud,") " but" in " his martial cloak."

In the simile that follows, no accent on " warrior" be-
cause he was a warrior, and not merely was " like " one.
The principal emphasis of the whole stanza lies on " rest,"
which suggests the antithesis,

(As if) " taking his rest" (and not with the aspect of death.)

In the next line, the principal acoont on " cloak ;" " mar-
tial" being implied, unless intended contrast could be sup-
posed between his "martial" and some other cloaks; and
" around him " being included in the idea of a warrior
taking rest in his cloak.

" Few I and short I were the prayers | we said,
And I we spoke not | a word of sorrow."

The principal accent in the first lino will be on the subject
" prayers," but the two predicates " yrere few ^nd shorty"

PRAOTIOAL HINTS TO READERS.

are also accented, because all the ideas are new ; the pre-
dicates are subordinate to the subject only because the lat-
ter is placed last. Had the arrangement been reversed, the
principal accent would have fallen on the second predicate
" short." Thus :—

** The prayers wo said were few and short."

No accent on " we said," because implied in the nature of
*' prayers," unless intended contrast could be supposed
between *' said" and chanted, or otherwise uttered. In the
next line "spoke" being involved in " said," will be unac-
cented, unless the antithesis be suggested,

" We spoke not"'(though we had the feeling) " of sorrow;"

and " word" being involved in " spoke," will be unaccented
unless the antethisis be suggested,

(So far from making an oration) " we spoke not (eron) a word."

The reader may choose between these two emphases, or he
may introduce both. *' Not " must be united accentually
with the word " spoke " as the negation refers to the verb,
and not to the object " a word." To say

" Wo spoko I not a word,"

would bo nonsense. " Sorrow" will bo accented in an
equal dcoree with " spoke," if these are made the only
accents of the lino, but if *' word" is emphasized, "sorrow"
will be unemphatic, because " spoke not (even) a word"
would imply of " sorrow" as the feeling natural to the
occasion.

"But I we I steadfastly | K^i^cd I on the face of the dead,
And I wo bitterly thought | of the morrow."

The first four words will be separately pronounced, with
the emphatic force on " gazed," which should have a fall-
ing turn because it completes the sense. "But," is sepa-
rated from *' we" because it does not connect that with any
other pronoun, but " spoke" with *' gazed." The pronoun,
adverb, and verb, might be united in one accentual group,
l)Ut such au utterance of this cU\;se ^oul4 be too light an4

XVI

PBAOTIOAL mm& TO READERS.

flippant for the solemnity of the sentiment. '< On the face"
without emphasis, as no contrast can be intended between
face and any other part of the body ; " of the dead" un-
emphatic, because implied. In the next line ''and" should
have a separate accent ; <' we bitterly thought" may be
united, with the accent on the adverb ; '' thought being
implied in the " steadfast gazing" of thinking beings. In
the last dause " morrow " will be accented, because it intro-
duces a new idea.

No emphasis in the first two lines, " we thought" having
been already stated, and " as we hollowed and smoothed,"
&c., being implied in the making of a grave. The gram-
matical sentence is, " we thought that the foe," &c. " Foe"
and '' stranger" are accented, but not emphatic, as there
can be no antithesis. Treading on the grave, whether by
friend or foe, would be equally repugnant to the speaker's
feelings. The emphasis of the sentence lies on '' tread."
The next clause must be emphatic, as there can be no anti-
thesis intended to " o'er" or " his," *r between " head"
and any other part of the body., " And we " will have the
pronoun accented, because opposed to " foe," &c. ; " far
away" will have the adverb accented because suggesting

" Far away" (and not hero to prevent the indignity.)

The meaning is not "away on the billow," but "away"
no matter where; and I'on the billow" is merely exple-
tive.

" But half I of our heavy task | was done
When the dock | struck the hour | for retiring."

Accent on "half" to suggest

" But half" (and not the whole.)

" Heavy" and " done" may be accented but not emphatic.
In the second line " clock" will be accented, but the em-
phatic force must fall on the expressive complement of the
predicate " for retiring," because suggesting the antithesis,

PRACTICAL HIKtS TO READERS.

xvit

expl

phatio.
le em-
ofthe

" Fos retiring" (and not indulging longer in our reverie.)

" And we heard | the distant | and random gun
That the foe | was suddenly firing."

The first clause uhemphatic, because implied in " the clock
struck," which of course was aiso *' heard." The emphasis
of this line lies on " gun," which is antithetic to " clock."
In the last line " foe" is emphatic, because antithetic to
friend, understood as giving the signal for " retiring."

" Slowly I and nadly I we laid him down
From the field of his fame, | fresh | and gory."

In this sentence the subject "we," the predicate ^*laid him
down," and the expletive clause *' from the field of his
fame," are all implied in the occasion, and the accents fall
on " slowly" and " sadly," and on " fresh and gory," which
latter are complements of the object "him." The prin-
cipal accent is on " gory" as the stronger of the two adjec-
tives. The predicate includes all the words "laid him
down from the field of his fame," which must be connec-
tively read. A falling termination is necessary to discon-
nect the^last clause from " fresh and gory," which would
otherwice seem to refer to " field" or " fame."

The accents in the first line will fiill on " line " and " stone."
The negatives must not bo united with the objects but
with the verbs. To read,

" Wo carved | not a line."

would be nonsense. In the second line " but " should bo
separately pronounced, because it does not refer to " wo
loft him," which is implied as a matter of course, for even
if they had raised a monument to mark the spot, they
would equally have " left him." The meaning is equi-
valent to

"We loft him" (with no monumental tablet or o&im, but) "alono with
his glory."

The last are therefore the new and accented words.

XViii J

?ftAtiTlOAL mNtS 1)0 READER^.

The emphasis in the first line falls on " lightly *' — the
expressive complement of the common-placo predicate " will
talk/' — antithesis being implied. Thus,

" Lightly " {and not feverently as he deserves.")

The subject *' they " is used in the general sense of
" people " and is unaccented ; " of the spirit that's gone "
is implied in connection with the subject of the poem.
" And " in the second line, must be separate, to disconnect
it from the expletive clause that follows; " upbraid" will
be emphatic, as contrasted with the previous predicate,

(Not only) " talk lightly " (but even) " upbraid."

" But " in the third line, must be separate, to show the
sense " notwithstanding " (these facts.) " Nothing he'll
reck," the first word accented, but the principal emphasis
on " he'll," to suggest the antithesis, ,

" ife'll reck nothing " (although we shall. )

The only other emphasis is on "Briton," which is sug-
gestive of an inference of pride in the nation whose
chivalry will defend the hero's name and mortal remains
from insult.

THE SLUR.

Closely allied and of equal importance with emphasis
and sentential accent, is the vocal subordination of words
or clauses which are mere rhetorical embellishments or
which repeat ideas already expressed. All such expletive
words or clauses should be passed over lightly, (though dis-
tinctly,) and without significant expression. This quality
of effective reading, which has been called " Slurring," is
by no means easy in practice. Readers who experience little
difficulty in rendering words emphatic, being quite un-
able to command the intonation required for the inexpres-
siveness of the " Slur."

The reader of the Scriptures having frequent occasion
for the exercise of this quality, the following example, taken
from the Bible, may be of service as an illustration. The
words to be slurred are placed within parentheses.

^5^

PRAOTICAT. HINTS TO READERS.

XIX

Nebuchadnezzar tlio kin? made an image of gold, whose height was
threescore cubits, and the breadth thereof six ciibita : he set it up in the
plain of Dura, in the province of Babylon. Then Nebuchadnezzar (the
kin^) sent to gather together the princes, the governors, and the captains,
the judges, the treasurers, the counsellors, the sheriffs, and all the rulers of
the provinces, to come to the dedication of the image (which Nebuchad-
nezzar the king had set up). Then the princes, (the governors, and
captains, the judges, the treasurers, the counsellors, the sherilft, and all
the rulers of the provinces,) were gathered together (Onto the dedication
of the image that Nebuchadnezzar the king had set up) and they stood
bfifore the image (that Nebuchadnezzar had set up). Then an herald cried
aloud. To you it is commanded, O people, nations, and languages. That
at what time ye hear the sound of the cornet, flute, harp, 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 tne midst of a
burning fiery furnace. Therefore at that time, when all the people heard
(the sound of the cornet, flute, harp, suckbut, psaltery, and all kinds of
music), all the people (the nations, and the languages) fell down and
worshipped (the golden image that Nebuchadnezzar 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
over. Thou, O king, hast made a decree, that every man that shall hear
the sound of the cornet, (flute, harp, sackbut, psaltery, and dulcimer, ind
all kinds of music,) shall fall down and worship the golden image. And
whoso falleth not (down and worshippeth,) that he should be cast into the
midst of a burning fiery furnace. There are certain Jews whom thou hast
set over the affairs of the province of Babylon, Shadrach, Moshach, and
Abod-nego ; these men, O king, have not regarded thee ; they serve not thy

gods, nor worship the golden image (which thou hast set up). Then No-
uchadnezzar in his rage and fury commanded to bring Shadrach, (Meshach
and Abod-nego). Then they brought these men (before the king). Nebu-
chadnezzar spake (and said unto them). Is it true, (O Shadrach, Meshach,
and Abed-nego,) do not ye servo my gods, nor worship the golden imago
which I have set up? Now if ye be ready that at what time ye hoar the
sound of the cornet, (flute, harp, sackbut, psaltery, and dulcimer, and all
kinds of music,) ye fall down and worship the imago (which 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 Nebuclialnezzar, 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 lie will (deliver us out of thine hand, O king).
But if not, bo it known unto thee, O king, that we will not serve thy gods,
nor worship the golden imago (wlUch thou hast set up).

MANAGEMENT OP THE BREATH.

The advice, sometimes given, to take in enough of air at
the commencement of a sentence to last until its conclusion
is not only impracticable in long sentences, but the attempt
to do so might be injurious. The time required for the
pauses, and which must be observed, will be found
quite sufficient to enable the reader to replenish his
lungs. It is true that, voice being breath made vocal,
a larger supply of air is required for reading, than is neces-
sary for vital wants — yet, if the chest is raised, and tho

jbt

PRACTICAL HINTS TO READEllti.

channels of entrance to the lungs, (particularly the nasal
passage,) kept free, the air will enter noiselessly and with
little effort on the part of the speaker. The insufl&ciency of
breath, which we sometimes hear young readers complain
of, arises generally from nervousness, and can be avoided by
taking two or three full inspirations before attempting to
speak. In reading the first sentence or two let the pauses
between the groups be made rather longer than usual,
and the reader will find as he proceeds that his breathing will
become regular, and that he will encounter no difficulty in
uttering the longest sentence or series of sentences in his
selection.

INTONATION.

Oral example is absolutely necessary to exhibit all the
varieties of vocal expression and to correct the faults in
intonation to which readers are liable. Books on elocu-
tion contain ■ directions for the management of the voice
which are more or less correct in themselves, but it is
doubtful if they arc of practical use to the learner. Cer-
tainly no one ever became an accomplished reader by mere-
ly following; these precepts. Indeed it seems impossible to
convey by words or by printed signs full directions for cor-
rect and melodious vocal expression in reading. Those
who are curious about the mechanism of expression
are referred to Br. Rush's Philosophy of the Voice* and
to a little treatise founded upon that work by the late Dr.
Barber.-j- In the writings of Mr. Melville Bell, already re-
ferred to, will be found valuable directions deduced from
certain principles of expression there explained. The
writer will content himself by giving a fev? general hints
which iio hopes may be found of assistance.

In order to give the right expression, it is necessary for the
reader to invest himself with the thoughts of the author. It is in
vain for him to expect to do this without preliminary study.
Every one who has made reading aloud a practice will admit

* rhiladelpliia, 1859.
t Lovoll, Montreal, ISfiO,

k>BAOTICAL HINTS TO REAOBBS.

ZXl

that he Cannot deliver any piece of written composition so
well at sight or on the first reading as on the second ; nor
on the second as on the third. He finds that he improves
in his manner at every repetition, as the thoughts and the
words in which they are conveyed grow more familiar to
him. After much practice a reader may indeed, by the
quick motion of the eye, comprehend the full meaning and
import of the words in compositions which have no obscur-
ity in their construction ; yet, it by no means follows that
the exact intonation should be ready at his will, or that his
execution should at first answer his conception. If the
learner practice upon scenes from modern comedies, in
which no tones are required but those which he uses in
every-day discourse, he will then find that it is one thing
to conceive and another to perform ; that it will not be till
after repeated attempts that he can hit upon the exact
manner in which the words should be delivered or
be able to associate to them the just tones, that ought
natu{Ally to accompany them.

The following exercise may be found useful to beginners :
Head a sentence, ponder over its meaning, then nmrh it by
placing a single line under accented, and a double line
under emphatic words. At first this exercise will appear
easy and may seem of little use, but let the learner think
over the sentence again, he will then begin to doubt the
correctness of some of his markings, other meanings will
present themselves and he will be obliged to question
closely the author's intent ; the more minute inspection
will reveal new difiiculties, not so much of meaning as of
the proper mode of expressing the meaning, and he will
find at length, that much thought and study are required
before he can satisfy himself of . the correctness of his
notation. He may then proceed to the grouping of sen-
tences as shewn on page x. He will find in his first at-
tempts even less difiiculty than he experienced in marking
for emphasis, and his pencil will jot off the oratorical words
with dashing rapidity, very flattering to his self-complacen-
cy. But on the second or third reading he will again find
that he has been going too fast ; and it will not be until he

ZXll

PRACTICAL HmrS TO READ&BS.

has arrived at this stage that he will begin to discover the
true extent and value of the Art of Reading.

The mention of a few of the errors to which readers are
liable, will be of service as pointing out to the learner what
he should avoid.

Indistinct utterance has been already alluded to ; but
there is another cause of inaudibility which may be
noticed, and that is the diminution in force and the lower-
ing of pitch at the end of clauses and sentences. The
general rule should be to sustain the pitch, and even
slightlv to raise the voice at the termination of sentences.
By this, not only is audibility secured, but vigor and live-
liness imparted to the reading.

Another cause of want of distinctness arises from speak-
ing too loud. An unpractised reader often falls into this
error. Deliberate utterance, a vocal power suited to the
size of the room in which he speaks, an attention to group-
ing, and a well-sustained pitch at the periods, will make
his reading better heard than shouting at the utmost extent
of his voice.

A very common fault in intonation is the practice, most
unpleasant to the ear, of making the voice rise and fall in
meaningless undulations at almost regular periods. This
is done with the view of avoiding monotony ; but the per-
petual unvarying recurrence of the rise and fall is quite
as tiresome as the level pitch from which the reader
desires to escape. There is also a bird-like succession of a
certain run of melody which, if not interrupted by some
forcible or peculiar expression, is repeated again and again
until it can bo anticipated by the critical ear with almost
unerring certr.inty. This is often ludicrously app2?rent in
the reading of poetry.

Another fault is that of the reader executing all his
emphasis by ''hammering" upon the accented syllables.
Besides being wearisome to the listener, this habit destroys
the dignity of deliberate intonation. Remember that the
emphatic syllable can be distinguished by a variety of
means besides force — by the pause, the wave or cir-

PBACTIOAL inNTS TO READEIIS.

XXIU

cumflcx, and other changes in intonation, nay, even by 4i
sudden diminution of force.

Although the principles which govern the reading of prose
are also applicable to poetical composition, there are faults
in the recitation of the latter which require special notice.

The habit which many have acquired of "singing"
instead of reading poetry is so common that it must have
been observed by all. The child chants the nursery rhyme
unforbidden, and the pupil at school is too often strengthened
in the fault by the example of his teacher. Good readers of
prose often fail most signally when they attempt the inter-
pretation of verse ; if they avoid sing-song, they fall into the
opposite error of ignoring the versification altogether and
uttering the composition as if it were written in prose. Of
the two evils the last is perhaps the most objectionable.

The metre, rhythm, and rhyme must be made clearly
sensible to the ear, but the meaning of the author should
over-ride all. The reader should abandon himself to the
spirit of the poem and make his intonation a faithful echo
of the sense. The fear of over-doing, or as it is sometimes
called " over-acting," is too much dreaded by young readers.
They are afraid of rendering themselves ridiculous. But
the fact is, that the less the reader thinks about himself and
his manner the better, when actually engaged in reading
before an audience. If he has familiarized himself with
the proper intonation by previous practice, he will be more
likely to succeed by giving entire freedom to his imagina-
tion and powers of expression.

In conclusion, the learner is earnestly warned against
imitating /rae readers — readers who exhibit the fine quality
and flexibility of their voices by setting the words to
meaningless melodies. Every vocal movement should be
prompted by the sense of the passage and the voice should
convey the meaning with spirit and sympathetic expression
but no attempt should be made at ornamentation. The
" fine " reading and " stilted " declamation of some Elocu-
tionists have done very much to prevent educated men
from cultivating the Art of Elocution.

MISCELLANEOUS READINGS IN PROSE.

THE GREAT PLAGUE IN LONDON.

Daniel Defoe, born in Cripplegate, London, 1661; died April,
1731. Author of ** Robinson Crusoe,''^ &c.

Much about the same time I walked out into the fields
towards Bow, for I had a great mind to see how things were
managed in the river and among the ships. Musing how
to satisfy my curiosity in that point, I turned away over
the fields, from Bow to Bromley, and down to Blackwall, to
the stairs that are there for landing or taking water.

Here I saw a poor man walking on the bank or sea-wall,
as they call it, by himself. I walked awhile also about,
seeing the houses all shut up •, at last I fell into some talk,
at a distance, with this poor man. First, I asked him how
people did thereabouts. "Alas I sir," says he, ''almost
desolate ; all dead or sick. Here are very few families in
this part, or in that village " — pointing at Poplar — "where
half of them are not dead already, and tlie rest sick."
Then, pointing to one house : "There they are all dead,"
said he, " and the house stands open ; nobody dares go
into it. A poor thief," says he, "ventured in to steal
something, but he paid dear for his theft, for he was carried
to the churchyard too last night." Then he pointed to
several other houses. "There," says he, "they are all
dead — the man and his wife and five children."

" Why," says I, " what do you here all alone ?"

"Why," says he, "lam a poor desolate man: it hath
pleas'>d God I am not yet visited, though my family is, and
one of my children dead."

"How do you mean, then," said I, "that you are not
visited?"

"Why," says he, "that is my house "—pointing to a
very little low boarded liouso — " and there my poor wife
and two children live," said he, " if they may be said to
live I for my wife and one of the children are visited, but I

The great? plague in LONDOJf.

do not come at them." And with that word I saw the
tears run very plentifully down his face ; and so they did
down mine too, I assure you.

"But," said I, "why do you not come at them? How
can you abandon your own flesh and blood ?' '

"Oh, sir," says he, "the Lord forbid. I do not aban-
don them ; 1 work for them as much as I am able ; and,
blessed be the Lord, I keep them from want."

"Well," says I, " honest man, that is a great mercy, as
things go now with the poor. But how do you live then,
and how are you kept from the dreadful calamity that is
now upon us all?"

"Why, sir," says he, "I am a waterman, and there is
my boat," says he ; " and the boat serves me for a house :
I work in it in the day, and sleep in it in the night ; and
what I get 1 lay it down upon that stone," says he, show-
ing me a broad stone on the other side of the street, a
good way from his house 5 " and then," says he, " I halloo
and call to them till 1. make them hear, and they come and
fetch it."

" Well, friend," says I, " but how can you get money as
a waterman ? Does anybody go by water these times ?"

"Yes, sir," says he, " in the way I am employed, there
does. Do you see there," says he, "five ships lie at
anchor ?" — pointing down the river a good way below the
town — '-'and do you see," says he, "eight or ten ships lie
at the chain there, and at anchor yonder?" — pointing above
the town. "All those ships have families on board, of
their merchants, and owners, and such like, who have
locked themselves up, and live on board, close shut in, for
fear of the infection ; and I tend on them to fetch things
for them, and carry letters ; and every night I fasten my
boat on board one of the ships, and there I sleep by my-
self : and, blessed be God, I am preserved hitherto."

"Well," said I, "friend, but will they let you come on
board after you have been on shore here, when this has
been such a terrible place, and so infected as it is ?"

"Why, as to that," said he, "I very seldom go up the
ship-side I 1 deliver what I bring to their boat, but lie by
the side, and they hoist it on board."

"Nay," says I, "but that may be worse, for you must
have those provisions of somebody or other ; and since all
this part of the town is so infected, it is dangerous so much
as to speak with anybody."

"That is true," added he, "but you do not understand

TEtE GREAT PLAGUE IN LONDON.

me right. I do not buy provisions for them here j I row
up to Greenwich, and buy fresh meat there, and sometimes
1 row down to Woolwich, and buy there. I seldom come
on shore here ; and I came only now to call my wife, and
hear how my little family do, and give them a little money
which I received last night."

" Poor man !" said I ; "and how much hast thou gotten
for them?"

" I have gotten four shillings," said he, " which is a great
sum, as things go now with poor men : but they have given
me a bag of bread too, and a salt fish, and some flesh ; so
all helps put."

"Well," said I, "and have you given it them yet?"

"No," said he, "but I have called, and my wife has
answered that she cannot come out yet ; but in half an
hour she hopes to come, and I am waiting for her. Poor
woman I" says he, "she is brought sadly down; she has
had a swelling, and it is broke, and 1 hope she will recover,
but I fear the child will die ; but it is the Lord !" Here he
stopped and wept very much.

At length, after some further talk, the poor woman
opened the door, and called "Robert, Robert,:" he an-
swered, and bid her stay a few moments and he would
come ; so he ran down the common stairs to his boat, and
fetched up a sack, in which were the provisions he had
brought from the ships ; and when he returned, he hal-
looed again ; then he went to the great stone which he
showed me, and emptied the sack, and laid all out, every-
thing by themselves, and then retired ; and his wife came
with a little boy to fetch them away ; and he called, and
said, such a captain had sent such a thing, and such a cap-
tain such a thing ; and at the end adds : " God has sent it
all I give thanks to him." When the poor woman had
taken up all, she was so weak, she could not carry it at
once in, though the weight was not much neither ; so she
left the biscuit, which was in a little bag, and left a little
boy to watch it.

"Well, but," says I to him, " did you leave her the four
shillings too, which you said was your week's pay?"

"Yes, yes," says he ; "you shall hear her own it." So
he calls again : " Rachel, Rachel " — which it seems was her
name — " did you take up the money ?" "Yes," said she.
"How much was it?" said he. "Four shillings and a
groat," said she. "Well, well," says he, "the Lord keep
you all ;" and so he turned to go away.

IT"

A HAPPY FAMILY.

As I could not refrain from contributing tears to this
man's story, so neither could I refrain my charity for his
assistance ; so I called him. " Hark thee, friend," said I,
"come hither, for I believe thou art in bealtli, that I may
venture thee ;" so I pulled out my hand which was in my
pocket before, "Here," says I, "go and call thy Kachel
once more, and give her a little more comfort from me ;
God will never forsake a family that trust in him as thou
dost:" so I gave him four other shillings, and bid him go
lay them on the stone, and call his wife.

I have not words to express the poor man's thankful-
ness, neither could he express it himself, but by, tears run-
ning down his face. He called his wife and told her God
had moved the heart of a stranger, upon hearing their con-
dition, to give them all that money ; and a great deal more
such as that he said to her. The woman, too, made signs
of the like thankfulness, as well to Heaven as to me, and
joyfully picked it up •, and I parted with no money all that
year that I thought better bestowed.

A HAPPY FAMILY*

Sir R. Steele, horn in Dublin, 1675 ; educated at Charterhouse
and Merton ; enlisted in the Horse Guards; afterwards
Commissioner in the Stamp Office; sat in Parliament;
died in Wales, 1729.

An old friend, who wasf ormerly my schoolfellow, came to
town last week with his family for the winter, and yester-
day morning sent me word his wife expected me to dinner.
I am, as it were, at home at that house, arid every member
of it knows me for their well-wisher. I cannot, indeed,
express the pleasure it is to be met by the children with
so much joy as I am when I go thither ; the boys and girls
strive who shall come first when they think it is I that am
knocking at the door ; and that child which loses the race
to me, runs back again to tell the father it is Mr. Bicker-
staff. This day I was led in by a pretty giii that we all
thought must have forgot me, for the family has been
out of town these two years. Her knowing me again was
a mighty subject with us, and took up our discourse at the
first entrance. With many reflections on little passages
which happened long ago, we passed our time during a
cheerful and elegant meal.

A UAPPY FAMILY

After dinner, his lady left the room, as did also ibhe chil-
dren. As soon as we were alone, he took me by the hand :
" Well, my good friend," says he, " I am heartily glad to see
thee ; I was afraid you would never have seen all the com-
pany that dined with you to-day again. Do not you think
the good woman of the house a little altered since you fol-
lowed her from the playhouse, to find out who she was for
me ?" I perceived a tear fall down his cheek as he spoke,
which moved me not a little . But to turn the discourse,
said I, " She is not indeed quite that creature she was
when she returned me the letter I carried from you ; and
told me, she lioped, as I was a gentleman, I would be em-
ployed no more to trouble her who had never offended me,
but would be so much the gentleman's friend as to dis-
suade him from a pursuit which he could never succeed in.
You may remember, I thought her in earnest, and you
were forced to employ your cousin Will, who made his
sister get acquainted with her for you. You cannot expect
her to be for ever fifteen." " Fifteen 1" replied my good
friend : '< Ah ! you little understand, you that have lived a
bachelor, how great, how exquisite, a pleasure there is in
being really beloved ! It is impossible that the most beau-
teous face in nature should raise in me such pleasing ideas,
as when 1 look upon that excellent woman. That fading
in her countenance is chiefly caused by her watching with
me in my fever. This was followed by a fit of sickness,
which had like to have carried her off last winter. I tell
you sincerely, I have so many obligations to her, that I
cannot with any sort of moderation think of her present
state of health. Ever since her sickness, things that gave
me the quickest joy before, turn now to a certain anxiety.
As the childreh play in the next room, I know the poor
things by their steps, and am considering what they must
do, should they lose their mother in their tender years.
The pleasure I used to take in telling my boy stories of the
battles, and asking my girl questions about the disposal of
her baby, and tlie gossiping of it, is turned into inward
reflection and melancholy."

He wr lid have gone on in this tender way, when the
good lady entered, and with an inexpressible sweetness in
her countenance, told us she had been searching her closet
for something very good, to treat such an old friend as I
was. Her husband's eyes sparkled witli pleasure at the
cheerfulness of her countenance, and I saw all his fears
vanish in an instant. The lady observing something in our

N*^;

THE STQRY OP THE SPECTATOK.

looks which showed we had been more serious than ordi-
nary, and seeing her husband received her with great con-
cern under a forced cheerfulness, immediately guessed at
what we had been talking of, and applying herself to me,
said, with a smile, *'Mr. Bickerstaff, don't believe a word
of what he tells you, I shall still live to have yoii for my
second, as I have often promised you, unless he takes more
care of himself than he has done since coming to town."

On a sudden, we were alarmed with the noise of a drum,
and immediately entered my little godson to give me a
point of war. His mother, between laughing and chiding,
would have put him out of the room ; but I would not
part with him so. I found upon conversation with him,
that the child had excellent parts, and was a great master
of all the learning on t'other side of eight years old. I
perceived him a very great historian in ^ sop's fables.
But he frankly declared to me his mind, that he did not
delight in that learning, because he did not believe they
were true ; for which reason I found he had very much
turned his studies for about a twelvemonth past, into the
lives and adventures of Don Bellianis of Greece, Guy of
Warwick, the Seven Champions, and other historians of
that age.

I sat with them till it was very late, sometimes in merry,
sometimes in serious discourse, with this particular plea-
sure, which gives the only true relish to all conversation, a
sense that every one of us liked each other. I went home,
considering the different conditions of a married life and
that of a bachelor | and 1 must confess that it struck mo
with a secret concern, to reflect, that whenever I go off. I
shall leave no traces behind me. In this pensive mood I
returned to my family — that is to say, to my maid, my dog,
and my cat, who only can be the better or worse for what
happens to me.

THE STORY OF THE SPECTATOR.
Lord Macaulay.

The Spectator himself was conceived and drawn by Addi-
son | and it is not easy to doubt that the portrait was
meant to be in some features a likeness of the painter. The
Spectator is a gentleman who, after passing a studious
youth at the university, Jias travelled on classic ground,

THE STORY OP THE SPECTATOR.

and has bestowed much attention on curious points of
antiquity. He has, on his return, fixed his residence in
London, and has observed all the forms of life which are to
be found in that great city, has daily listened to the wits
of Will's, has smoked with the philosophers of the Grecian,
and has mingled with the parsons at Child's, and with the
politicians at the St. James's. In the morning, he often
listens to the hum of the Exchange ; in the evening, his
face is constantly to be seen in the pit of Drury Lane
Theatre. But an insurmountable bashfulness prevents
him from opening his mouth, except in a small circle of
intimate friends.

These friends were first sketched by Steele. Four of the
club, the templar, the clergyman, the soldier, and the
merchant, were uninteresting figures, fit only for a back
ground. But the other two, an old country baronet and
an old town rake, though not delineated with a very deli-
cate pencil, had some good strokes. Addison took the
rude outlines into his own hands, retouched them, coloured
them, and is in truth the creator of the Sir Eoger de
Coverley and the Will Honeycomb with whom we are all
familiar.

The plan of the Spectator must be allowed to be both
original and eminently happy. Every valuable essay in
the series may be read with pleasure separately y yet the
five or six hundred essays form a whole, and a whole which
has the interest of a novel. It must be remembered, too,
that at that time no novel, giving a lively and powerful
picture of the common life and manners of England, had
appeared. Richardson was working as a compositor.
Fielding was robbing birds' nests. Smollett was not yet
born. The narrative, therefore, which connects together
the Spectator's Essays, gave to our ancestors their first
taste of an exquisite and untried pleasure. That narrative
was indeed constructed with no art or labour. The events
were such events as occur every day. Sir Roger comes up
to town to see Eugenio, as the worthy baronet always calls
Prince Eugene, goes with the Spectator on the water to
Spring Gardens, walks among the tombs in the Abbey, and
is frightened by the Mohawks, but conquers his apprehen-
sion so far as to go to the theatre, when the " Distressed
Mother" is acted. The Spectator pays a visit in the sum-
mer to Coverley Hall, is charmed with the old house, the
old butler, and the old chaplain, eats a jack caught by
Will Wimble, rides to the assizes, and hears a point of law

SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY.

discussed by Tom Touchy. At last a letter from the honest
butler brings to the club the news that Sir Roger is dead.
Will Honeycomb marries and reforms at sixty. The club
breaks up ; and the Spectator resigns his functions. Such
events can hardly be said to form a plot ; yet they are
related with such truth, such grace, such wit, such humour,
such pathos, such knowledge of the human heart, such
knowledge of the ways of the world, that they charm us
on the hundredth perusal. We have not the least doubt
that, if Addison had written a novel on an extensive plan,
it would have been superior to any that we possess. As it
is, he is entitled to be considered not only as the greatest
of the English essayists, but as the forerunner of the great
English novelists.

SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY.

From the Spectator.

Joseph Addison, statesman, poet and essayist horn 1672; died

1718.

Having often received an invitation from my friend Sir
Roger de Coverley to pass away a moilth with him in the
country, I last week accompanied him thither, and am
settled with him for some time at his country-house, where
I intend to form several of my ensumg speculations. Sir
Roger, who is very well acquainted with my humour, lets
me rise and go to bed when I please, dine at his own table
or in my chamber, as I think fit, sit still and say nothing
without bidding me be merry. . .

I am the more at ease in Sir Roger's family, because it
consists of sober, staid persons ; for as the knight is the
best master in the world, he seldom changes his servants ;
and as he is beloved by all about him, his servants never
care for leaving him ; by this means his domestics are all
in years, and grown old with their master. You would
take his valet-de-chambre for his brother ; his butler is
grey-headed, his groom is one of the gravest men that I
have ever seen, and his coachman has the looks of a privy
councillor. You see the goodness of the master even in
his old house-dog, and in a grey pad that is kept in the
stable with great care and tcntleiiioss, out of regard for

SIR ROGER DE OOVERLEY.

rn 1G72; died

his past services, though he has been useless for several
years.

I could not but observe with a great deal of pleasure the
joy that appeared in the countenances of these ancient
domestics upon my friend's arrival at his country-seat.
Some of them could not refrain from tears at the sight of
their old master ; every one of them pressed forward to do
something for him, and seemed discouraged if they were
not employed. At the same time the good old knight,
with the mixture of the father and the master of the fami-
ly, tempered the inquiries after his own affairs with several
kind questions relating to themselves. This humanity and
good nature engages everybody to him, so that when he is
pleasant upon any of them, all his family are in good hu-
mour, and none so much as the person whom he diverts
himself with : on the contrary, if he coughs, or betrays any
infirmity of old age, it is easy for a stander-by to observe a
secret concern in the looks of all his servants

My friend Sir Roger has often told me, with a great deal
of mirth, that at his first coming to his estate he found
three parts of his house ialtogether useless -, that the best
room in it had the reputation of being haunted, and by
that means was locked up | that noises had been heard in
his long gallery, so that he could not get a servant to enter
it after eight o'clock at night ; that the door of one of his
chambers was nailed up, because there went a story in the
family, that a butler had formerly hanged himself in it ;
and that his mother, who lived to a great age, had shut up
half the rooms in the house, in which either her husband,
a son, or daughter had died. The knight seeing his habi-
tation reduced to so small a compass, and himself in a
manner shut out of his own house, upon the death of his
mother ordered all the apartments to be flung open and
exorcised by his chaplain, who lay in every room one after
another, and by that means dissipated the fears which had
so long reigned in the family. . . .

My friend. Sir Roger, being a good churchman, has
beautified the inside of his church with several texts of his
own choosing. He has likewise given a handsome pulpit-
cloth, and railed in the communion-table at his own ex-
pense. He has often told me, that at his coming to his
estate he found his parishioners very irregular ; and that
in order to make them kneel, and join in the responses, he
gave every one of 'them a hassock and a Common Prayer-
Book ; and at the same time employed an itinerant sing-

Sm ROGER DE COVERLEY.

ing-master, who goes about the country for that purpose,
to instruct them rightly in the tunes of the Psalms, upon
which they now very much value themselves, and indeed
outdo most of the country churches that I have ever heard.

As Sir Koger is landlord to the whole congregation, he
keeps them in very good order, and will suffer nobody to
sleep in it besides himself; for if by chance he has been
surprised into a short n^p at a sermon, upon recovering
out of it he stands up and looks about him, and if he sees
any body else nodding, either wakes them himself, or
sends his servants to them. Several other of the old
knight's particularities break out upon these occasions.
Sometimes he will be lengthening out a verse in the sing- .
ing Psalms, half a minute after the rest of the congre<;ation
have done with it ; sometimes when he is pleased with the
matter of his devotion, he pronounces Amen three or four
times in the same prayer ; and sometimes stands up when
everybody else is upon their knees, to count the congre-
gation, or see if any of his tenants are missing. . . .

The chaplain has often told me, that upon a catechising
day, when Sir Roger has been pleased with a boy that an-
swers well, he has ordered a Bible to be given to him next
day for his encouragement, and sometimes accompanies it
with a flitch of baoon to his mother. Sir Roger has like-
wise added five pounds a year to the clerk's place ; and
that he may encourage the young fellows to make them-
selves perfect in the church service, has promised upon
the death of the present incumbent, who is very old, to
bestow it according to merit. . . .

A man's first care should be to avoid the reproaches of
his own heart; his next, to escape the censures of the
world. If the last interferes with the former, it ought to
be entirely neglected ; but otherwise there cannot be a
greater satisfaction to an honest mind than to see those
approbations which it gives itself, seconded by the ap-
plauses of the public. A man is more sure of his conduct
when the verdict which he passes upon his own behaviour
is thus warranted and confirmed by the opinion of all that
know him.

My worthy friend Sir Roger is one of those who is not
only at peace within himself, but beloved and esteemed by
all about him. He receives a suitable tribute for his uni-
versal benevolence to mankind, in the returns of affection
and good-will which are paid him by every one that lives
yvithin his neighbourhood. I lately met two or three odd

SIR KOGEU DE COVERLEY,

instances of that general respect which is shown to the good

old knight. He would needs carry Will Wimble and myself

with him to the county assizes. . . .

In our return home we met with a very odd accident,
which I cannot forbear relating, because it shows how
desirous all who know Sir Roger are of giving him marks of
their esteem. When we were arrived upon the verge of
his estate, we stopped at a little inn to rest ourselves and

lour horses. The man of the house had, it seems, been

[formerly a servant in the knight's family; and to dv

I honour to his old master, had, some time since, unknown
to Sir Roger, put him up in a sign-post before the door ;

I so that the knight's head hung out upon the road about a
week before he himself knew anything of the matter. As

t soon as Sir Roger was acquainted with it, finding that his
servant's indiscretion proceeded wholly from affection and
good-will, he only told him that he had made him too high

[ a compliment ; and, when the fellow seemed to thi nk th at
could hardly be, added, with a more decisive '

' was too great an honor for any man under^

j told him, at the same time, that it might '

[ a very few touches, and that he himself
charge of it. Accordingly they got aj
knight's directions to add a pair of whis
and by a little aggravation to the feati
into the Saracen's Head. I should not

[story, had not the innkeeper, upon Sir
told him in my hearing that his honour's he^

1 last night with the alterations that he had oi
made in it. Upon this, my friend, with his usiialTiresr-

I fulness, related the particulars above mentioned, and
ordered the head to be brought into the room. I could not

j forbear discovering greater expressions of mirth than or-
dinary, upon the appearance of this monstrous face, under
which, notwithstanding it was made to frown and stare

I in a most extraordinary manner, I could still discover a

[distant resemblance of my old friend. Sir Roger, upon
seeing me laugh, desired me to tell him truly if I thought

lit possible for people to know him in that disguise. I at

[first kept my usual silence ; but, upon the knight's con-
juring me to tell him whether it was not still more like

[himself than a Saracen, I composed my countenance in
jthe best manner I could, and replied, that much might bei
Igaid on both sides. . . ,

■ '\

SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY.

Sir Roger comes to London and calls on the Spectator :—

1 was this morning surprised with a great knocking at
the door, when my landlady's daughter came up to me
and told me that there was a man below desired to speak
with me. Upon my asking her who it was, she told me it
was a very grave, elderly person, but that she did not
know his name. I immediately went down to him, and
found him to be the coachman of my worthy friend Sir
Eoger de Coverley. He told me that his master came to
town last night, and would be glad to take a turn with me
in Gray's Inn walks. As I was wondering with myself
what had brought Sir Roger to town, not having lately
received any letter from him, he told me that his master
was come up to get a sight of Prince Eugene, and that he
desired I would immediately meet him. . . .

I was no sooner come into Gray's Inn walks, but I heard
my friend hemming twice or thrice to himself with great
vigour, for he loves to clear his pipes in good air (to make
use of his own phrase), and is not a little pleased with any
one who takes notice of the strength which he still exerts
in his morning hems.

I was touched with a secret joy at the sight of the good
old man, who, before he saw me, was engaged in conversa-
tion with a beggar-man that had asked an alms of him. I
could hear my friend chide him for not finding out some
work ; but at the same time saw him put his hand in his
pocket and give him sixpence. . . .

Among other pieces of news which the knight brought
from his country-seat, he informed me that Moll White
was dead, and that about a month after her death the wind
was so very high that it blew down the end of one of his
barns. But for my own part, says Roger, I do not think
that the old woman had any hand in it.

He afterwards fell into an account of the diversions
which had passed in his house during the holidays ; for Sir
Roger, after the laudable custom of his ancestors, always
keeps open house at Christmas.

I learned from him that he had killed eight fat hogs for
this season ; that he had dealt about his chines very liber-
ally amongst his neighbours : and that, in particular, he
had sent a string of hogs' puddings, with a pack of cards,
to every poor family in the parish. I have often thought
says Sir Roger, it happens very well that Christmas should ;
fall out in the middle of winter. It is the most dead, i
uncomfortable time of the year, when the poor people I
would suffer very much from their poverty and cold, if i

SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY.

ks, but I heard
iself with great
(d air (to make
leased with any
he still exerts

5ht of the good
;ed in conversa-
ilms of him. I
ding out some
his hand in his

cnight brought

lat Moll White

death the wind

of one of his

do not think

the diversions
olidays ; for Sir
cestors, always

;ht fat hogs for
ines very liber-
particular, he
pack of cards,
often thought
iristmas should
he most dead,
poor people
y and cold, if

they had not good cheer, warm fires, and Christmas gam-
bols to support them. I love to rejoice their poor hearts
at this season, and to see the whole village merry in my
great hall. 1 allow a double quantity of malt to my small-
beer, and set it a- running for twelve days to every one that
calls for it. 1 have always a piece of cold beef and a
mince-pie upon the table, and am wonderfully pleased to
see my tenants pass away n. y/hole evening in playing their
innocent tricks, and smutting one another. . . .

My friend told me that he had a great mind to see the
I new tragedy, "The Distressed Mother," with me, assuring
I me. at the same time, that he had not been at a play these
twenty years. ' ' The last I saw, ' ' said Sir Roger, ' ' was ' The
Committee,' which I should not have gone to neither had
not I been told beforehand that it was a good Church of
England coriiedy." He then proceeded to inquire of me who
this Distressed Mother was, and upon hearing that she was
Hector's widow, he told me that her husband was a brave
man, and that when he v/as a school-boy he had read his
life at the end of the dictionary. . . .

He expressei some fears of being attacked by robbers on hii way to
the play, but—

However, says the knight, if Captain Sentry will make
I one with us to-morrow night, and you will both of you call
iupon nie about four o'clock, that we may be at the house
! be 'bre it is full, I will have my own coach in readiness to
I attend you, for John tells me he has got the fore-wheels

mended.
The captain, who did not fail to meet me there at the

appointed hour, bid Sir Roger fear nothing, for that he
I had put on the same sword which he made use of at the

battle of Steenkirk. Sir Roger's servants, and among the
jrest, my old friend the butler, had, I found, provided

themselves with good oaken plants, to attend their master

upon this occasion. When we had placed him in his coach,

with myself at his left hand, the captain before him, and
(his butler at the head of his footmen in the rear, we con-
jveyed him in safety to the playhouse, where, after having
[marched up the entry in good order, the captain and I
jwent in with him, and seated him betwixt us in the pit.
JAs soon as the house was full and the candles lighted, my
lold friend stood up, and looked about him with that plea-
jsure which a mind seasoned with humanity naturally feels

I in itself at tho sight of a multitude of people who seem

SIR ROGER DE COVERLfiY.

pleased with one another, and partake of the same coni'
mon entertainment. I could not but fancy to myself, as
the old man stood up in the middle of the pit, that he
made a very proper centre to a tragic audience. Upon the
entering of Pyrrhus, the knight told me that he did not
believe the King of France himself had a better strut. I
was indeed very attentive to my old friend's remarks,
because I looked upon them as a piece of natural criticism
and was well pleased to hear him, at the conclusion of
almost every scene, telling me that he could not imagine
how the play would end. One while he appeared much
concerned for Andromache, and a little while after as
much for Hermione, and was extremely puzzled to think
what would become of Pyrrhus.

When Sir Eoger saw Andromache's obstinate refusal to
her lover's importunities, he whispered me in the ear, that
he was sure she would never have him | to which he added
with a more than ordinary vehemence, ''you can't imagine,
sir, what it is to have to do with a widow." Upon Pyrrhus
threatening to leave her, the knight shook his head, and
muttered to himself, *-'Ay, do if you can." This part
dwelt so much upon my friend's imagination, that at the
close of the third act, as I was thinking on something else,
he whispered me in my ear, *'Thes6 widowsy sir, are the
most perverse creatures in the worlr". But pray," says he,
" you that are a critic, is the play ic ;wrd..ig to your dram-
atic rules, as you call them? Should your people in
tragedy always talk to be understood ? Why, there is not
a single sentence in this play that I do not know the
meaning of."

The fourth act very luckily began before I had time to
give the old gentleman an answer. "Well," says the
knight, sitting down with great satisfaction, " I suppose
we are now to see Hector's ghost." He then renewed his
attention, and, from time to time, fell a praising the
widow. He made, indeed, a little mistake as to one of
her pages, whom, at his first entering, he took for Asty-
anax ; but quickly set himself right in that • particular,
though, at the same time, he owned he should have been
glad to have seen the little boy, who, says he, must needs
be a very fine child by the account that is given of him.
Upon Hermione's going off with a menace to Pyrrhus, the
audience gave a loud clap, to which Sir Roger added, " On
my word, a notable young baggage."

As there was a very remarkable silence and stillness in

StR ROGER DE COVERLEl*.

lot know the

the audience during the whole action, it was natural for
them to take the opportunity of the intervals between the
acts to express their opinion of the players and of their
respective parts. Sir Roger, hearing a cluster of them
praise Orestes, struck in with them, and told them that he
thought his friend Pylades was a very sensible man. As
they were afterward applauding Pyrrhus, Sir Roger put in
a second time : ''And let me tell you," says he, "though
he speaks but little, I like the old fellow in whiskers as
well as any of them." Captain Sentry, seeing two or three
wags, who sat near us, lean with an attentive ear towards
Sir Roger, and fearing lest they should smoke the knight,
plucked him by the elbow, and whispered something in
his ear that lasted till the opening of the fifth act. The
knight was wonderfully attentive to the account which
Orestes gives of Pyrrhus' death, and, at the conclusion of
it, told me it was such a bloody piece of work that he was
glad it was not done upon the stage. Seeing afterwards
Orestes in his raving tit, he grew more than ordinarily
serious, and took occasion to moralize, in his way, upon an
evil conscience, adding that Orestes in his madness looked
as if he saw something.

As we were the first that came into the house, so we were
the last that went out of it, being resolved to have a clear
passage for our old friend, whom we did not care to ven-
ture among the jostling of the crowd. Sir Roger went out
fully satisfied with his entertainment, and we guarded him
to his lodging in the same manner that we brought him to
Lhe playhouse, being highly pleased f5r my own part, not
only with the performance of the excellent piece which
had been presented, but with the satisfaction which it had
given to the good old man. . . .

Sir Roger, wishing to go to Vauxhall, is escorted by the Spectator.

We were no sooner come to the Temple Stairs but We
were surrounded with a crowd of watermen, offering us
their respective services. Sir Roger, after having looked
about him very attentively, spied one with a wooden leg,
and immediately gave him orders to get his boat ready.
As we were walking towards it, *'You must know," says
Sir Roger, " I never make use of anybody to row me that
has not lost either a leg or an arm. I would rather bate
him a few strokes of his oar than not employ an honest man
that has been wounded in the queen's service. If 1 was a

StR ROGER DE COVERLET.

' .

lord or a bishop, and kept a barge, I would not put a fel-
low in my livery that had not a wooden leg."

My old friend, after having seated himself, and trimmed
the boat with his coachman, who, being a very sober man,
always serves for ballast on these occasions, we made the
best of our way for Vauxhall. Sir Eoger obliged the
waterman to give us the history of his right leg ; and hear-
ing that he had left it at La Hogue, with many particulars
which passed in that glorious action, the knight, in the
triumph of his heart, made several reflections on the
greatness of the British nation; as that one Englishman
could beat three Frenchmen ; that we could never be in
danger of popery so long as we took care of our fleet ; that
the Thames was the noblest river in Europe ; that London
Bridge was a greater piece of work than any of the seven
wonders of the world ; with many other honest prejudices
which naturally cleave to the heart of a true English-
man. ...

The history of the worthy knight is thus concluded by the Spectator.

We last night received a piece of ill news at our club,
\yhich very sensibly afflicted every one of us. I question
not but my readers themselves will be troubled at the
hearing of it. To keep them no longer in suspense, 8ir
Eoger de Coverley is dead ! He departed this life at his
house in the country, after a few weeks' sickness. . . .
As my friend the butler mentions, in the simplicity of his
heart, several circubistances the others have passed over
in silence, I shall give my readers a copy of his letter,
without any alteration or diminution.

Honoured Sir,

Knowing that you was my old master's good friend, I
could not forbear sending you the melancholy news of his
death, which has afflicted the whole country, as well as his
poor servants, who loved him, I may say, better than we
did our lives. I am afraid he caught his death the last
county sessions, where he would go to see justice done to
a poor widow woman and her fatherless children, that had
been wronged by a neighbouring gentleman ; for you
know, sir, my good master was always the poor man's
friend. Upon his coming home, the first complaint he
made was that he had lost his roast-beef stomach, not
being able to touch a sirloin, which was served up accord-
ing to custom J and you know ho used to take great delight

SIR ROGER DE COVEELEY.

in it. From that time forward he grew worse and worse,
but still kept a good heart to the last. ... He has
bequeathed the fine white gelding that he used to ride a
hunting upon, to his chaplain, because he thought he
would be kind to him ; and has left you all his books. He
has, moreover, bequeathed to the chaplain a very pretty
tenement with good lands about it. It being a very cold
day when he made his will, he left for mourning to every
man in the parish a great frieze coat, and to every woman a
black riding-hood. It was a most moving sight to see him
take leave of his poor servants, commending us all for our
fidelity, whilst we were not able to speak a word for weep-
ing. As we most of us are grown grey- headed in our dear
master's. service, he has left us pensions and legacies, which
we may live very comfortably upon the remaining part of
our days. He has bequeathed a great deal more in charity
which is not yet come to my knowledge ; and it is per-
emptorily said in the parish that he has left money to
build a steeple to the church; for he was heard to say,
some time ago, that if he lived two years longer, Coverley
church should have a steeple to it. The chaplain tells
everybody that he made a very good end, and never speaks
of him without tears. . . . Captain Sentry, my mas-
ter's nephew, has taken possession of the Hall-house and
the whole estate. . . . He makes much of those whom
my master loved, and shows great kindness to the old
house-dog that you know my poor master was so fond of.
It would have gone to your heart to have heard the moans
the dumb creature made on the day of my master's death.
He has never enjoyed himself since ; no more has any of
us. It was the melancholiest day for the poor people that
ever happened in Worcestershire. This being all from,

Honoured Sir, your most sorrowful servant,

Edward Biscuit.

This letter, notwithstanding the poor butler's manner of
writing it, gave us such an idea of our good old friend, that
upon the reading of it there \yas not a dry eye in the club.

iiii';!

18 ' J'ARTRIDGIS AT THE PLAY.

PAKTEIDGE AT THE PLAYHOUSE.

Henry Fielding; horn at Sharpham Park, Somersetshircy
April 22, 1707 / educated at Eton an^ Ley den ; died at
Lisbon, October 8, 1754.

In the first row, then, of the first gallery, did Mr. Jones,.
Mrs. Miller, her youngest daughter, and Partridge, take
their places. Partridge immediately declared it was the-
finest place he had ever been in. When the first music was
played, he said, " It was a wonder how so many fiddlers
could play at one time ^vithout putting one another out. "
Nor could he help observing, with a sigh, when all the
candles were lighted, ''That here were candles enough burnt
in one night to keep an honest poor family for a twelve-
month."

As soon as the play, which was Hamlet, Prince of Den-
mark, began. Partridge was all attention, nor did he break
silence till the entrance of the ghost, upon which he asked
Jones, " What man that was in the strange dress, some
thing, " said he, " like what I have seen in a picture.
Sure it is not armour, is it? " Jones answered, " That is the
ghost." To which Partridge replied with a smile, " Per-
suade me to that, sir, if you can. Though I can't say I
ever actually saw a ghost in my life, yet I am certain I
should know one if I saw him better than that comes to.
Mo, no, sir: ghosts don't appear in such dresses as that
neither. " In this mistake, which caused much laughter in
the neighbourhood of Partridge, he was suflfered to conti-
nue till the scene between the ghost and Hamlet, when
Partridge gave that credit to Mr. Garrick which he had
denied to Jones, and fell into so violent a trembling that
his knees knocked against each other. Jones asked him
what was the matter, and whether he was afraid of the
warrior on the stage. •' Oh, la I sir, " said he, ''I perceive
now it is what you told me. I am not afraid of anything,
for I know it is but a play ; and if it was really a ghost, it
could do one no harm at such a distance, and in so much
company; and yet if I was frightened, I am not the
only person." <»Why, who," cries Jones, ''dost thou
take to be such a coward here beside thyself?" " Nay, you
may call me coward if you will ; but if that little man
there upon the stage is not frightened, I never saw any
man frightened in my life. Ay, ay, go along witli you I Ay,
to be sure ! Who's fool then ? Will you ? Whatever hap-

PARTRIDGE AT TlIK I'l AY.

pens, it is good enough for you. Follow you ! I'd follow the
devil as soon. Nay, perhaps it is the devil — for they say he
can put on what likeness he pleases. Oh I here he is again.
No farther 1 No, you have gone far enough already • far-
ther than I'd have gone for all the king's dominions."
Jones offered to speak, but Partridge cried, " Hush, hush,
dear sir ! don't you hear him? " And during the whole speech
of the ghost, he sat with his eyes fixed partly on the ghost,
and partly on Hamlet, and with his mouth open ; the same
passions which succeeded each other in Hamlet succeeding
likewise in him.

When the scene was over, Jones said, " Why, Partridge,
you exceed my expectations. You enjoy the play more than
I conceived possible. " '^ Nay, sir, " answered Partridge,
" if you are not afraid of the devil, I can't help it ; but, to
be sure, it is natural to be surprised at such things, though
I know there is nothing in them : not that it was the ghost
that surprised me neither ; for I should have known that
to have been only a man in a strange dress ; but when I saw
the little man so frightened himself, it was that which took
hold of me. " ''And dost thou imagine then, Partridge,"
cries Jones, " that he was really frightened ? " " Nay, sir,"
said Partridge, " did not you yourself observe • afterwards,
when he found it was his own father's spirit, and how he
was murdered in the garden, how his fear forsook him by
degrees, and he was struck dumb with sorrow, as it were,
just as I should have been, had it been my own case ? But
hush! Oh, lal what noise is that? There he is again. Well,
to be certain, though I know there is nothing at all in it,
I am glad I am not down yonder where those men are. "

During the second act, Partridge made very few remarks.
He greatly admired the fineness of the dresses ; nor could
he help observing upon the king's countenance. " Well, "
said lie, " how people may bo deceived by fiices I Nulla
Jidesfronti is, I find, a true saying. Who would think, by
looking in the king's face, that he had ever committed a
murder?" He then inquired after the ghost; but Jones,
who intended he should be surprised, gave him no other
satisfaction than " that he might possibly see him again
soon, and in a flash of fire. "

Partridge sat in fearful expectation of this ; and now, when
the ghost made his next appearance, Partridge cried out,
"There, sir, now; what (say you now; is he frightened
now or no ? As much frightened as you think me, and to
be sure nobody can help some foars ; I would not be in so

PAIITRIDGE AT THE PLAY.

bad a condition as — what's his name ? — Squire Hamlet is
there, for all the world. Bless me ! what's become of the
spirit? As I am a living soul, I thought I saw him sink
into the earth." "Indeed, you saw right," answered
Jones. "Well, well," cries Partridge, "I know it's only
a play; and besides, if there was anything in all this,
Madam Miller would not laugh so ; for, as to you, sir, you
would not be afraid, I believe, if the devil was here in per-
son. There, there j ay, no wonder you are in such a pas-
sion; shake the vile, wicked wretch to pieces. If she was
my own mother I should serve her so. To be sure, all
duty to a mother is forfeited by such wicked doings. Ay,
go about your business ; I hate the sight of you."

Our critic was now pretty silent till the play which Ham-
let introdvces before the king. This he did not at first
um' -IS till Jones explained it to him; but he no

soone; . * e'^ into the spirit of it, than he began to bless
himseil >;ii**,c uo had never committed murder. Then turn-
ing to Mrs. Miller, he asked her, " If she did not imagine
the kn:^ lO.^ked <? if he was touched ; though he is," said
he, "a good ^otoi . > nd doth all he can to hide it. Well, I
would not have so nmcii to answer for as that wicked man
there hath, to sit upon a much higher chair than he sits
upon. No wonder he ran away ; for your sake I'll never
trust an innocent face again."

The grave-digging scene next engaged the attention of
Partridge, who expressed much surprise at the number of
, skulls thrown upon the stage. To which Jones answered,
"That it was one of the most famous burial-places about
town." "No wonder, then," cries Partridge, "that the
place is haunted. But I never saw in my life a worse
grave-digger. I had a sexton when 1 was clerk that
should have dug three graves while he is digging one. The
fellow handles a spade as if it was the first time he had
ever had one in his hand. Ay, ay, you may sing. You
had rather sing than work, I believe." Upon Hamlet's
taking up the skull, he cried out, "Weill it is strange to
see how fearless some men are : I never could bring my-
self to touch anything belonging to a dead man on any
account. He seemed frightened enough too at the ghost,
I thought."

Little more worth remembering occurred during the
play, at the end of which Jones asked him, " Which of the
players he had liked best?" To this he answered, with
some appearance of indignation at the (^[uestion, "The

PICTURE OP GOLDSMITH.

king, without doubt," "Indeed Mr. Partridge," says
Mrs. Miller; "you are not of the same opinion with the
town ; for they are all agreed that Hamlet is acted by the
best player who ever was on the stage." " He the best
player 1" cries Partridge, with a contemptuous sneer:
" Why I could act as well as he myself. I am sure if I had
seen a ghost, I should have looked in the very same man-
ner, and done just as he did. And then, to be sure, in
that scene, as you called it, between him and his mother,
where you told me he acted so fine, why, any man, that is,
any good man, that had such a mother, would have done
exactly the same. I know you are only joking with me ;
but, indeed, madam, though I was never at a play in Lon-
don, yet I have seen acting before in the country ; and the
king for my money : he speaks all his words distinctly, half
as loud again as the otiier. Anybody may see he is an
actor,"

BOSWELL'S PICTUEE OF GOLDSMITH.

Jamts Boswell, born in Scotland, 1740j died in London, 1795.
Thefnend and biographer of Johnson.

Dr. Oliver Goldsmith was a native of Ireland, and a con-
tv^mporary with Mr. Burke, at Trinity College, Dublin, but
did not then give much promise of future celebrity. He,
however, observed to Mr. Malone that, though he made no
great figure in mathematics, which was a study in much
repute there, he could turn an Ode of Horace into English
better than any of them. He afterwards studied physio at
Edinburgh, and upon the Continent ; and, I have been in-
formed, was enabled to pursue his travels on foot, partly
by demanding, at Universities, to enter the lists as a dis-
putant, by which, according to the custom of many of
them, he was entitled to the premium of a grown, when,
luckily for him, his challenge was not accepted j so that,
as I once observed to Dr. Johnson, he disputed his passage
through Europe. He then came to England, and was em-
ployed successively in the capacities of an usher to an
academy, a corrector of the press, a reviewer, and a writer
for a newspaper. He had sagacity enough to cultivate
assiduously the acquaintance of Johnson, and his faculties

BOSWELL S PICTURE OF GOLDSMITH.

ill

were gradually enlarged by the contemplation of such a
model. To me and many others it appeared that he
studiously copied the manner of Johnson, though, indeed,
upon a smaller scale.

At this time I think he had published nothing with his
name, though it was pretty generally known that one Dr.
Goldsmith was the author of "An Inquiry into the Present
State of i^olite Learning in Europe," and of "The Citizen
of the World, " a series of letters supposed to be written
from London by a Chinese. No man had the art of dis-
playing with more advantage, as a wrii°r, whatever lite-
rary acquisitions he made. ' ' Nihil quod teliyit nou ornavit^^
His mind resembled a fertile but thin soil. There was a
quick, but not a strong, vegetation, of whatever chanced
to be thrown upon it. No deep root could be struck.
The oak of the forest did not grow there; but the elegant
shrubbery and the fragrant* parterre appeared in gay suc-
cession. It has been generally circulated and believed
that he was a mere fool in conversation ; but, in truth,
this has been greatly exaggerated. He had, no doubt, a
more than common share of that hurry of ideas which we
often find in his countrymen, and which sometimes pro-
duces a laughable confusion in exj)ressing them. He was
very much what the French call nii eknirdi, and from vani-
ty and an eager desire of being conspicuous wherever he
was, he frequently talked carel«^ssly without knowledge of
the subject, or even without thought. His person was
short, his countenance coarse and vulgar, his deportment
that of a scholar awkwardly affecting the easy gentleman.
Those who were in any way distinguished, excited envy in
him to so ridiculous an excess, that the instances of it are
hardly credible. When accompanying two beautiful young
ladies, with their mother, on a tour in France, he was
seriously angry that more attention was paid to them than
to him I and once at the exhibition of the Faatocciid in
London, when those who sat next him observed with what
dexterity a puppet was made to toss a pike, he could not
bear that it s;hould have such praise, and exclaimed, with
some warmtH, " Pshaw ! I can do it better myself."

He, I am afraid, had no settled system of any sort, so
that his conduct must not be strictly scrutinised ; but his
affections were social and generous, and when he had money
he gave it away very liberally. His desire of imaginary
consequence predominated over his attention to truth.
When he began to rise into notice, he said ho had a brother

boswell's picture op goldsmith.

who was Dean of Durham, a fiction bo easily detected, that
it is wonderful how he should have been so inconsiderate
as to hazard it. He boasted to me at this time of the power
of his pen in commanding money, which I believe was true
in a certain degree, though in the instance he gave he was
by no means correct. He told me that he had sold a novel
for four hundred pounds. This was his ' ' Vicar of Wake-
field." But Johnson informed me that he had made the
bargain for Goldsmith, and the price was sixty pounds.
"And, sir," said he, "a sufficient price too, when it was
8old; for then the fame of Goldsmith had not been ele-
vated, as it afterwards was, by his 'Traveller;' and the
bookseller had such faint . hopes of profit by his bargain,
that he kept the manuscript by him a long time, and did
not publish it till after the 'Traveller' had appeared.
Then, to be sure, it was accidentally worth more mo-
ney."

Mrs. Piozzi and Sir John Hawkins have strangely mis-
stated the history of Goldsmith's situation and Johnson's
friendly interference, when this novel was sold. I shall
give it authentically from Johnson's own exact narra-
tion : —

" I received one morning a message from poor Gold-
smith that he was in great distress, and, as it was not in
his power to come to me, begging that I would come to
him as soon as possible. I sent him a guinea, and pro-
mised to come to him directly. I accordingly went as soon
as I was dressed, and found that his landlady had arrested
him for his rent, at which he was in a violent passion. I
perceived that he had already changed my guinea, and had
got a bottle of Madeira and a glass before him. I put the
cork into the bottle, desired he would he calm, and began
to talk to him of the means by which he might be extri-
cated. He then told me that he had a novel ready for the
press, which he produced to nie. I looked into it, and
saw its merit ; told the landlady I should soon return : and
having gone to a bookseller, sold it for sixty pounds. I
brought Goldsmith the money, and he discharged his rent,
not without rating his landlady in a high tone for having
used him so ill."

My next meeting with Johnson was on Friday, the 1st
of July, when he and I and Dr. Goldsmith supped at the
Mitre. I was before this time pretty well acquainted with
Goldsmith, who was one of the brightest ornaments of the
Johnsonian school. Goldsmith's respectful attachment to

iiE VAILLANT S MONKEY.

Johnson was then at its height ; for his own literary repu-
tation had not yet distinguished him so much as to excite
a vain desire of competition with his great master. Be
had increased my admiration of the goodness of Johnson's
heart, by incidental remarks in the course of conversation,
such as, when I mentioned Mr. Levett, whom he enter-
tained under his roof, *'He is poor and honest, which is
recommendation enough to Johnson j" and when I won-
cered that he was very kind to a man of whom I had heard
a very bad character, " He is now become miserable, and
that ensures the protection of Johnson."

Goldsmith attempting this evening to maintain, I sup-
pose from an affectation of parajlox, "that knowledge was
not desirable on its own account, for it often was the source
of unhappiness |" Johnson : ** Why, sir, that knowledge
may, in some cases, produce unhappiness, I allow. But,
upon the whole, knowledge, per se, is certainly an object
which every man would wish to attain, although, perhaps,
he may not take the trouble necessary for attaining it."

LE VAILLANT' S MONKEY.

Frangois Le Vaillant, born at Paramaribo, Guiana, 1753;
died 1824. Naturalist and traveller.

An animal, which often rendered me essential services,
whose presence has frequently interrupted or banished
from my memory the most bitter and harassing reflec-
tions, whose simple and touching affection even seemed,
on some occasions, to anticipate my wishes, and whose
playful tricks were a perfect antidote to ennui, was a
monkey of the species so common at the Cape, and so
well known by the name of ' Bavian.' It was very familiar,
and attached itself particularly to me. I conferred upon
it the office of my taster-general, and when we met
with any fruits or roots unknown to my Hottentots, we
never ventured to eat them till they had been presented
to, and pronounced upon, by Kees. If he ate, we fed ''pon
them ; if he refused to eat them, we did so likewise. The
baboon has this quality in particular, which distinguishes
him from the lower animals, and approximates him more
nearly to man : he has received from Nature equal por-

LE vaillant's Monkey

tions of curiosity and gluttony ; he tastes everything you
give him ; without necessity he touches whatever comes in
his way. But in Kees I valued a still more precious quali-
ty. He was a most trusty guardian. Night or day, it
mattered not, the most distant approach of danger roused
him to instant watchfulness; and his cries and gestures
invariably warned us of any unusual occurrence long before
my dogs got scent of it. Indeed, these otherwise faithful
guardians became so habituated to his voice, and depended
so implicitly upon his instinct, that they became utterly
careless of their own duty, and, instead of watching our
encampment, went to sleep in full confidence. But no
sooner had he given the alarm than the whole pack were
up and on the alert, flying to defend the quarter from
which his motions directed them to expect the threatened
danger. ... I often took him out with me on my
hunting and shooting excursions. On the way he amused
himself by climbing the trees in search of gum, of which he
was passionately fond. Sometimes he would discover the
honey combs which the wild bees deposit in the hollows of
decayed trees ; but when neither gum nor honey were to
be found, and he began to be pressed by hunger, an exhi-
bition of the most comic and amusing nature took place.
In default of more dainty fare, he would search for roots,
and, above all, for a particular kind, which the Hottentots
call < kameroo,' which he greatly admired, and which, un-
fortunately for him, I had myself fo\ind so refreshing and
agreeable, that I often contested the possession of the
prize with him.

This put him upon his mettle, and developed all his
talents for ruse and deception. When he discovered the
kameroo at any distance from me, he commenced devour-
ing it, without even waiting to peel it according to his
usual custom, his eyes all the while eagerly fixed upon my
motions, and he generally managed matters so adroitly as
to have finished the banquet before I reached him. Occa-
sionally, however, I would arrive too soon for him; he
would then break the root and cram it into his cheek-
pouches, from which I have often taken it without his dis-
playing any malice or resentment at what he must have
considered as an act of great injustice. To pluck up the
roots, he resorted to a most ingenious method, which
greatly amused me. Seizing the tuft of leaves with his
teeth, he dug about and loosened the root with his fingers,
and by then drawing his head gently backwards he com-

LE VATLLANT'g MONKEY.

monly raaniiged to extract it without brenking; but when
this method failed, he would seize the tuft as before, and
as close to the root as possible, and then, suddenly turning
a somersault, he would throw himself head over heels, and
the kameroo rarely failed to follow.

On these little expeditions, when he felt himself fa-
tigued, it was most ludicrous to see him mounting upon
the back of one of my dogs, which he would thus compel
to carry him for hours together. One of the pack, how-
ever, was more than a match for him, even at his own
weapons — cunning and finesse. As soon as this animal
found Kees upon his shoulders, instead of trying to shake
him off or dispute the point, which he knew by experience
to be useless, he would make a dead halt, and, with great
resignation and gravity, stand as immovable as a statue,
whilst our whole train passed by and proceeded on their
journey. Thus the two would continue, mutually trying
to tire out one another's patience, till we were nearly out
of sight. This had no effect upon the dog, who, to do him
justice, possessed a most praiseworthy firmness of charac-
ter, and an obstinacy which would have done honour to a
logician ; but with Kees it was a different matter. He saw
the distance increasing without any better chance of over-
coming hid adversary's resolution than at first. Then
comtnenced a most ludicrous and amusing scene. Kees
would alight, and both follow the caravan at full speed ;
but the dog, always distrusting the finesse of the monkey,
would adroitly allow him to pass on a little before him, for
fear of a surprise, and never for a moment taking his eye
off him. In other respects he had gained a complete
ascendancy over the whole pack, which he undoubtedly
owed to the superiority of his instinct, for among animals,
as among men, cunning and address are frequently more
than a match for physical force. It was only at meal times,
however, that Kees ever showed any ill-nature towards the
dogs I when any of them approached him on that impor-
tant occasion, the administration of a sound box on the
ear warned him to keep at a more respectful distance, and
it is singular that none of the pack ever disputed the point
or resented the affront.

Like all monkeys, he was incorrigibly addicted to petty
larceny, and had he been an Englishman, would have been
long since tried at the Old Bailey, and transported to
Botany Bay ; but being a freeborn Africandar — for such is
the name by which the Cape colonists delight to be called

LE VAILL ant's JIOXKEY.

)ut when
fore, and
Y turning
eels, and

mself fa-
ing upon
s compel
ick, how-

his own
is animal
to shake
cperience
ith great
a statue,

on their
Lly trying
learly out
to do him
)f charac-
nour to a
He saw
e of over-
t. Then
le. Kees
11 speed ;

monkey,
5 him, for
g his eye
complete
ioubtedly

animais,
atly more
eal times,
wards the
lat impor-
X on the
ance, and
the point

d to petty
lave been
5orted to
5r such is
be called

—ho committed his depredations with impunity, or only
fled for an hour or two to the woods to escape immediate
chastisement, always, however, taking good care to return
by nightfall. Never but on one occasion did he absent
himself during the night. It was near dinner-time, and I
had just prepared some fricasseed beans on my plate, when
suddenly the cry of a bird which I htid not before heard
called otF my attention, and I seized my gun and set off* in
pursuit of it. I had not been more than a quarter of an
hour absent, when I returned with my bird in my hand ;
but Kees and my dinner had both disappeared in the
meantime, though I had severely chastised him for steal-
ing my supper on the previous evening. I concluded,
however, that, as usual, he would return on the approach
of night, when he fancied that the affliir would be forgotten,
and so thought no more of it. But for once I was mis-
taken in him ; evening came without any appearance ot
Kees, nor had any of my Hottentots seen him on the fol-
lowing morning, and I began to fear that I had lost him
for good. I really began seriously to feel the loss of his
amusing qualities and watchfulness, when, on the third
day after his disappearance, one of my peojjle hn iiglit the
welcome intelligence that he had encountered him in the
neighbouring wood, but that he concealed himself among
the branches upon seeing that he was discovered. I' imme-
diately proceeded to the place indicated, and, after beating
some time about the environs to no purpose, at length
heard his voice in the tone which he usually adopted when
supplicating for a favour or a remission of punishment.
Upon looking up, I perceived him half hid behind a large
branch in a tree immediately above me, from which, in
fact, he had been watching our encampment ever since
his departure ; but all my persuasions could not prevail
upon him to descend, and it was only by climbing the tree
that 1 finally succeeded in securing him. He madte no
attempt to escape me, however, and his countenance ex-
hibited a ludicrous mixture of joy at the meeting and fear
of being punished for his misdeeds.

On one occasion, I resolved to reward my Hottentots
for good conduct. The pipe -went merrily round, joy was
pictured on every countenance, and the brandy-bottle was
slowly circulating. Keey, all impatience for the arrival of
his turn, followed it with his eyes, holding his plate ready
for his allotted portion ; for I had found that in drinking
out of a glass his impatience generally caused some of the

ATTEMPT TO STEAL THE CROWX.

liquc/i' to run up his nose, which greatly incoiiimoded him,
and kept him coughing and sneezing for hours afterwards.
T was engaged at the moment in sealing a letter. He had
just received the share of the brandy, and was stooping
down to drink it, when I adroitly introduced a slip of
lighted paper under his chin. The whole plate suddenly
burst into flame, and the terrified animal, with a yell of
indescribable horror, leaped backwards at least twelve or
fifteen feet at a single bound, and continued, during the
whole time the brandy was burning, to chatter and gaze
intently at a phenomenon which he no doubt considered
of preternatural occurrence. He could never afterwards
be prevailed upon to taste spirits of any kind, and a mere
sight of a bottle was at all times sufficient to frighten and
alarm him.

BLOOD'S ATTEMPT TO STEAL THE CROWN.

From Batjley's " History and Antiquities of the Tower of

London.^'

It was soon after the appointment of Sir Gilbert Taibot
that the regalia in the Tower first became objects of pub-
lic inspection, which King Charles allowed in consequence
of the reduction in the emoluments of the master's office.
The profits which arose from showing the jewels to strangers,
Sir Gilbert assigned, in lieu of a salary, to the person whom
he had appointed to the care of them. This was an old
confidential servant of his father's, one Talbot Edwards,
whose name is handed down to posterity as keeper of the
regalia, when the notorious attempt to steal the crown was
made in the year 1673 ; the following account of which is
chiefly derived from a relation which Mr. Edwards himself
made of the transaction.

About three weeks before this audacious villain Blood
made his attempt upon the crown, he came to the Tower
in the habit of a parson, with a long cloak, cassock, and
canonical girdle, accompanied by a woman, whom he called
his wife. They desired to see the regalia, and, just as iheir
wishes had been gratified, the lady feigned sudden indis-
position ; this called forth the kind offices of Mrs. Edwards,
the keeper's wife, who, having courteously invited her
into their house to repose herself, she soon recovered, and.

ATTEMPT TO STEAL THE CROWN.

on their departure, they professed themselves thankful for
this civility. A few days after, Blood came again, bringing a
present to Mrs. Edwards of four pairs of white gloves from
his pretended wife ; and having thus begun the acquaint-
ance, they made frequent visits to improve it. After a short
respite of their compliments, the disguised ruffian returned
again ; and, in conversation with Mrs. Edwards, said that
his wife could discourse of nothing but the kindness of
those good people in the Tower — that she had long studied,
and at length bethought herself of a handsome way of re-
quital. "You have," quoth he, "a pretty young gentle-
woman for your daughter, and 1 have a young nephew, who
has two or three hundred a-year in land, and is at my dis-
posal. If your daughter be free, and you approve it, I'll
bring him here to see her, and we will endeavour to make
it a match." This was easily assented to by old Mr. Ed-
wards, who invited the parson to dine with him on that
day ; he readily accepted the invitation ; and, taking upon
him to say grace, performed it with great seeming devotion,
and casting up his eyes, concluded it with a prayer for the
King, Queen, and Royal family. After dinner, he went up
to see the rooms, and, observing a handsome case of pistols
hang there, expressed a great desire to buy them, to present
to a young lord, who was his neighbour ; a pretence by
which he thought of disarming the house against the period
intended for the execution of his design. At his departure,
which was a canonical benediction of the good company,
he appointed a day and hour to bring his young nephew to
see his mistress, which was the very day that he made his
daring attempt. The good old gentleman had got up
ready to receive his guest, and the daughter was in her
best dress to entertain her expected lover ; when behold.
Parson Blood, with three more, came to the jewel-house,
all armed with rapier blades in their canes, and every one
a dagger, and a brace of pocket-pistols. Two of his com-
panions entered in with him, on pretence of seeing the
crown, and the third stayed at the door, as if to look after
the young lady, a jewel of a more charming description,
but in reality as a watch. The daughter, who thought it
not modest to come down till she was called, sent a maid
to take a view of the company, and bring a description of
her gallant ; and the servant, conceiving that he was the
intended bridegroom who stayed at the door, being the
youngest of the party, returned to soothe the anxiety of
her young mistress with tho idea she had formed of his

ftJ

ATTEMPT TO STEAL THE CROWN.

person. Blood told Mr. Edwards that they would not go
up-stairs till his wife came, and desired him to show his
friends the Cxown to pass the time till then | and they had
no sooner entered the room, and the door, as usual, shut,
than a cloak was thrown over the old man's head, and a rifr
put in his mouth. Thus secured, they told him that their
resolution was to have the crown, globe, and sceptre | and
if he would quietly submit to it, they would spare his life |
otherwise he was to expect no mercy. He thereupon en-
deavoured to make all the noise he possibly could, to be
heard above ; they then knocked him down with a wooden
mallet, and told him that, if yet he would lie quietly, they
would spare his life | but if not, upon his next attempt to
discover them, they would kill him. Mr. Edwards, how-
ever, according to his own account, was not intimidated by
this threat, but strained himself to make the greater noise
and, in consequence, received several more blows on the
head with the mallet, and was stabbed in the belly ;
this again brought the poor old man to the ground, where
he lay for some time in so senseless a state, that one of the
villains pronounced him dead. Edwards had come a little
to himself, and hearing this, lay quietly, conceiving it best
to be thought so. The booty was now to be disposed of,
and one of them, named Parrot, secreted the orb. Blood held
the crown under his cloak | and the third was about to file
the sceptre in two, in order that it might be placed in a bag,
brought for that purpose ; but, fortunately, the son of Mr.
Edwards, who had been in Flanders with Sir John Talbot,
and, on his landing in England, had obtained leave to come
away post to visit his father, happened to arrive whilst this
scene was acting ; and on coming to the door, the person
that stood sentinel asked with whom he would speak; to
which he answered, that he belonged to the house ; and,
perceiving the person to bo a stranger, told him that if he
had any business with his father he would acquaint him
with it, and so hastened up stairs to salute his friends.
This unexpected accident spread confusion amongst the
party, and they instantly decamped with the crown and
orb, leaving the sceptre yet unfiled. The aged keeper now
raised himself upon hi;^ legs, forced the gag from his riouth,
and cried, " Treason 1 murder 1" which being heard by his
daughter, who wa?, perhaps, anxiously expecting far other
sounds, ran out and reiterated the cry. The alarm now
became general, and young Edwards and his brother-in-
law, Captain Bookman, ran after the conspirators, whom a

ATTEMPT TO STEAL TUE CROWN.

warder put himself in a position to stop, but Blood dis-
charged a pistol at him, and he fell, although unhurt, and
the thieves proceeded safely to the next post, where one
Sill, who had been a soldier imder Cromwell, stood senti-
nel ; but he offered no opposition, and they accordingly
passed the drawbridge. Horses were waiting for them at
St. Catherine's Gate; and as they ran that way along the
Tower Wharf, they themselves cried out, "Stop the
rogues!" by which they passed on unsuspected, till Cap-
tain Beckman overtook them. At his head Blood fired
another pistol, but missed him and was seized. Under
the cloak of this daring villain was found the crown, and
although he saw himself a prisoner, he had yet the impu-
dence t© struggle for his prey; and when it was finally
wrested from him, said : " It was a gallant attempt, how-
ever unsuccessful ; it was for a crown 1" Parrot who had
formerly served under General Harrison, was also taken ;
but Hunt, Blood's son-in-law, reached his horse and rode
off, as did two other of the thieves; but he was soon
afterwards stopped, and likewise committed to custody.
In this struggle and confusion, the great pearl, a large
diamond, and several smaller stones were lost from the
crown ; but the two former, and some of the latter, were
afterwards found and restored ; and the Ballas ruby, broken
off the sceptre, being found in Parrot's pocket, nothing
considerable was eventually missing.

As soon as the prisoners were secured, young Edwards
hastened to Sir Gilbert Talbot, who was then master and
treasurer of the Jewel House, and gave him an account of
the transaction. Sir Gilbert instantly went to the king,
and acquainted His Majesty with it ; and His Majesty com-
manded him to proceed forthwith to the Tower, to see how
matters stood ; to take the examination of Blood and the
others: and to return and report it to him. Sir Gilbert
accordmgly went ; but the king in the meantime was per-
suaded by some about him to hear the examination him-
self, and the prisoners were, in consequence, sent for to
Whitehall; a circumstance which is supposed to have
saved these daring wretches from the gallows.

On his examination under such an atrocious charge,
Blood audaciously replied, ''that he would never betray an
associate, or defond himself at the expense <5f uttering a
falsehood." IFe even averred, perliaps, more than was
true against himself, wlien ho confensed that he had lain
concealed among the reeds for the purpose of killing the

ATTEMPT TO STEAL THE CROWN.

king with a carbine, while Charles was bathing j but he
pretended that on this occasion his purpose was discon-
certed by a secret awe — ^appearing to verify the allegation
in Shakspeare, "There's such divinity doth hedge a king,
that treason can but peep to what it would, acts little of its
will," To this story, true or false, Blood added a declara-
tion that he was at the head of a numerous following,
disbanded soldiers and others, who, from motives of reli-
gion, were determined to take the life of the king, as the
only obstacle to their obtaining freedom of worship and
liberty of conscience. These men, he said, would be de-
termined, by his execution, to persist in the resolution of
putting Charles to death; whereas, he averred that, by
sparing his life, the king might disarm a hundred poniards
directed against his own. This view of the case made a
strong impression on Charles, whose selfishness was un-
commonly acute; yet he felt the impropriety of pardoning
the attempt upon the life of the Duke of Ormond, and
condescended to ask that faithful servant's permission,
before he would exert his authority, to spare the assassin.
Ormond answered, that, if the king chose to pardon the
attempt to steal his crown, he himself might easily consent
that the attempt upon his own life, as a crime of much less
importance, should also be forgiven. Charles, accordingly,
not only gave Blood a pardon, but endowed him with a
pension of £500 a-year ; which led many persons to infer,
not only that the king wished to preserve himself from the
future attempts of this desperate man, but that he had it
also in view to secure the services of so determined a ruf-
fian, in case he should have an opportunity of employing
him in his own line of business. There is a striking con-
trast between the fate of Blood, pensioned and rewarded
for this audacious attempt, and that of the faithful Edwards,
who may be safely said to have sacrificed his life in defence
of the property entrusted to him ! In remuneration for
his fidelity and his sufferings, Edwards only obtained a
grant of £200 fron the Exchequer, with £100 to his son ;
but so little pains were taken about the regular discharge
of these donatives, that the parties entitled to them were
]^la4 to sell them for half the sum.

HtJRAL LIFE IX ENGLAND.

but he
discon-
egation
a king,
le of its
ieclara-
Llowing,
I of reli-
;, as the
klip and
be de-
ition of
that, by
poniards
made a
was un-
^rdoning
nd, and
mission,
assassin.
don the
• consent
ciuch less
^rdingly,
with a
;o infer,
*rom the
had it
ad a ruf •
iploying
ing con-
ewarded
dwards,
defence
tion for
ained a
his son;
ischarge
em were

RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND.

Washington Irving, an American writer, long resident in
England, born 1783; died 1859.

The stranger who would form a correct opinion of the
English character, must not confine his observations to
the metropolis. He must go forth into the country | he
must sojourn in villages and hamlets ; he must visit castles,
villas, farm-houses, cottages , he must wander through
parks and gardens; along hedges and green lanes; he
must loiter about country churches ; attend wakes and
fairs, and other rural festivals ; and cope with the people
in all their* conditions, and all their habits and humors.

In some countries the large cities absorb the wealth and
fashion of the nation ; they are the only fixed abodes of
elegant and intelligent society, and the country is inhabited
almost entirely by boorish peasantry. In England, on the
contrary, the metropolis is a mere gathering place, or ge-
neral rendezvous, of the polite classes, where they devote
a small portion of the year to a hurry of gaiety and dissipa-
tion, and having indulged this carnival, return again to the
apparently more congenial habits of rural life. The various
orders of society are therefore diffused over the whole sur-
face of the kingdom, and the most retired neighbourhoods
afford specimens of the different ranks.

The English, in fact, are strongly gifted with the rural
feeling. They possess a quick sensibility to the beauties
of nature, and a keen relish for the pleasures and employ-
ments of the country. This passion seems inherent in
them. Even the inhabitants of cities, born and brought
up among brick walls and bustling streets, enter with
facility into rural habits, and evince a turn for rural occu-
pation. The merchant has his snug retreat in the vicinity
of the metropolis, where he often displays as much pride
and zeal in the cultivation of his fiower-garden, and the
maturing of his fruits, as he does in the conduct of his
business and the success of his commercial enterprises.
Even those less fortunate individuals, who are doomed to
pass their lives in the midst of din and traffic, contrive to
have something that shall remind them of the green aspect
of nature. In the most dark and dingy quarters of the
city, the drawing-room window resembles frequently a bank
of flowers ; every spot capable of vegetables has it^ grasS'

RURAL LIFE 1^ ENGLAXD.

plot and flower-bed; and every square its mimic park,
laid out with picturesque taste and gleaming with refresh-
ing verdure.

Those who see the Englishman only in luwn, are apt to
form an unfavourable opinion of his social character. He
is either absorbed in business, or distracted by the thou-
sand engagements that dissipate time, thought, and feeling
in this huge metropolis ; he has, therefore, too commonly
a look of hurry and abstraction. Wherever he happens to
be, he is on the point of going somewhere else ; at the
moment he is talking on one subject, his mind is wander-
ing to another : and while paying a friendly visit, he is cal-
culating how he shall economize time so as to pay the
other visits allotted to the morning. An immense metro-
polis like London is calculated to make men selfish and
uninteresting. In their casual and transient meetings,
they can but deal briefly in common places. They present
but the cold superficies of character — its rich and genial
qualities have no time to be warmed into a flow.

It is in the country that the Englishman gives scojje to
his natural feelings. He breaks loose gladly from the
cold formalities and negative civilities of town ; throws oft'
his habits of shy reserve, and becomes joyous and free-
hearted. He manages to collect around him all the con-
veniences and elegancies of polite life, and to banish its
restraint. His country seat abounds with every requisite,
either for studious retirement, tasteful gratification, or
rural exercise. Books, paintings, music, horses, dogs, and
sporting implements of all kinds, are at hand. He puts
no constraint either upon his guests or himself, but in the
true spirit of hospitality provides the means of enjoyment,
and leaves every one to partake according to his inclina-
tion.

The taste of the English in the cultivation of land, and
in what is called landscape gardening, is unrivalled. They
have studied nature intently, and discover an exquisite
sense of her beautiful forms and harmonious combinations.
Those charms, which in other countries she lavishes in
wild solitudes, are here assembled round the haunts of
domestic life. They seem to have caught her coy and fur-
tive glances, and spread them, like witchery, about their
rural abodes.

Nothing can be more imposing than the magnificence of
English park scenery. Vast lawns that extend like sheets
of vivid green, with here and there clumps of gigantic trees,

RURAL LIFE IN BNOLAND.

Lc park,
refresh-

'e apt to
ter. He
he thou-
d feeling
Dmmonly
ppens to
5 at the
i wander -
he is cal-
1 pay the
se metro-
ilfish and
meetings,
jy present
nd genial

3 scope to
from the

throws off

and free-

the con-

janish its

requisite,

ication, or
dogs, and
He puts
)ut in the
njoyment,
is inclina-

land, and
3d. They
exquisite
Ibinations.
Lvishes in
haunts of
and fur-
tout their

Ificence of

Ike sheets

itic trees,

heaping up rich piles of foliage. The solemn pomp of
groves and woodland glades, with the deer trooping in
silent herds across them; the hare, bounding away to the
covert ; or the pheasant, suddenly bursting upon the wing.
The brook, taught to wind in the most natural meander-
ings, or expand into a glassy lake — the sequestered pool,
reflecting the quivering trees, with the yellow leaf sleeping
on its bosom, and the trout roaming fearlessly about its
limpid waters ; while some rustic temple or sylvan statue,
giown green and dark with age, gives an air of classic
sanctity to the seclusion.

These are but a few of the features of park scenery ; but
what most delights me, is the creative talent with which
the English decorate the unostentatious abodes of middle
life. The rudest habitation, the most unpromising and
scanty portion of land, in the hands of an Englishman of
taste, becomes a little paradise. With a nicely discriminat-
ing eye, he seizes at once upon its capabilities, and pictures
in his mind the future landscape. The sterile spot grows
into loveliness under his hand ; and yet the operations of
art which produce the effect are scarcely to be perceived.
The cherishing and training of some trees ^ the cautious
pruning of others ; the nice distribution of flowers and
plants of tender and graceful foliage : the introduction of a
green slope of velvet turf; the partial opening to a peep of
blue distance, or silver gleam of water ; all these are manag-
ed with a delicate tact, a prevailing yet quiet assiduity,
like the magic touchings with which a painter finishes up a
favourite picture.

The residence of people of fortune and refinement in the
country has diffused a degree of taste and elegance in rural
economy that descends to the lowest class. The very la-
bourer, with his thatched cottage and narrow slip of ground,
attends to their embellishment. The trim hedge, the grass-
plot before the door, the little flower-bed bordered with
snug box, the woodbine trained up against the wall, and
hanging its blossoms about the lattice, the pot of flowers
in the window, the holly providentially planted about the
house, to cheat winter of its dreariness, and throw in a
semblance of green summer to cheer the fireside ; all these
bespeak the influence of taste, flowing down from high
source J, and pervading the lowest levels of the public mind.
If ever Love, as poets sing, delights to visit a cottage, it
must be the cottage of an English peasant.

The fondness for rural life among the higher classes of

RURAL LlFR IX ENGLAND.

the English has had a great and salutary efiect upon tlie
national character. I do not know a finer race of men than
the English gentlemen. Instead of the softness and ef-
feminacy which characterize the men of rank in most
countries, they exhibit a union of elegance and strength,
a robustness of frame and freshness of complexion, which
I am inclined to attribute to their living so much in the
open air, and pursuing so eagerly the invigorating recrea-
. tions of the country. These hardy exercises produce also
a healthful tone of mind and spirits, and a manliness and
simplicity of manners, which even the follies and dissipa-
tions of the town cannot easily pervert, and can never
entirely destroy. In the country, too, the different orders
of society seem to approach more freely, to be more disposed
to blend and operate favourably upon each other. The
distinctions between them do not appear to be so marked
and impassable as in the cities. The manner in which pro-
perty has been distributed into small estates and farms,
has established a regular gradation from the nobleman,
through the classes of gentry, small landed proprietors, and
substantial farmers, down to the labouring peasantry ; and
while it has thus banded the extremes of society together,
has infused into each intermediate rank a spirit of inde-
pendence. This, it must be confessed, is not so universally
the case at present as it was formerly : the larger estates
having, in late years of distress, absorbed the smaller, and,
in some parts of the country, almost annihilated the sturdy
race of small farmers. These, however, I believe, are but
casual breaks in the general system I have mentioned.

In rural occupation there is nothing mean and debasing.
It leads a man forth among scenes of natural grandeur and
beauty j it leaves him to the workings of his own mind,
operated upon by the purest and most elevating of exter-
nal influences. Such a man may be simple and rough, but
he cannot be vulgar. The man of refinement, therefore,
finds nothing revolting in an intercourse with the lower
orders of rural life, as he does when he casually mingles
with the lower orders of cities. He lays aside his distance
and reserve, and is glad to waive the distinctions of rank,
and to enter into the honest heartfelt enjoyments of com-
mon life. Indeed the very amusements of the country
bring men more and more together, and the sound of
hound and horn blend all feelings into harmony. I believe
this is one great reason why the nobility and gentry are
more popular among the inferior orders in England than

RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND.

they are in any other country ; and why the latter have
endured so many excessive pressures and extremities,
without repining more generally at the unequal distribu-
tion of fortune and privilege.

To this mingling of cultivated and rustic society may also
be attributed the rural feeling that runs through British
literature ; the frequent use of illustrations from rural life :
those incomparable descriptions of nature which abound
in the British poets, that have continued down from ' The
Flower and the Leaf of Chaucer, and have brought into
our closets all the freshness and fragrance of the dewy
landscape. The pastoral writers of other countries appear
as if they had paid Nature an occasional visit, and become
acquainted with her general charms ; but the British poets
have lived and revelled with her — they have wooed her in
her most secret haunts — they have watched her minutest
caprices. A spray could not tremble in the breeze — & leaf
could not rustle to the ground — a diamond drop could
not patter in the stream — a fragrance could not exhale
from the humble violet, nor a daisy unfold its crimson
tints to the morning, but it has been noticed by these im-
passioned and delicate observers, and wrought up into
some beautiful morality.

The eflfect of this devotion of elegant minds to rural
occupations has been wonderful on the face of the country.
A great part of the island is level, and would be monoto-
nous were it not for the charms of culture ; but it is stud-
ded and gemmed as it were, with castles and palaces, and
embroidered with parks and gardens. It does not abound
in grand and sublime prospects, but rather in little home-
scenes of rural repose and sheltered quiet. Every antique
farmhouse, and moss-grown cottage is a picture; and as
the roads are continually winding, and the view is shut in
by groves and hedges, the eye is delighted by a continual
succession of small landscapes of captivating loveliness.

The great charm, however, of English scenery is the
moral feeling that seems to pervade it. It is associated in
the mind with ideas of order, of quiet, of sober well-estab-
lished principles, of hoary usage and reverend custom.
Everything seems to be the growth of ages, of regular and
peaceful existence. The old church of remote architec-
ture, with its low massive portal ; its Gothic tower ; its
windows rich with tracery and painted glass | its stately
monuments of warriors and worthies of the olden time,
wcestors of the present lords of the soil ; its tombstones,

*1S

POPULAR SUPERSTITIONS.

recording successive generations of sturdy yeomanry, whose
progeny still plough the same fields and kneel at the same
altar. The parsonage, a quaint irregular pile, partly anti-
quated, but repaired and altered in the taste of various
ages and occupants — the stile and footpath leading from
the church-yard across pleasant fields, and along shady
hedgerows, according to an iEnmemorable right of way —
the neighbouring village, with its venerable cottages, its
public green sheltered by trees, under which the fore-
fathers of the present race have sported — the antique
family mansion standing apart in some little rural domain,
but looking down with a protecting air on the surrounding
scene; all these common features of English landscape
evince a calm and settled security, an hereditary transmis-
sion of home-bred virtues and local attachments that speak
deeply and touchingly for the moral character of the na-
tion.

POPULAR SUPERSTITIONS.
Washington Irving.

1 have mentioned the squire's fondness for the marvel-
lous, and his predilection for legends and romances. His
library contains a curious collection of old works of this
kind, which bear evident marks of having been much read.
In his great love for all that is antiquated, he cherishes
popular superstitions, and listens with very grave atten-
tion to every tale, however strange ; so that, through his
countenance, the household, and, indeed, the whole neigh-
bourhood, is well stocked with wonderful stories ; and if
ever a doubt is expressed of any one of them, the narrator
will generally observe that the "squire thinks there's
something in it."

The Hall, of course, comes in for its share, the common
people having always a propensity to furnish a great
superannuated building of the kind with supernatural
inhabitants. The gloomy galleries of such old family man-
sions, the stately chambers adorned with grotesque car-
vings and faded paintings, the sounds that vaguely echo
about them, the moaning of the wind ; the cries of rooks
and ravens from the trees and chimney-tops — all produce
a state of mind favourable to superstitious fancies,

POPULAR SUPERSTITIONS.

In one chamber of the Hall, just opposite a door which
opens upon a dusky passage, there is a full length portrait
01 a warrior in armour. When, on suddenly turning into
the passage, 1 have caught a sight of the portrait, thrown
into strong relief by the dark pannelling against which it
hangs, I have more than once been startled, as though it
were a figure advancing towards me.

To superstitious minds, therefore, predisposed by the
strange and melancholy stories that are connected with
family paintings, it needs but little stretch of fancy, on a
moonlight night, or by the flickering light of a candle, to
$et the old pictures on the walls in motion, sweeping in
their robes and trains about the galleries.

To tell the truth, the squire confessed that he used to
take a pleasure in his younger days in setting marvellous
Btories afloat, and connecting them with the lonely and
peculiar places of the neighbourhood. Whenever he read
jany legend of a striking nature, he endeavoured to trans-
i plant it, and give it a local habitation among the scenes of
I his boyhood. Many of these stories took root, and he says
■ he is often amused with the odd shapes in which they come
back to him in some old woman's narrative, after they
have been circulating for years among the peasantry, and
undergoing rustic additions and amendments. Among
these may doubtless be numbered that of the crusader's
ghost, which I have mentioned in the account of my
Christmas visit I and another about the hard- riding squire
of yore, the family Nimrod ; who is sometimes heard on
stormy winter nights, galloping with hound and horn,
over a wild moor a few miles distant from the Hall.
This I apprehend to have had its origin in the famous
story of the wild huntsman, the favourite goblin in Ger-
man tales; though, by-thebye, as I was talking on the
subject with Master Simon the other evening in the dark
avenue, he hinted that he had himself once or twice heard
odd sounds at night, very like a pack of hounds in cry ;
and that once, as he was returning rather late from a hunt-
ing dinner, he had seen a strange figure galloping along
this same moor ; but as he was riding rather fast at the
time, and in a hurry to get home, he did not stop to as-
certain what it was.

Popular superstitions are fast fading away in England,
owing to the general dififusion of knowledge, and the bust-
ling intercourse kept up throughout the country, still
they have their strongholds and lingering places, and a

POPULAR SUPERSTITIONS.

retired neighbourhood like this is apt to be one of them.
The parson tells me that he meets with many traditional
beliefs and notions among the common people, which he
has been able to draw from them in the course of familiar
conversation, though they are rather shy of avowing them
tto strangers, and particularly to " the gentry," who are apt
to laugh at them. He says there are several of his old
parishioners who remember when the village had its bar-
guest, or bar-ghost ; a spirit supposed to belong to a town
or village, and to predict any impending misfortune by
midnight shrieks and wailings. The last time it was heard
was just before the death r f Mr. Bracebridge's father, who
was much beloved throughout the neighbourhood ; though
there are not wanting some obstinate unbelievers, who
insisted that it was nothing but the howling of a watch-dog.
I have been greatly delighted, however, at meeting witk
some traces of my old favourite, Robin Goodfellow, though
under a different appellation from any of those by which I
have heretofore heard him called. The parson assures me
that many of the peasantry believe in household goblins,
called Dobbies, which live about particular farms and
houses, in the same way that Robin Goodfellow did of
old.

There is a large, old fashioned lire-place in the farm-
house, which affords fine quarters for a chimney-corner
sprite that likes to lie warm ; especially as Ready-Money
Jack keeps up rousing fires in the winter time. The old
people of the village recollect many stories about this gob-
lin that were current in their young days. It was thought
to have brought good luck to the house, and to be the
reason why the Tibbets were always beforehand in the
world, and why their farm was always in better order, their
hay got in sooner, and their corn better stacked than that
of their neighbours. The present Mrs. Tibbets, at the
time of her courtship, had a number of these stories told
her by the country gossips ; and when married, was a little
fearful about living in a house where such a hobgoblin was
said to haunt. Jack, however, who has always treated tin's
story with great contempt, assured her that there wi" r
sprite kept about his house that he could not at any o
lay in the Red Sea with one flourish of his cudgel. ill
his wife has never got completely over her notions on tii*',
subject, but has a horse-shoe nailed on the threshold, and
keeps a branch of rauntry, or mountain ash, with its red
berries, suspended from one of the great beams in the par-
lour — a sure protection from all evil spirits.

POPULAR SUPERSTITIONS.

These fairy superstitions seem to me to accord with the
nature of English scenery. They suit these small land-
scapes, which are divided by honey-suckled hedges into
sheltered fields and meadows, where the grass is mingled
with daisies, buttercups, and hare-bells. When I first
found myself among English scenery, I was continually
reminded of the sweet pastoral images which distinguish
their fairy mythology , and when for the first time a circle
in the grass was pointed out to me as one of the rings
where they were formerly supposed to have held their
moonlight revels, it appeared for a moment as if fairy-land
were no longer a fable.

It seems to me that the older British poets, with that
true feeling for nature which distinguishes them, have
closely adhered to the simple and familiar imagery which
they found in these popular superstitions, and have thus
given to their fairy mythology those continual allusions to
the farm-house and the dairy, the green meadow and the
fountain-head, that fill our minds with the delightful asso-
ciations of rural life. It is curious to observe how the most
delightful fictions have their origin among the rude and
ignorant. There is an indescribable charm about the allu-
sions with which chimerical ignorance once clothed every
subject. These twilight views of nature are often more
captivating than any which are revealed by the rays of
enlightened philosophy. The most accomplished and poet-
ical minds, therefore, have been fain to search back into
these accidental conceptions of what are termed barbarous
ages, and to draw from them their finest imagery and
machinery. If we look through our most admired poets,
we shall find that their minds have been impregnated by
these popular fancies, and that those have succeeded best
who have adhered closest to the simplicity of their rustic
originals. It is thus that poetry in England has echoed
back every rustic note, softened into perfect melody ; it is
thus that it has spread its charms over every -day life, dis-
' icing nothing, taking things as it found them, but tint-
ing them up with its own magical hues, until every green
hill and fountain-head, every fresh meadow, nay, every
1 nble flower, is full of song and story.

42 THE FRIGATE AMONG THE SHOALS.

THE FRIGATE AMONG THE SHOALS.

/. Fenimore Cooper, the most popular of American novelists,
born at Burlington, New Jersey, 1789, died 1851.

The ship had fallen off with her broadside to the sea, and
was become unmanageable, and the sails were already
brought into the folds necessary to her security, when the
quick and heavy fluttering of canvas was thrown across the
water, with all the gloomy and chilling sensations that
such sounds produce, where darkness and danger unite to
appal the seaman.

The pilot turned from his contemplative posture, and
moved slowly across the deck before he returned any reply
to this question — like a man who not only felt that every-
thing depended on himself, but that he was equal to the
emergency.

" 'Tis unnecessary," he at length said ; " 'twould be
certain destruction to be taken aback ; and it is difficult
to say within several points how the wind may strike us."

'"Tis difficult no longer," cried Griffith j ''for here it
comes and in right earnest."

The rushing sounds of the wind were now indeed heard
at hand ; and the words were hardly r)ast the lips of the
young lieutenant, before the vessel bowed down heavily to
one side, and then, as she began to move through the
water, rose again majestically to her upright position, as if
saluting like a courteous champion the powerful antagonist
with which she was about to contend. Not another minute
elapsed before the ship was throwing the waters aside with
a lively progress, and, obedient to her helm, was brought
as near to the desired course as the direction of the wind,
would allow.

The hurry and bustle on the yards gradually subsided,
and th-^ men slowly descended to the dock, all straining
their eyes to pierce the gloom in which they were envel-
oped, and some shakmg their heads in melancholy doubt,
afraid to express the apprehensions they really entertained.
All on board anxiously waited for the fury of the gale ; for
there were none so ignorant or inexperienced in that gal-
lant frigate as not to know that as yet they only felt the
infant effects of the wind. Each moment, however, it
increased in power, thougli so gradufil was the alteration
that the relieved mariners began to believe that all their
gloomy forebodings were not to bo realised.

TKB FRIGATE AMONG THE SUOALS.

"It blows fresh," cried Griffith, who was the first to
speak in that moment of doubt and anxiety; " but it is no
more than a cap-full of wind after all. Give us elbow-room
and the right canvas Mr. Pilot, and I'll handle the ship
like a gentleman's yacht in this breeze."

"Will she stay, think ye, under this sail?" said the low
voice of the stranger.

" She will do all that man in reason can ask of wood and
iron," returned the lieutenant ; ''but the vessel don't float
the ocean that will tack under double-reefed topsails alone
against a heavy sea. Help her with the courses, pilot,
aad you shall see her come round like a dancing-master."

"Let us feel the strength of the gale first," returned the
man who was called Mr. Gray, moving from the side of
Griffith to the weather gangway of the vessel, where he
stood in silence looking ahead of the ship with an air of
singular coolness and abstraction.

All the lanterns had been extinguished on the deck of
the frigate when her anchor was secured, and as the first
mist of the gale had passed over, it was succeeded by a
faint light, that was a good deal aided by the glittering
foam of the waters, which now broke in white curls around
the vessel in every direction. The land could be faintly
discerned rising like a heavy bank of black fog above the
margin of the waters, and was only distinguishable from
the heavens by its deeper gloom and obscurity. The last
rope was coiled and deposited in its proper place by the
seamen, and for several minutes the stillness of death per-
vaded the crowded decks. It was evident to every one
that their ship was dashing at a prodigious rate through
the waves; and as she was approaching with such velocity
the quarter of the bay where the shoals and dangers were
known to be situated, nothing but the habits of the most
exact discipline could suppress the uneasiness of the officers
and men within their own bosoms. At length the voice of
Captain Munson was heard calling to the pilot.

" Shall I send a hand into the chains, Mr. Gray," ho said,
" and try our water ?"

Although this question was asked aloud, and the inter-
est it excited drew many of the officers and men around
him in eager impatience for his answer, it was unheeded
by the man to whom it was addressed. His head rested on
his hand as he leaned over ihe hammock cloths of the ves-
sel, and his whole air was that of one whoso thoughts wan-
dcred from the pressing necessity of their situation.

H ii

THE FRIGATE AMONG THE SHOALS.

Griffith was among those who had approached the pilot ;
and after waiting a moment from respect, to hear the
answer to his commander's question, he presumed on his
own rank, and leaving the circle that stood at a little dis-
tance, stepped to the side of the mysterious guardian of
their lives.

" Captain Munson desires to know whether you wish a
cast of the lead?" said the young officer, with a little im-
patience of manner. No immediate answer was made to
this repetition of the question, and Griffith laid his hand
unceremoniously on the shoulder of the other with an
intent to rouse him before he made another application for
a reply, but the convulsive start of the pilot held him
silent in amazement.

"Fall back there," said the lieutenant sternly to the
men, who were closing around them in a compact circle :
'^away with you to your stations, and see all clear for
stays." The dense mass of heads dissolved at this order,
lii;e the water of one of the waves commingling with the
ocaan, and the lieutenant and his companion were left by
themselves.

"This is not a time for musing Mr. Gray," continued
Griffith ; " remember our compact and look to your charge.
Is it not time to put the vessel in stays ? Of what are you
dreaming?" ♦ ♦ *

" I hope much of your experience has been on this coast,
for the ship travels lively," he said, "and the daylight
showed us so much to dread, that we do not feel over-
valiant in the dark. How much longer shall we stand upon
this tack?"

The pilot turned slowly from the side of the vessel, and
walked towards the commander of the frigate, as he re-
plied, in a tone that seemed deeply agitated by melancho-
ly reflections —

"You have your wish, then; much, very much of my
early life was passed on this dreaded coast. What to you
is all darkness and gloom, to me is as light as if a noon-day
sun shone upon it. But tack your ship, sir, tack your
ship ; I would see how she works before we reach the point
where she must behave well, or we perish."

Griffith gazed after him in wonder, while the pilot slowly
paced the quarterdeck, and then, rousing from his trance,
gave forth the cheering order that called each man to his
station to perform the desired evolution. The confident
assurances which the young officer had given to the pilot

tUE ]?RIOA¥£ AMONG THE! SHOALS.

I'espec fling thQ qualities of his vessel, and his own £ibility
to manage her, were fully realised by the result. The helm
was no sooner put alee, than the huge ship bore up gal-
lantly against the wind, and dashing directly through the
waves, threw the foam high into the air, as she looked
boldly into the very eye of the wind, and then, yielding
graicefuUy to its power, she fell off on the other tack, with
her head pointed from those dangerous shoals that she
had so recently approached with such terrifying velocity.
The heavy yards swung round as if they had been vanes to
indicate the currents of the air ; and in a few moments the
frigate again moved with stately progress through the water,
leaving the rocks and shoals behind her on one side of the
bay, but advancing towards those that offered equal danger
on the other.

During this time the sea was becoming more agitated,
and the violence of the wind was gradually increasing.
The latter no longer whistled amid the cordage of the ves-
sel, but it seemed to howl surlily as it passed the compli-
cated machinery that the frigate obtruded on its path.
An endless succession of white surges rose above the heavy
billows, and the very air was glittering with the light that
was disengaged from the ocean. The ship yielded each
moment more and more before the storm, and in less than
half an hour from the time that she had lifted her anchor,
she was driven along with tremendous fury by the full
power of a gale of wind. Still the hardy and experienced
mariners who directed her movements, held her to the
course that was necessary to their preservation, and still
Griffith gave forth, when directed by their unknown pilot,
those orders that turned her in the narrow channel where
alone safety was to be found.

So far the performance of his duty appeared easy to the
stranger, and he gave the required directions in those still
calm tones that formed so remarkable a contrast to the re-
sponsibility of his situation. But when the land was
becoming dim in distance as well aa darkness, and the
agitated sea alone was to be discovered as it swept by them
in foam, he broke in upon the monotonous roaring of the
tempest with the sounds of his voice, seeming to shake off
his apathy and rouse himself to the occasion.

" Now is the time to watch her closely, Mr. Griffith," he
cried; "here we get the true tide and the real danger.
Place the best quarter- master of your ship in those chains,
and let an officer stand by him and see that ho gives us the
right water."

I-';

THE FRIGATE AMONG THE SHOALS.

"I will take that office on myself," saU the captain j
"pass a light into the weather main-chains."

" Stand by your braces !" exclaimed the pilot, with
startling quickness. " Heave away that lead !"

These preparations taught the crew to expect the crisis,
and every officer and man stood in fearful silence at his
assigned station, awaiting the issue of the trial. Even the
quarter-master at the gun gave out his orders to the men
at the wheel in deeper and hoarser tones than usual, as
if anxious not to disturb the quiet and order of the vessel.
While this deep expectation pervaded the frigate, the
piercing cry of the leadsman, as he called " By the mark
seven," rose above the tempest, crossed over the decks,
and appeared to pass away to leeward, borne on the blast
like the warnings of some water-spirit.

"'Tis well," returned thfc pilot calmly; "try it again."
The short pause was succeeded by another cry, " And a
half-five I"

"She shoals I she shoals 1" exclaimed Griffith: "keep
her a good full."

"Ay I you must hold the vessel in command now," said
the pilot, with those cool tones that are most appalling in
critical moments, because they seem to denote most pre-
paration and care.

The third call, "By the deep four !" was followed by a
prompt direction from the stranger to tack.

Griffith seemed to emulate the coolness of the pilot
in issuing the necessary orders to execute this manoeuvre.

The vessel rose slowly from the inclined position into
which she had been forced by the tempest, and the sails
were shaking violently, as if to release themselves from
their confinement while the ship stemmed the billows,
when the well-known voice of the sailing master was heard
shouting from the forecastle —

" Breakers 1 breakers, dead ahead !"
This appalling sound seemed yet to be lingering about
the ship when a second voice cried —
" Breakers on our leebow I'"

"Wo are in a bite of tlie ...loalB, Mr. (fray," cried the
commander. " She loses her way | perhaps an anchor
might hold her."

" Clear away that best bower !" shouted Griffith through
his trumpet.

"Hold on!" cried the pilot, in a voice that reached the
very hearts of all who heard himj "hold on everything."

THE FRIGATE AMONG THE HOALS.

keep

about

d the

ling."

The young man turned fiercely to the daring stranger
who thus defied the discipline of his vessel, and at once
demanded —

" Who is it that dares to countermand my orders? Is it
not enough that you run the ship into danger, but you

must interfere to keep her there ? If another word 7"

"Peace, Mr. Griffith," interrupted the captain, bending
from the rigging, his grey locks blowing about in the wind
and adding a look of wildness to the haggard face that he
exhibited by the light of his lantern. '' Yield the trumpet
to Mr. Gray ; he alone can save us."

Griffith threw his speaking-trumpet on the deck, and, as
he walked proudly away, muttered in bit'-erness of feel-
ing—

" Then all is lost indeed ! and among the rest the foolish
hopes with which I visited this coast."

There was, however, no time for reply. The ship had
been rapidly running into the wind, and as the eftbrts of
the crew were paralysed by the contradictory orders they
had heard, she gradually lost her way and in a few seconds
all her sails were taken aback.

Before the crew understood their situation the pilot had
applied the trumpet to his mouth, and in a voice that rose
above the tempest he thundered forth his orders. Each
command was given distinctly, and with a precision that
showed him to be master of his profession. The helm was
kept fast, the headyards swung up heavily against the wind,
and the vessel was soon whirling round on her heel with a
retrograde movement.

Griffith was too much of a seaman not to perceive that
the pilot had seized, with a perception almost intuitive,
the only method that promised to extricate the vessel from
her situation. He was young, impetuous, and proud — but
he was also generous. Forgettmg his resentment and his
mortification, he rushed forward among the men, and by
his presence and example added certainty to the experi-
ment. The ship fell off slowly before the gale and bowed
her yards nearly to the water, as she felt the blast pouring
its fury on her broadside, while the surly waves beat vio-
lently against her stern, as if in reproach at departing from
her usual manner of moving.

The voice of the pilot, however, was still heard, steady
and calm, and yet so clear and high as to reach every ear j
and the obedient seamen whirled the yards at his bidding,
in despite of the tempest, as if they handled the toys of

i^H

¥h£! friqaI^ amoi^g the shoals.

their childhood. When the ship had fallen oflf dead before
the wind, her head-sfiils were shaken, her after-yards
trimmed, and her helm shifted, before she had time to
run upon the danger that had threatened as well to lee-
ward as to windward. The beautiful fabric, obedient to
her government, threw her bows up gracefully towards the
wind again J and as her sails were trimmed, moved out
from amongst the dangerous shoals in which she had been
embayed, as steadily and swiftly as she had approached
them.

A moment of breathless astonishment succeeded the ac-
complishment of this nice manoeuvre, but there was no
time for the usual expressions of surprise. The stranger
still held the trumpet, and continued to lift his voice amid
the bowlings of the blast, whenever prudence of skill
required any changa in the management of the ship. For
an hour longer there was a fearful struggle for their pre-
servation, the channel becoming at each step more com-
plicated, and the shoals thickening around the mariners
on every side. The lead was cast rapidly, and the quick
eye of the pilot seemed to pierce the darkness with a
keenness of vision that exceeded human power. It was
apparent to all in the vessel that they were under the
guidance of one who understood the navigation thoroughly,
and their exertions kept pace with their reviving confl-
dence. Again and again the frigate appeared to be rushing
blindly on shoals where the sea was covered with foam,
and where destruction would have been as sudden as it
was certain, when the clear voice of the stranger was heard
warning them of the danger and inciting them to their
duty. The vessel was implicitly yielded to his government 5
and during those anxious moments when she was dashing
the waters aside, throwing the spray over her enormous
yards, each ear would listen eagerly for those sounds that
had obtained a command over the crew that can only be
acquired under such circumstances by great steadiness and
consummate skill. The ship was recovering from the
inaction of changing her course, in one of those critical
tacks that she had made so often, when the pilot for the
first time addressed the commander of the frigate, who
still continued to superintend the all-important duty of the
leadsman.

''Now is the pinch," he said, "and if the ship behaves
well we are safe — but if otherwise, all we have yet done
will be useless."

((■

THE FRIGATE AMONG THE SHOALS.

The veteran seaman whom he addressed left the chains
at this portentous notice, and calling to his first lieuten-
ant, required of the stranger an explanation of his warn-
ing.

" See you yon light on the southern headland?" returned
the pilot; " you may know it from the star near it — by its
sinking at times in the ocean. Now observe the hom-moc,
a little north of it, looking like a shadow in the horizon —
' tis a hill far inland. If we keep that light open from the
hill, we shall do wellj but if not, we surely go to pieces."

" Let us tack again 1" exclaimed the lieutenant.

The pilot shook his head as he replied —

'< There is no more tacking or box-hauling to he done
to-night. We have barely room to p^ss out of the shoals
on this course; and if we can weather the 'Devil's Grip,'
we clear their outermost point ; but if not, as I said before,
there is but one alternative."

" If we had beaten out the way we entered," exclaimed
Griffith, " we should have done well."

"Say, also, if the tide would have let us do so," returned
the pilot, calmly. "Gentlemen, we must be prompt; we
have but a mile to go, and the ship appears to fly. That
topsail is not enough to keep her up to the wind ; we want
both jib and mainsail."

" 'Tis a perilous thing to loosen canvas in such a tem-
pest 1" observed the doubtful captain.

"It must be done," returned the collected stranger;
" we perish without it. See ! the light already touches the
edge of the hom-moc ; the sea casts us to leeward 1"

" It shall be done 1" cried Griffith, seizing the trumpet
from the hand of the pilot.

The orders of the lieutenant were executed almost as
soon as issued, and everything being ready, the enormous
folds of the mainsail were trusted loose to the blast. There
was an instant when the result was doubtful ; the tremen-
dous threshing of the heavy sail seemed to bid defiance to
all restraint, shaking the ship to her centre ; but art and
strength prevailed, and gradually the canvas was distended
and, bellying as it filled, was drawn down to its usual place
by the power of a hundred men. The vessel yielded to
this immense addition of force, and bowed before it like a
reed bending to a breeze. But the success of the measure
was announced by a joyful cry from the stranger that
seemed to burst from his inmost soul.

<'She feels it! she springs Jier luff ! observe," he said,

THE FRIOATE AMONG THE SHOALS.

" the light opens from the horn- moo akeady; if she will
only bear her canvas we shall go clear 1"

A report like that of a cannon interrupted his exclama-
tion, and something resembling a white cloud was seen
drifting before the wind from the head of the ship till it
was driven in the gloom far to leeward.

"'Tis the jib blown from the bolt-ropes/' said the com-
mander of the frigate. "This is no time to spread light
duck — but the mainsail may stand it yet."

" The sail would laugh at a tornado," returned the lieu-
ter .tnt ; "but the mast springs like a piece of steel."

"Silence all!" cried the pilot. "Now, gentlemen, we
shall soon know our fate. Let her luff— luff you can !"

This warning effectually closed all discourse, and the
hardy mariners, knowing that they had already done all in
the power of man to ensure their safety, stood in breath-
less anxiety awaiting the result. At a short distance ahead
of them the whole ocean was white with foam, and the
waves, instead of rolling on in regular succession, appeared
to be tossing about in mad gambols. A single streak of
dark billows, not half a cable's length in width, could be
discerned running into this chaos of water ; but it was soon
lost to the eye amid the confusion of the disturbed element.
Along this narrow path the vessel moved more heavily
than before, being brought so near the wind as to keep her
sails touching. The pilot sile^irly proceeded to the wheel,
and with his own hands he undertook the steerage of the
ship. No noise proceeded from the frigate to interrupt
the horrid tumult of the ocean j and she entered the chan-
nel among the breakers with the silence of a desperate
calmness. Twenty times as the foam rolled away to lee-
ward the crew were on the eve of uttering their joy, as they
supposed the vessel past the danger; but breaker after
breaker ^ould still heave up before them, following each
other into the general mass, to check their exultation.
Occasionally the fluttering of the sails would be heard ; and
when the looks of the startled seamen were turned to the
wheel, they beheld the stranger grasping its spokes, with
his quick eye glancing from the water to the canvas. At
length the ship reached a point where she appeared to be
rushing directly into the jaws of destruction, when sud-
denly her course was changed and her head receded rapidly
from the wind. At the same instant the voice of the pilot
was heard shouting :

" Square away the yards I — in mainsail !"

BATTLE OF CHALGROVE.

A general burst from the crew echoed " Square away
the yards 1" and quick as thought the frigate was seen
gliding along the channel before the wind. The eye had
hardly time to dwell on the foam which seemed like clouds
driving in the heavens, and directly the gallant vessel
issued from her perils and rose and fell on the heavy waves
of the sea.

BATTLE OF CHALGROVE.

Thomas Bahington, afterwards Lord Macaulay, Poet, Histo-
rian and Orator. Born at Bothley TempUj Leicester. October
25th, 1800/ died 1859.

In the evening of the 17th of June, Eupert darted out
of Oxford with his cavalry on a predatory expedition. At
three in the morning of the following day, he attacked and
dispersed a few Parliamentary soldiers who lay at Pots-
combe. He then flew to Chinnor, burned the village, killed
or took all the troops who were quartered there, and pre-
pared to hurry back with his booty and his prisoners to
Oxford.

Hampden had, on the preceding day, strongly repre-
sented to Essex the danger to which this part of the line
was exposed. As soon as he received intelligence of Ru-
pert's incursion, he sent off a horseman with a message to
the General. The Cavaliers, he said, could return only by
Chiselhampton Bridge. A force ought to be instantly
despatched in that direction for the purpose of intercepting
them. In the meantime, he resolved to set out with all the
cavalry that he could muster, for the purpose of impeding
the march of the enemy till Essex could take measures for
cutting oflE" their retreat. A considerable body of horse
and dragoons volunteered to follow him. He was not their
commander. He did not even belong to their branch of
the service. But he was, says Lord Clarendon, " second to
none but the General himself in the observance and appli-
cation of all men." On the field of Chalgrove he came up
with Rupert. A fierce skirmish ensued. In the first charge,
Hampden was struck in the shoulder by two bullets, which
broke the bone, and lodged in his body. The troops of the
Parliament lost heart and gave way. Rupert, after pur-
suing them for a short time, hastened to cross the bridge,
and made his retreat unmolested to Oxford.

BATTLE OF CHALGROVE.

Hampden, with his head drooping, and his hands leaning
on his horse's neck, moved feebly out of the battle. The
mansion which had been inhabited by his father-in-law, and
from which in his youth, he had carried home his bride
Elizabeth, was in sight. There still remains an affecting
tradition that he looked for a moment towards that beloved
house, and made an effort to go thither to die. But the
enemy lay in that direction. He turned his horse towards
Thame, where he arrived almost fainting with agony.The sur-
geons dressed his wounds. But there was no hope. The pain
which he suliered was most excruciating. But he endured
it with admirable firmness and resignation. His first care
was for his country. He wrote from his bed several letters
to London concerning public affairs, and sent a last pressing
message to the head-quarters, recommending that the dis-
persed forces should be concentrated. When his public
duties were performed, he calmly prepared himself to die.

A short time before Hampden's death the sacrament
was administered to him. His intellect remained un-
clouded. When all was nearly over, he lay murmuring
faint prayers for himself, and for the cause in which he died.
" Lord Jesus," he exclaimed, in the moment of the last
agony, *' receive my soul. Lord, save ijiy country. O

Lord, be merciful to ." In that broken ejaculation

passed away his noble and fearless spirit.

He was buried in the parish church of Hampden. His
soldiers, bareheaded, with reversed arms and muffled drums
and colours, escorted his body to the grave, singing as they
marched that lofty and melancholy psalm in which the fra-
gility of human life is contrasted with the immutability of
Him to whom a thousand years are as yesterday when it is
passed, and as a watch in the night.

The news of Hampden's death produced as great a con-
sternation in his party, according to Clarendon, as if their
whole army had been cut off. The journals of the time amply
prove that the Parliament and all its friends were filled
with grief and dismay. Lord Nugent has quoted a remark-
able passage from the next Weekly Intelligencer. " The loss
of Colonel Hampden goeth near the heart of every man
that loves the good of his king and country, and makes
some conceive little content to be at the army now that he
is gone. The memory of this deceased colonel is such, that
in no age to come but it will more and more be had in
honour and esteem ; a man so religious, and of that pru-
dence, judgment, temper, valour, and integrity, that he
hath left few his like behind."

DEATH OP CHATHAM.

He had indeed left none his like behind him. There still
remained, indeed, in his party, many acute intellects, many
eloquent tongues, many brave and honest hearts. There
still remained a rugged and clownish soldier, half fanatic,
half buffoon, whose talents, discerned as yet only by one
penetrating eye, were equal to all the highest duties of thfe
soldier and the prince. But in Hampden, and in Hampden
alone, were united all the qualities which, at such a crisis,
were necessary to save the state : the valour and energy of
Cromwell, the discernment and eloquence of Vane, the
humanity and moderation of Manchester, the stern integ-
rity of Hale, the ardent public spirit of Sydney. Others
might possess the qualities which were necessary to save
the popular party in the crisis of danger ; he alone had both
the power and the inclination to restrain its excesses in the
hour of triumph. Others could conquer ; he alone could
reconcile. A heart as bold as his brought up the cuiras-
siers who turned the tide of battle on Marston Moor. As
skilful an eye as his watched the Scotch army descending
from the heights over Dunbar. But it was when to the
sullen tyranny of Laud and Charles had succeeded the fierce
conflict of sects and factions, ambitious of ascendancy and
burning for revenge, it was when the vices and ignorance
which the old tyranny had generated threatened the new
freedom with destruction — that England missed the sobriety,
the self-command, the perfect soundness of judgment, the
perfect rectitude of intention, to which the history of revo-
lutions furnishes no parallel, or furnishes a parallel in
Washington alone.

a con-
f their
amply
filled
emark-
le loss
ry man
makes
;hat he
h, that
had in
at pru-
hat he

DEATH OF CHATHAM.

Lord Macaiilay.

The Duke of Kichmond had given notice of an address
to the throne, against the further prosecution of hostilities
with America. Chatham had, during some time, absented
himself from Parliament, in consequence of his growing
infirmities. He determined to appear in his place on this
occasion, and to declare that his opin' ns were decidedly
at variance with those of the Rockingham party. He was
in a state of great excitement. His medical attendants
were uneasy, and strongly advised him to calm himself,

DEATH OP CHATHAM,

and to remain at home. But he was not to be controlled. His
son William, and his son-in-law Lord Mahon, accompanied
him to Westminster. He rested himself in the Chancellor's
room till the debate commenced, and then, leaning on his
two young relations, limped to his seat. The slightest par-
ticulars of that day were remembered, and have been care-
fully recorded. He bowed, it was remarked, with great
courtliness to those peers who rose to make way for him
and his supporters. His crutch was in his hand. He wore,
as was his fashion, a rich velvet coat. His legs were swathed
in flannel. His wig was so large and his face so emaciated,
that none of his features could be discerned, except the
high curve of his nose, and his eyes, which still retained a
gleam of the old fire.

• When the Duke of Richmond had spoken, Chatham rose.
For some time his voice was inaudible. At length his tones
became distinct and his action animated. Here and there
his hearers caught a thought or an expression which re-
minded them of William Pitt. But it was clear that he was
not himself. He lost the thread of his discourse, hesitated,
repeated the same words several times, aifd was so confused
that, in speaking of the Act of Settlement, he could not
recall the name of the Electress Sophia. The House list-
ened in solemn silence, and with the aspect of profound
respect and compassion. The stillness was so deep that
the dropping of a handkerchief would have been heard.
The Duke of Richmond replied with great tenderness and
courtesy ; but while he spoke, the old man was observed
to be restless and irritable. The Duke sat down. Chatham
stood up again, pressed his hand on his breast, and sank
down in an apoplectic fit. Three or four lords wlio sat near
him caught him in his fall. The House broke up in con-
fusion. The dying man was carried to the residence of one
of the officers of Parliament, and was so far restored as to
be able to bear a journey to Hayes. At Hayes, after linger-
ing a few weeks, he expired in his seventieth year. His
bed was watched to the last with anxious tenderness by his
wife and children ; and he well deserved their care. Too
often haughty and wayward to others, to them he had been
almost effeminately kind. He had through life been
dreaded by his political opponents, and regarded with more
awe than love even by his political associates. But no fear
seems to have mingled with the affection which his fond-
ness, constantly overflowing in a thousand endearing forms,
had inspired in the little circle at Hayes.

1)EATH OF CHATHAM.

Chathatn, at the time of his decease, had not, in both
Houses of Parliament, ten personal adherents. Half the
public men of the age had been estranged from him by h ^
errors, and the other half by the exertions which he had
made to repair his errors. His last speech had been an
attack at once on the poUcy pursued by the Government,
and on the policy recommended by the Opposition. But
death restored him to his old place in the affection of his
country. Who could hear unmoved of the fall of that
which had been so great, and which had stood so long ?
The circumstances, too, seemed rather to belong to the
tragic stage than to real life. A great statesman, full of
years and honours, led forth to the Senate House, by a son
of rare hopes, and stricken down in full council while
straining his feeble voice to rouse the drooping spirit of his
coimtry, could not but be remembered with peculiar vene-
ration and tenderness. Detraction was overawed. The
voice even of just and temperate censure was mute. Noth-
ing was remembered but the lofty genius, the unsullied
probity, the undisputed services, of him who was no more.
For once, all parties agreed. A public funeral, a public
monument, were eagerly voted. The debts of the deceased
were paid. A provision was made for his family. The City
of London requested that the remains of the great man
whom she had so long loved and honoured might rest under
the dome of her magnificent cathedral. But the petition
came too late. Everything was already prepared for the
interment in Westminster Abbey.

Though men of all parties had concurred in decreeing
posthumous honours to Chatham, his corpse was attended
to the grave almost exclusively by opponents of the Gov-
ernment. The banner of the lordship of Chatham was
borne by Colonel Barre, attended by the Duke of Richmond
and Lord Rockingham. Burke, Savile, and Dunning upheld
the pall. Lord Camden was conspicuous in the procession.
The chief mourner was young William Pitt. After the lapse
of more than twenty- seven years, in a season as dark and
perilous, his own shattered frame and broken heart were
laid, with the same pomp, in the same consecrated mould.

Chatham sleeps near the northern door of the church, in
a spot which has ever since been appropriated to statesmen,
as the other end of the same transept has long been to
poets. Mansfield rests there, and the second William Pitt,
and Fox, and Gratton and Canning, and Wilberforce. In no
other cemetery do so many great citizens lie within so narrow

1 1

i
I

^■i

PELHAM.

a space. High over those venerable graves towers v,he stately
monument of Chatham, and from above, his effi^jy, graven
by a cunning hand, seems still, with eagle face and out-
stretched arm, to bid England be of good cheer, and to
hurl defiance at her foes. The generation which reared
that memorial of him has disappeared. The time has come
when the rash and indiscriminate judgments wiAich hia
contemporaries passed on his character may be calmly
reviccd by history. And history, while for the warning of
vehement high and daring natures, she notes his many
errors, will yet deliberately pronounce that, among the emi-
nent men wliose bones lie near his, scarcely one has left a
more stainless, and none a more splendid name.

PELHAM, DUKE OF NEWCASTLE.
Lord Macaulay.

Henry Pelham, it is true, w\as by no means a contempt-
ible person. His understanding was that of Walpole on a
somewhat smaller scale. Though not a brilliant orator, he
was, like his master, a good debater, a good parliamentary
tactician, a good man of business. Like his master, he dis-
tinguished himself by the neatness and clearness of his
financial expositions. Here the resemblance ceased. Their
characters were altogether dissimilar. Walpole was good
humoured, but would have his way : I is spirits were high,
nnd his manners frank even to coarseness. The temper of
Pelham was yielding, but i)eevish : his habits were regular,
and his deportment strictly decorous. Wal])ole was consti-
tutionally fearless, Pelham constitutionally timid. Walpole
had to face a strong oppositio^j ; but no mm in the Govern-
ment durst wag a finger against iiim. Almost all the
opi^otition which Pelham had to encounter was from mem-
bers of the Government of which he Avas the head. His
own paymaster spoke against his estimates. His own
s<:cretary-atwar spoke against his Regency Bill. In one
day Walpole turned Lord Cho.iterfield, Lord Burlington and
Lord Clinton out of the royal household, dismissed the
highest dignitaries of Hcotland from their posts, and took
away the regiments of th'> Duke of Boltoi\ and Lord Coh-
ham, because he suspected them of havin/^ encouraged the
resistance to his Excise Bill, lie would far rathur have

i'ELHAJtf.

las come

111 mom-

cOntended with the strongest minority, tinder the ablest
leaders, than have tolerated mutiny in his own party. It
would have gone hard with any of his colleagues who had
ventured, on a Government question, to divide the House
of Commons against him. Pelham, on the other hand, was
disposed to bear anything rather than drive from office any
man round whom a new opposition could form. He there-
fore endured, with fretful patience the insubordination of
Pitt and Fox. He thought it far better to connive at their
occasional infractions of discipline than to hear them, night
after night, thundering against corruption and wicked
ministers from the other side of the House.

We wonder that Sir Walter Scott never tried his hand on
the Duke of Newcastle. An interview between Jiis Grace
and Jeanie Deans would have been delightful, and by no
means unnatural. There is scarcely any public man in our
history of whose manners and conversation so many par-
ticulars have been preserved. Single stories may be un-
founded or exaggerated; but &,11 the stories about him,
whether toid by people who were perpetually seeing him in
Parliament ani attending his levee in Lincoln's Inn Fields,
or by Grub street writers who never had more than a
glimpse of his star through the windows of his gilded coach,
are of the same character. Horace Walpole and Smollett
differed in their tastes and opinions as much as two human
bjinge could differ. They kept quite different society. The
one played at cards with countesses, and corresponded with
ambassadors ; the other passed his life surrounded by prin-
ters' devils and ''amished scribblers. Yet Walpole' s Duke
and Smollett's Duke are as like as if they were both from one
hand. Smollett's Newcastle runs out of his dressing-room,
with his face covered with soap suds, to embrace the iMoor-
ish envoy. Walpole' s Newcastle pushes his way into the
Duke of Grafton's sick room to kiss the old nobleman's
plasters. No man was ever so unmercifully satirised. But
in truth he was himself a satire ready made. All that the
art of the satirist does for other men, nature had done for
him. Whatever was absurd about him stood out with gro-
tesque prominence from the rest of the character. He was
a living, moving, talking caricature. His gaii was a shuf-
fling trot 5 his utterance a rapid stutter; he was always in
a hurry ; he vv^as never in time ; he abounded i 1 I'ulsome
caresses and hysterical tears. His oratory resembhd that of
Justice Shallow. It was nonsense effervescent with animal
spirits and impertuienco. Of his ignorance many aneo-

.*ii--

>;;!'

«ei

PELHAM.

dotes remain, some well authenticated, some probably in-
vented at coffee-housea, but all exquisitely characterist
" Oh — ^yes — yes — to be sure — Annapolis must be defended
— troops must be sent to Annapolis. Pray where is Anna-
polis?" " Cape Breton an island I wonderful 1 — show it me
in the map. So it is, sure enough. My dear sir, you
always bring us good news. I must go and tell the King
that Cape Breton is an island." »

And this man was during near thirty years Secretary of
State, and during near ten years First Lord pf the Trea-
sury ! His large fortune, his strong hereditary connection,
his great Parliamentary interest, will not alone explain this
extraordinary fact. His success is a signal instance of whf '
may be effected by a man who devotes his whole heart ana
soul without reserve to one object. He was eaten up by
ambition. His love of influence and authority resembled
the avarice of the old usurer in the " Fortunes of Nigel."
It was so intense a passion that it supplied the place of
talents, that it inspired even fatuity with cunning. ''Have
no money dealings with my father," says Martha to Lord
Glenvarloch ; ''for, dotard as he is, he will make an ass of
you." It was as dangerous to have any political connection
with Newcastle as to buy and sell witli old Trapbois. He
was greedy after power with a greediness all his own. He
was jealous of all his colleagues, and even of his own bro-
ther. Under the disguise of levity he was false beyond
all example of political falsehood. All the able men of his
time ridiculed him as a dunce, a driveller, a child who
never knew his own mind for an hour together 5 and he
overreached them all round.

If the country had remained at peace, it is not impoH-
sible that this man would have continued at the head of
affairs without admitting any other person to a share of his
authority until the throne was filled by a new Prince, who
brought with hhn new maxims of Government, new favour-
ites and a strong will. But llie inauspicious commence-
nent of the Seven Years' War brought on a crisis to which
Newcastle was altogether unequal. After a calm of fifteen
years the spirit of the nation was again stirred to its inmost
depths. In a few days the whole aspect of the political
world was changed.

SOCIETY IN QUEEN ANNE's REIGN.

SOCIETY IN THE KEIGN OF QUEEN ANNE.

you

who

W. Makepeace Thackeray, Author of " Vanity Fair,^^ d-c.
Born at Calcutta in 1811. Educated at Cambridge. Died
1865.

You cOiiKl no more suffer in a British drawing-room,
under the reign of Queen Victoria, a fine gentleman or fine
la<^ <vt' Queen Anne's time, or hear what they heard and
sAi«, than you would receive an ancient Briton. It is as one
reads about savages, that one contemplates the wild ways,
the barbarous feasts, the terrific pastimes, of the men of
pleasure of that age. We have our fine gentlemen, and
our "fast menj" permit me to give you an idea of one
r irticularly fast nobleman of Queen's Anne's days, whose
n ' iphy has been preserved to us by the law reporters.

Ill 1691, my Lord Mohun was tried by his peers for the
murder of William Mountford, comedian. In "Howell's State
Trials," the reader will find not only an edifying account of
+his exceedingly fast nobleman, but of the times and man-
V jrs of those days. My lord's friend, a Captain Hill, smit-
con with the charms of the boautifnl Mrs. Bracegirdle, and
anxious to marry her r all hazards, determined to carry
her off, and for this pui > hired a hackney-coach with six
horses, and a half dozen of soldiers, to aid him in the
storm. The coach with a pair of horses (the four leaders
being in waiting elsewhere) took its station opposite my
Lord Craven's house in Drury-lane, by which door Mrs.
Bracegirdle was to pass on her way from the theatre. As
she passed in company of her mamma and a friend, Mr.
Page, the Captain seized her by the hand, the soldiers hus-
tled Mr. Page and attacked him sword in hand, and Cap-
tain Hill and his noble friend endeavoured to force Madam
Bracegirdle into the coach. Mr. Page called for help, the
population of Drury-lane rose : it was impossible to effect
the capture ; and bidding the soldiers go about their busi-
ness, and the coach to drive off, Hill let go of his prey sul-
kily, and he waited for other opportunities of revenge.
The man of whom he was most jealous was Will Mount-
ford, the comedian ; Will removed, he thought Mrs. Brace-
girdle might be his; and accordingly the Captain and his
lordship lay that night in wait for Will, and as he was com-
ing out of a house in Norfolk Street, while Mohun engaged
him in talk, Hill, in the wordH of the Attorney-General,
made a pass, nm\ run him clean tlirough the body.
Sixty-one of my lord's peers finding hiiu not guilty of

■I

SOCIETY IN QUEEN ANXe's REIGN'.

murder, while but fourteen found him guilty, this very fast
nobleman was discharged ; and made his appearance seven
years after in another trial for murder — when he, my Lord
Warwick, and three gentlemen of the military profession,
were concerned in the fight which ended in the death of
Captain Coote.

This jolly company were drinking together at Lockit's in
Charing Cross, when angry words arose between Captain
Coote and Captain French ; whom my lord Mohun and my
lord the Earl of Warwick and Holland endeavoured to
pacify. My Lord Warwick was a dear friend of Captain
Coote, lent him a hundred pounds to buy his commission
in the Guards; once when the Captain was arrested for £13
by his tailor, my lord lent him five guineas, often paid his
reckoning for him, and shewed him other offices of friend-
ship. On this evening the disputants, French and Coote,
being separated whilst they were upstairs, unluckily
stojiped to drink ale again at the bar of Lockit's. The row
began afresh — Coote lunged at French over the bar, and at
last all six called for chairs, and went to Leicester-fields,
where they fell to. Their lordships engaged on the side oif
Captain Coote. My lord of Warwick was severely wounded
in the hand, Mr. French also was stabbed, but honest Cap-
tain Coote got a couple of wounds— one especially, " a
wound on the left side just under the short ribs, and pierc-
ing through the diaphragma," which did for Captain
Coote. Hence the trials of my lords Warwick and Mohun :
hence the assemblage of peers, the report of the transac-
tion, in which these defunct fast men still live for the ob-
servation of the curious. My Lord of Warwick is brought
to the bar by the Deputy Governor of the Tower of Lon-
Lon, having the axe carried before him by the gentleman
gaoler, who stood with it at the bar at the right hand of the
prisoner, turning the edge from him ; the prisoner, at his
approach, making three bows, one to his Grace the Lord
High-Steward, the other to the peers on each hand; and
his Grace and the peers return the salute. And l)esides
these great personages, august in periwigs, and notlding to
the right and left, a host of the small como up out of the
past and pass before us — the jolly captains brawling jn the
tavern and laughing and cursing over their cups — the
drawer that serves, the bar-girl that waits, the bailift' on
the prowl, thd chairman trudging through the black lamp-
less streets, and smoking their pipes by the railings, whilst
swords are clashing in the garden within. " HoIij there!

SOCIETY IN QUEEX ANXE S REIGX.

■ ?

email
of the
it his
Loi'd
and
esidos
ing to
of the
jn the
— the
iff on
lamp-
whilst
here !

a gentleman is hurt:" the chairmen put up their pipes,
and help the gentleman over the railings, and carry him
ghastly and bleeding, to the Bagnio in Long Acre, where
they knock up the surgeon — a pretty tall gentleman — but
that wound under the short ribs has done for him. Sur-
geons, lords, cf;ptains, bailiffs, chairmen, and gentleman
gaole;' with your axe, where be you now ? The gentleman
axeman's head is off his own shoulders; the lords and
judges can wag theirs no longer; tRo bailiff 's writs ha'/e
ceased to run ; the honest chairman's pipes are put out,
and with their brawny calves they have walked away into
Hades — all as iri-evocably done for as Will Mountford or
Captain Coote. * * *

There exists a curious document descriptive of the man-
ners of the last age, which describes most minutely the
amusements and occupations of persons of fashion in Lon-
don at the time of which we are speaking | the time of
Swift, and Addison and Steele.

When Lord Sparkish, Tom Neverout, and Colonel Alwit,
the immortal personages of Swift's polite conversation,
came to breakfast with my Lady Smart, at eleven o'clock
in the morning, my Lord Smart was absent at the levee.
His lordship was at home to dinner at three o'clock to
receive his guests : and we may sit down to this meal, like
the Barmecides, and see the fops of the last century before
us. Seven of them sat down at dinner, and were joined by
a country baronet, who told vhem they kept Court hours.
These persons of fashion began their dinner with a sirloin
of beef, fish, a shoulder of veal, and a tongue. My Lady
Smart carved the sirloin, my Lady Answerall helped the
fish, and the gallant colonel cut the shoulder of veal. All
made a considerable inroad on the sirloin and the shoulder
of veal', with the exception of Sir John, wlio had no appe-
tite having already partaken of a beefsteak and two mugs
of ale, besides a tankard of March beer, as soon as he got
out of bed. They drank claret, which the master of the
house said should always be drunk after fish; an<l my Lord
Smart particularly recommended some oxcellt^nt cider to
my Lord Sparkish, which occasioned some brilliant remarks
froHi that nobleman. When the host called for wine, he
nodded to one or other of his guests, and said, " Tom
Meverout, my service to you."

After the first course came almond pudding, fritters,
which the Colonel took with his hands out of the disli, in
order to. help the brilliant Miss Notable ; chickens, black

= 11

■ r I

f.<.h
if' ■'

1 ■*

SOCIETY IN QUEEN ANNE's REIGN.

puddings, and soup ; and Lady Smart, the elegant mistress
of the mansion, finding a skewer in a dish, placed it in her
plate with directions that it should be carried down to the
cook and dressed for the cook's own dinner. Wine and
small beer were drunk during this second cour.-e ; and when
the Colonel called for beer, he called the butler. Friend,
and asked whether the beer was good. Various jocular
remarks passed from the gentlefolks to the servants ; at
breakfast several persons had a word and a joke for Mrs.
Betty, my lady's maid, who warmed the cream and had
charge of the canister (the tea cost thirty shillings a pound
in those days). When my Lord Sparkish sent her footman
out to my Lady Match to come at six o'clock and play at
quadrille, her ladyship warned the man to follow his nose,
and if he fell by the way not to stay to get up again. And
when the gentlemen asked the hall-porter if his lady was
at home, that functionary replied, with manly waggishness :
" She was at home just now, but she's not gone out yet."

After the puddings, sweet and black, the fritters and
soup, came the third course, of which the chief dish was a
hot venison pasty, which was put before Lord Smart, and
carved by that nobleman. Besides the pasty, there was a
hare, a rabbit, some pigeons, partridges, a goose and a ham.
Beer and wine were freely imbibed during this course, the
gentlemen always pledging somebody with every glass which
they drank ; and by this time the conversation between
Tom Neverout and Miss Notable had grown so brisk and
lively, that the Derbyshire baronet began to think the
young gentlewoman was Tom's sweetheart | on which Miss
remarked, that she loved Tom '' like pie." After the goose
some of the gentlemen took a dram of brandy, " which
was very good for the' wholesomes," Sir John said ; and now
having had a tolerably substantial diftner, honest Lord
Smart bade the butler bring up the great tankard full of
October to Sir John. The great tankard was passed from
hand to hand and mouth to mouth, but when pressed by
the noble host upon the gallant Tom Neverout, he said,
<'No faith, my lord, I like your wine, and won't put a
churl upon a gentleman. Your honour's claret is good
enough for me." And so, the dinner over, the host said,
''Hang saving, bring us up a ha'porth of cheese."

The cloth was now taken away, and a bottle of Burgundy
was set down, of which the ladies were invited to partake
before they went to their tea. When they withdrew, the
gentlemen promised to Join them in an hour 5 fresh bottles

CUSTOMS IN REIGN OP GEORGE II.

goose

were brought, the *' dead men," meaning the empty bot-
tles, removed; and "d'you hear, John? bring clean
glasses," my Lord Smart said. On which the gallant Colonel
Alwit said, "I'll keep my glass; for wine is the best liquor
to wash glasses in."

After an hour the gentlemen joined the ladies, and then
they all sat and played quadrille until three o'clock in the
morning, when the chairs and the flambeaux came, and this
noble company went to bed.

Such were manners six or seven score years ago. I
draw no inference from this queer picture — let all moralists
deduce their own. Fancy the moral condition of that
society in which a lady of fashion jokes with a footman, and
carved a great shoulder of veal, and provided besides a sir-
loin, a goose, hare, rabbit, chickens, partridges, black-
puddings, and a ham for a dinner for eight Christians.
What — what could have been the condition of that polite
world in which people openly ate goose after almond pud-
ding, and took their soup in the middle of dinner? Fancy
a Colonel in the Guards putting his hand into a dish of
beigneis dJaJbricot, and helping his neighbour, a young lady
du monde f Fancy a noble Lord calling out to the servants,
before the ladies at his table, '' Hang expense, bring us a
ha'porth of cheese 1" Such were the ladies of St. James'
—such were the frequenters of White's Chocolate House,
when Swift used to visit it, and Steele described it as the
centre of pleasure, gallantry, and entertainment, a hun-
dred and forty years ago.

ENGLISH CUSTOMS IN THE REIGN OF GEORGE II.

W. M. Thackeray.

I fancy it was a merrier England, that of our ancestors,
than the island which we inhabit. People high and low
amused themselves very much more. I have calculated the
manner in which statesmen and persons of condition passed
their time, and what with drinking, and. dining, and sup-
ping, and cards, wonder how thty got through their busi-
ness at all. They played all sorts of games, which, with
the exception of cricket and tennis, have gone out of our
manners now. In the old prints of St. James' Park, you
still see the marks along the walk, to note th© balls when

CUSTOMS IX RfiKiX OF GEORGE 11.

the Court played at Mall. Fancy Birdcage Walk now so
laid out and Lord John Russell and Lord Palmerston knock-
ing balls up and down the avenue I Most of those jolly
sports belong to the past, and the good old games of Eng-
land are only to be found in old novels, in old ballads, or
the columns of dingy old newspapers, which say how a main
of cocks is to be fought at Winchester between the Win-
chester men and the Hampton men ; or how the Cornwall
men and the Devon men are going to hold a great wfest-
ling-match at Totnes, and so on.

A hundred and twenty years ago there were not only
country towns in England but people who inhabited them.
We were very much more gregarious ; we were amused by
very simple pleasures. Every town had its fair, every vil-
lage its wake. The old poets have sung a hundred jolly
ditties about great cudgel-playings, famous grinning
through horse-collars, great maypole meetings, and morris
dances. The girls used to run races clad in very light attire ;
and the kind gentry and good parsons thought no shame
in looking on. Dancing bears, went about the country
with pipe and tabor. Certain well-known tunes were sung
all over the land for hundreds of years, and high and low
rejoiced in that simple music. Gentlemen who wished to
entertain their female friends, constantly sent for a band.
When Beau Fielding, a mighty fine gentleman, was court-
ing the lady whom he married, he treated her and her
companion at his lodgings to a supper from the tavern, and
after supper they sent out for a fiddler, three of them.
Fancy the three, in a great wainscoted room, in Covent
Garden or Soho, lighted by two or three candles in silver
sconces, some grapes and a bottle of Florence wine on the
table, and the honest fiddler playing old tunes in quaint
old minor keys, as the Beau takes out one lady after the
other, and solemnly dances with her 1

The very great folks, young noblemen, with their gover-
nors, and the like went abroad and made the grand tour 5
the home satirists jeered at the Frenchified and Italian ways
which they brought back ; but the greater number of peo-
ple never left the country. The jolly squire often had never
been twenty miles from home. Those who did go went to
the baths, to Harrogate, or Scarborough, or Bath, or Epsom.
Old letters are full of these places of pleasure. Gay writes
to us about the ti(Jdlers at Tunbridge ; of the ladies having
merry little private balls amongst themselves j and the
gentlemen entertaining them by turns with tea and music.

CUSTOMS IN KEIGN Or GEORGE H.

One of the young beauties whom he met did not care for
tea: " We have a young lady here," he says " that is very
particular in her desires. I have known some young ladies,
who, if ever they prayed, would ask for some equipage or
title, a husband or matadores ; but this lady, who is but
seventeen, and has 30,000?. to her fortune, places all her
wishes on a pot of good ale. When her friends, for the sake
of her shape and complexion would dissuade her from it,
she answers with the truest sincerity, that by the loss of
shape and complexion she could only lose a husband,
whereas ale is her passion."

Every town had its assembly-room, mouldy old tenements
which we may still see in deserted inn-yards, in decayed
provincial cities, out of which the great wen of London has
sucked all the life. York, at assize times, and throughout
the winter, harboured a large society of northern gentry.
Shrewsbury was celebrated for its festivities. At New-
market, I read of ''a vast deal of good company, besides
rogues and blacklegs ; " at Norwich, of two assemblies with
a prodigious crowd in the hall, the rooms, and the gallery.
In Cheshire (it is a maid of honour of Queen Caroline who
writes, and who is longing to be back at Hampton Court,
and the fun there, ) I peep into a country house, and see a
very merry party : " We neet in the work-room before
nine, eat and break a joke or two till twelve, then we repair
to our own chambers and make ourselves ready, for it can-
not be called dressing. At noon the great bell fetches us
into a parlour, adorned with all sorts of fine arms, poisoned
darts, several pairs of old boots and shoes worn by men of
might, with the stirrups of King Charles I, taken from him
at Edgehill," — and there they have their dinner, after
which comes dancing and supper.

As for Bath, all history went and bathed and drank there.
George II and his Queen, Prince Frederick and his Court,
scarce a character one can mention of the early last century,
but was seen in that famous pump-room where Beau Nash
presided, and his picture hung between the busts of New-
ton and Pope :

1 1?-- '

ing
the
sic.

" This picture, placed those husts between,
Gives satire all its strength :
Wisdom and Wit are little seen,
But Folly at full length."

I should like to have seen the Folly. It was a splendid,
embroidered, beruflied, snuff-boxed, red-heeled, impertin-

" .■'
}\

CUSTOMS IN REIGN OF GEORGE II.

ent Folly, and knew how to make itself respected. I should
like to have seen that noble old madcap Peterborough*
(he actually had the audacity to walk about Bath in boots !)
with his blue ribbons and stars, and a cabbage under each
arm, and a chicken in his hand, which he had been cheap-
ening for his dinner. Chesterfield came there many a time
and gambled for hundreds, and grinned through his gout.
Mary Wortley was there, young and beautiful ; and Mary
Wortley old, hideous, and snutfy. Miss Chudleigh came
there, slipping away from one husband, and on the lookout
for another. Walpole passed many a day there ; sickly,
supercilious, absurdly dandified, and affected ; with a bril-
liant wit, a delightful sensibility ; and, for his friends, a
most tender, generous, and faithful heart. And if you and
I had been alive then, and strolling down Milsom Street —
hush ! we should have taken our hats off, as an awful, long,
lean, gaunt figure, swathed in flannels, passed by in its
chair, and a livid face looked out from the window — great
fierce eyes staring from under a bushy, powdered wig, a
terrible frown, a terrible Eoman nose — and we whisper to
one another, '' there he is ! There's the great commoner!
There is Mr. Pitt ! " As we walk away, the abl ey bells are
set a-ringing ; and we meet our testy friend Toby Smollett,
on the arm of James Quin, the actor, who tells us that the
bells ring for Mr. Bullock, an eminent cow-keeper from
Tottenham, who has just arrived to drink the waters : and
Toby shakes his cane at the door of Colonel Ringworm, the
Creole gentleman's lodgings next his own — where the
Colonel's two negroes are practising on the French horn.

IN MEMORIAM OF THACKERAY.
By Charles Dichens. {From the Cornhill Magazine.)

It has been observed by some of the personal friends of
the great English writer who established this magazine,
that its brief record of his having been stricken from among
men should be written by the old comrade and brother in
arms who pens these lines, and of whom he often wrote
himself, and always with the warmest generosity.

I saw him first, nearly twenty-eight years ago, when he

• Born 1658, died 1735— -Cclebmted lor his extraordinary exploits botli
\>y sea and laud. Life by Warburtou 1853.

THACKERAY.

ine,

)ng

in
lote

>oth

proposed to become the illustrator of my earliest book. I
saw him last, shortly before Christmas, at the Athenseum
Club, when he told me he had been in bed three days —
that, after these attacks, he was troubled with cold shiver-
ings, *' which quite took the power of work out of him " —
aiad that he had it in his mind to try a new remedy which
he laughingly described. He was very cheerful, and looked
very bright. In the night of that day week he died.

The long interval between those two periods is marked
in my remembrance of him by many occasions when he
was supremely humourous, when he was irresistibly extra-
vagant, when he was softened and serious, when he was
charming with children. But, by none do I recall him
more tenderly than by two or three that start out of the
crowd, when he unexpectedly presented himself in my
room, announcing how that some passage in a certain book
had made him cry yesterday, and how that he had come to
dinner, ^* because he couldn't help it," and must talk such
passage over. No one can ever have seen him more genial,
natural, cordial, fresh, and honestly impulsive, than I have
seen him at those times. No one can be surer than I, of
tlie greatness and the goodness of the heart that thtn dis-
closed itself.

We had our differences of opinion. I thought that he too
much feigned a want of earnestness, and that he made a
pretence of undervaluing his art, which was not good for
the art that he held in trust. But when we fell upon these
topics, it was never very gravely, and I have a lively image
of him in my mind, twisting both his hands in his hair, and
stamping about, laughing, to make an end of the discus-
sion.

When we were associated in remembrance of the late
Mr. Douglas Jerrold, he delivered a lecture in London, in
the course of which he read his best contribution to Punch,
describing the grown up cares of a poor family of young
children. No one hearing him could have doubted his na-
tural gentleness, or his thoroughly unaffected manly sym-
pathy with the weak and lowly. He read the paper most
pathetically, and with a simplicity of tenderness that cer-
tainly moved one of his audience to tears. This was
presently after his standing for Oxford, from which place
he had dispatched his agent to me, with a droll note (to
which he afterwards added a verbal postscript), urging me
to '' come down and make a speech and tell them Who he
was, for he doubted whether more than two of the electors
had ever heard of him, and he thought there might be as

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THAOKERAT.

many as six or eight who had heard of me." He intro<
duced the lecture, just mentioned, with a reference to his
late electioneering failure, which was full of good sense,
good spirits, and good humour.

He had a particular delight in boys, and an excellent
way with them. 1 remember his once asking me with
fantastic gravity, when he had been to Eton, where my
eldest son then was, whether I felt as he did in regard of
never seeing a boy without wanting instantly to give him
a sovereign ? I thought of this when I looked down into
his grave, after he was laid there, for I looked down into
it over the shoulder of a boy to whom he had been kind.

These are slight remembrances ; but it is to little fami-
liar things suggestive of the voice, look, manner, never,
never more to be encountered on this earth, that the mind
first turns in a bereavement. And greater things that are
known of him, in the way of his warm affections, i>is quiet
endurance, his unselfish thoughtfulness for others, and his
munificent hand, may not be told.

If, in the reckless vivacity of his youth, his satirical pen
had ever gone astray or done amiss, he had caused it to pre-
fer its own petition for forgiveness, long before :

I've writ the foolish fancy of his brain ;

Tlie aimless jest that, striking, had caused pain ;

The idle word that he'd wish back again.

In no pages should I take it upon myself at this time to
discourse of his books, of his refined knowledge of charac-
ter, of his subtile acquaintance with the weakness of human
nature, of his delightful playfulness as an essayist, of his
quaint and touching ballads, of his mastery over the English
language. Least of all, in these pages, enriched by his
brilliant qualities from the first of the series, and beforehand
accepted by the public through the strength of his great
name.

But, on the table before me, there lies all that he had
written of his latest and last story. That it would be very
sad to any one — that it is inexpressibly so to a writer— in
its evidences of matured designs never to be accomplished,
of intentions begun to be executed and destined never to
be completed, of careful preparation for long roads of
thought that he was never to traverse; and for shining
goals thit he was never to reach, will be readily believed.
The paiD, however, that I have felt in perusing it, has
not been deeper than the conviction that he was in the
healthiest vigour of his powers when he wrought on this

tUJLCtSBAt.

van
his
lish
his
md
beat

lad
[ery
■in
5d,
to
of
[ing
red.
(has
Ithe
this

last labor. In respect of earnest feeling, far-seeing pur*
pose, character, incident, and a certain loving picturesque-
ness blending the whole, I believe it to be much the best
of all his works. That he fully meant it to be so, that he
had become strongly attached to it, and that he had
bestowed great pains upon it, I trace in almost every page*
It contains one picture which must have cost him extreme
distress, and which is a master-piece. There are two chil-
dren in it, touched with a hand as loving and tender as
ever a father caressed his little child with. There is some
young love, as pure and innocent and pretty as the truth.
And it is very remarkable that, by reason of the singular
construction of the story, more than one main incident
usually belonging to the end of such a fiction is anticipated
in the beginning, and thus there is an approach to com-
pleteness in the fragment, as to the satisfaction of the
reader's mind concerning the most interesting persons,
which could hardly have been better attained if the writer's
breaking off had been foreseen.

The last line he wrote, and the last proof he corrected,
are among those papers through which I have so sorrowful-
ly made my way. The condition of the little pages of
manuscript where Death stopped his hand, shows that he
had carried them about, and often taken them out of his
pocket here and there, for patient revision and interlinea-
tion. The last words he corrected in print were : " And my
heart throbbed with an exquisite bliss." God grant that
on the Christmas Eve when he laid his head back on his
pillow and threw up his arms as he had been wont to do
when very weary, some consciousness of duty done and
Christian hope throughout life humbly cherished, may
have caused his own heart so to throb, when he passed
away to his Redeemer's rest I

He was found peacefully lying as above described, com-
posed, undisturbed, and to all appearance asleep, on the
24th of December, 1863. He was only in his fifty-third
year — so young a man that the : lOther who blessed him in
his first sleep blessed him in his last. Twenty years
before he had written, after being in a white squall :

And when, ita force expended,
The harmless storm was ended,
And, as the sunrise splendid

Came blushing o'er the sea;
t thought as day was breaking,
My little girls were waking,
And smiling, and making.

A prayer at homo for me.

SCENE IN THE LAST FRENCH REVOLUTION.

Xhose little girls had grown to be women when the mourn-
ful day broke that saw their father lying dead. In those
twenty years of companionship with him, they had learned
much from him ; and one of them has a literary course
before her worthy of her famo^^s riame.

On the bright wintry day, '.he last but one of the old
year, he was laid in his grave at Kensal Green, there to
mingle the dust to which the mortal part of him had
returned, with that of a third child, lost in her infancy,
years ago. The heads of a great concourse of his fellow
workers in the Arts, were bowed around his tomb.

A SCENE IN THE LAST FRENCH REVOLUTION.

Alexander Wilkim Kinglake, M.P. ; born at Taunton^ IS"!!.
Educated at Eton, and Trinity College, Cambridge.

The advance post of the insurgents, at its north western
extremity, . 'as covered by a small barricade, which crossed
the Boulevard at a point close to the Gymnase Theatre.
Some twenty mou> with weapons and a drum taken in part
from the "property room" of the theatre, were behind
this rampart, and a small flag, which the insurgents had
chanced to find, was planted on the top of the barricade.

Facing this little barricade, at a distance of about 150
yards, was the head of the vast column of troops which now
occupied the whole of the western Boulevard, and a couple
of Held -pieces stood pointed towards the barricade. In the
neutral space between the bariicade and the head of the
column the shops and almost all the windows were closed,
but numbers of spectators, including many women, crowded
the foot pavement. These gazers were obviously incurring
the risk of receiving sh-ay shots. But westward of the point
occupied by the head of the column the state of the Boule-
vards was different. From that point home to the Made-
leine the whole carriage way was occupied by troops ; the
infantry was drawn up in subdivisions at quarter distance.
Along this part of the gay and glittering Boulevard the
windows, the balconies, and the foot-pavements were crowd-
ed with men and women who were gazing at the military
display. These gazers had no reason for supposing that
they incurred any danger, for they could see no one with
whom the army would have to contend. It is true that

aC)E^fE IlJ THE LAST FRENCH REVOLUTION.

hng
)int
ile-
Ide-
Ithe

hotices had been placed upon the walls recommending peo-
ple not to encumber the streets, and warning them that
they would be liable to be dispersed by the troops without
being summoned ; but of course those who had chanced to
see this announcemerit naturally imagined that it was a
menace addressed to riotous crowds which might be press-
ing upon the troops in a hostile way. Not one man could
have read it as a sentence of sudden death against peaceful
spectators.

At three o'clock one of the field-pieces ranged in front
of the column was fired at the little barricade near the
Gymnase. The shot went high over' the mark. The troops
at the head of the column sent a few musket shots in the
direction of the barricade, and there was a slight attempt
at reply, but no one on either side was wounded ; and the
engagement, if so it could be called, was so languid and
harmless that even the gazers who stood on the foot-pave-
ment between the troops and the barricade were not deter-
red from remaining where they were. And, with regard to
the spectators further west, there was nothing which tended
to cause them alarm, for they could see no one who was in
antagonism with the troops. So, along the whole Boule-
vard, from the Madeleine to near the Kue du Sentier, the
foot pavements, the windows, and the balconies still re-
mained crowded with men, and women, and children, and
from near the Rue du Sentier to the little barricade at the
Gymnase, spectators still lined the foot-pavement ; but in
that last part of the Boulevard the windows were closed.

According to some, a shot was fired from a window or a
house-top near the Kue du Sentier. This is denied by others,
and one witness declares that the first shot came from a
soldier near the centre of one of the battalions, who tired
straight up into the air 5 but what followed was this : the
troops at the head of the column faced about to the south
and opened fire. Some of the soldiery fired point-blank into
the mass of spectators who stood gazing upon them from
the foot pavement, and the rest of the troops fired up at
the gay crowded windows and balconies. The oflficers in
general did not order the firing, but seemingly they were
agitated in the same way as the men of the rank and file,
for such of them as could be seen from a balcony at the
cornm' of the Kue Montmartro appeared to acquiesce in all
tliat the soldiery did.

The impulse which had thus come upon the soldiery near
the head of the column, was a motive akin to ptftiio, for it

SCENE IN THE LAST FRENCH REVOLUTION.

was carried by swift contagion from man to man, till it ran
westward from the Boulevard Bonne Nouvelle into the Bou-
levard Poissoniere, and gained the Boulevard Montmartre,
and ran swiftly through its whole length, and entered the
Boulevard des Italiens. Thus by a movement in the nature
of that which tacticians describe as "conversion," a column
of some 16,000 men facing eastward towards St. Denis was
suddenly formed, as it were, into an order of battle fronting
southward, and busily firing into the crowd which lined the
foot -pavement, and upon the men, women, and children
who stood at the balconies and windows on that side of the
Boulevard. What made the fire at the houses the more
deadly was that, even after it had begun at the eastern part
of the Boulevard Montmartre, people standing at the bal-
conies and windows farther west could not £.ee or believe
that the troops were really firing in at the windows with ball-
cartridge, and they remained in the front rooms, and even
continued standing at the windows, until a volley came
crashing in. At one of the windows there stood a young
Russian noble with his sister at his side. Suddenly they
received the fire of the soldiery, and both of them were
wounded with musket-shots. An English surgeon who had
been gazing from another window in the same house had
the fortune to stand unscathed ; and when he began to give
his care to the wounded brother and sister he was so touch-
ed, he s^ys, by their forgetfulness of self, and the love they
seemed to bear the one for the other, that more than ever
before in all his life he prized his power of warding off
death.

Of the people on the foot pavement who were not struck
down at first some rushed and strove to find a shelter, or
even a half-shelter, at any spot within reach. Others tried
to crawl away on their hands and knees ; for they hoped
that perhaps the balls might fly over them. The impulse
to shoot people had been sudden, but was not momentary.
The soldiers loaded and reloadea with a strange industry,
and made haste to kill and kill, as though their lives depend-
ed upon the quantity of the slaughter they could get
through in some given period of time.

When there was no longer a crowd to fire into, the sol-
diers would aim carefully at any single fugitive who was
trying to effect his escape, and if a man tried to save him-
self by coming close up to the troops, and asking for mercy,
the soldiers would force or persuade the supplicant to keep
off and hasten away, and then if they could, thoy killed him

SOEKE IH the Last FREHCH RETOLIttlOK.

sol-
was
lim-

:eep
Ihim

running. This slaughter of unarmed men and women was
continued for a quarter of an hour or twenty minutes. It
chanced that amongst the persons standing at the balconies,
near the corner of the Eue Montmartre, there was an Eng-
hsh officer ; and, because of the position in which he stood
the professional knowledge which guided his observation,
the composure with which he was able to see and to des-
cribe, and the more than common responsibility which at-
taches upon a military narrator, it is probable that his tes-
timony will be always appealed to by historians who shall
seek to give a truthful account of the founding of the
Second French Empire.

At the moment when the firing began, this officer was
look'jg upon the military display with his wife at his side,
and was so placed, that if he looked (Eastward, he could
carry his eye along the Boulevard for a distance of about
800 yards, and see as far as the head of the column, and if
he looked westward he could see to the point where the
Boulevard Montmartre runs into the Boulevard des Ita-
liens. This is what he writes : — " I went to the balcony at
which my wife was standing, and remained there watching
the troops. The whole Boulevard, as f^^r as the eye could
reach, was crowded with them, principally infantry in sub-
divisions at quarter distance, with here and there a batch
of twelve-pounders and ho^'^'itzers, some of which occupied
the rising ground of the Boulevard Poissoniere. The offi-
cers were smoking their cigars. The windows were crowded
with people, principally women, tradesmen, servants, and
children, or, like ourselves, the occupants of apartments.
Suddenly, as I was intently looking with my glass at the
troops in the distance eastward, a few musket-shots were
fired at the head of the column, which consisted of about
3,000 men. In a few moments it spread, and, after hang-
ing a little, came down the Boulevard in a waving sheet of
flame. So regular, however, was the fire that at first I
thought it was a/m de joie for some barricade taken in ad-
vance, or to signal their position to some other division ;
and it was not till it came within fifty yards of me, that I
recognised the sharp ringing report of ball-cartridge j but
even then I could scarcely believe the evidence of my ears,
for as to my eyes I could not discover any enemy to fire
at : and I continued looking at the men until the company
below me were actually raising their fire-locks, and one
vagabond sharper than the rest — a mere lad without whis-
ker or moustache — had covered me. In an instant I dashed

SCENE IK tHE LASt fBENOH REVOLUTION.

my wi^e, who had just stepped back, against the pier be-'
tween the windows, when a shot struck the ceiling imme-
diately over our heads, and covered us with dust and
broken plaster. In a second after I placed her upon the
floor, and in another, a volley came against the whole front
of the house, the balcony, and windows ; one shot broke
the mirror over the chimney-piece, another the shade of
the clock, every pane of glass but one was smashed, the
curtains and window-frames cut ; the room, in short, was
riddled. The iron balcony, though rather low, was a great
protection ; still fire-balls entered the room, and in the
pause for reloading I drew my wife to the door, and took
refuge in the back i-ooms of the house. The rattle of mus-
ketry was incessant for more than a quarter of an hour after
this ; and in a very few minutes the guns were unlimbered
and pointed at the 'Magasin' of M. 8allandrouze, five
houses on our right. What the object or meaning of all
this might be, was a perfect enigma to every individual in
the house, French or foreigners. Some thought the troops
had turned round and joined the Reds ; others suggested
that they must have been fired upon somewhere, though
they certainly had not from our house or any other on the
Boulevard Montmartre, or we must have seen it from the
balcony. . . . This wanton fusillade must have been
the result of a panic, lest the windows should have been
lined with concealed enemies, and they wanted to secure
their skins by the first fire, or else it was a sanguinary im-
pulse. . . . The men, as 1 have already stated, fired
volley upon volley for more than a quarter of an hour with-
out any return ; they shot down many of the unhappy in-
dividuals who remained on the Boulevard and could not
obtain an entrance into any house: some persons were
killed close to our door." The like of what was calmly seen
by this English officer, was seen with frenzied horror by
thousands of French men and women.

If the officers in general abstained from ordering the
slaughter, Colonel Rochefort did not follow their example.
He was an officer in the Lancers, and he had already done
execution with his horsemen amongst the chairs and the
idlers in the neighbourhood of Tortoni's; but afterwards,
imagining a shot to have been fired from a part of the Bou-
levard occupied by infantry, he put himself at the head of
a detachment which made a charge upon th:, crowd : and
the military historian of these events relates with t)iumph
that about thirty corpses, almost all of them in the clothes

SCENE Ili THE LAST FRENCH REVOLUTION.

of gentlemen, were the trophies of this exploit. Along a
distance of 1,000 yards, going eastward from the Rue Riche-
lieu, the dead bodies were strewed upon the foot-pavement
of the Boulevard, but at several spots they lay in heaps.

Some of the people mortally struck would be able to stag-
ger blindly for a pace or two until they were tripped up by
a corpse, and this perhaps is why a large proportion of the
bodies lay heaped one on the other. Before one shop-front
they counted thirty-three corpses. By the peaceful little
nook or court which is called the Cite Bergere they counted
thirty-seven. The slayers were many thousands of armed
soldiery : the slain were of a number that never will be
reckoned ; but amongst all these slayers and all these slain
there was not one combatant. There was no fight, no riot,
no fray, no quarrel, no dispute. What happened was a
slaughter of unarmed men, and women, and children.
Where they lay, the dead bore witness. Corpses lying apart
struck deeper into people's memory than the dead who were
lying in heaps. Some were haunted with the look of an
old man with silver hair^ whose only weapon was the um-
brella which lay at his side. Some shuddered because of
seeing the ^ay idler of the Boulevard sitting dead against
the wall of a house, and scarce parted from the cigar which
lay on the ground near his hand. Some carried in their
minds the sight of a printer's boy leaning back against a
shop-front, because, though the lad was killed, the proof-
sheets which he was carrying had remained in his hands,
and were red with his blood, and were fluttering in the wind.
The military historian of these achievements permitted him-
self to speak with a kind of joy of the number of women
who suftered. After accusing the gentler sex of the crime
of sheltering men from the lire of the troops, the Colonel
writes it down that '' many an amazon of the Boulevard has
paid dearly for her imprudent collusion with that new sort
of barricade," and then he goes on to express a hope that
women will profit by the example and derive from it "a
lesson for the future." One woman who fell and died
clasping her child, was suli'ered to keep her hold in death
as in life, for the child too was killed. Words v/hich long
have been used for inaking figures of speech, recovered
their ancient use, being wanted again in the world for the
picturing of things real and physical. Musket-shots do not
shed much blood in proportion to the slaughter which they
work, but still in so many places the foot-pavement was
wot and red, that except by care, no one could pass along

ALONE tS THfi DEBtllRt.

it without gathering blood. Bound each of the trees in th(^
Boulevards a little space of earth is left unpaved in order
to give room for the expansion of the trunk. The blood
collecting in pools upon the asphalte, drained down at last
into these hollows, and, there becoming coagulated, it re-
mained for more than a day, and was observed by many.
"Their blood," says the English officer before quoted,
" their blood lay in the hollows round the trees the next
morning when we passed at twelve o'clock. The Boulevards
and the adjacent streets," he goes on to say, "were at
some points a perfect shambles." Incredible as it may seem,
artillery was brought to bear upon some of the houses in
the Boulevard. On its north side the houses were so bat-
tered that the foot-pavement beneath them was laden with
plaster and such ruins as field-guns can bring down.

ALONE IN THE DESERT.
A. W. Kinglake.

•

The "dromedary" of Egypt and Syria is not the two-
humped animal described by that name in books of natural
history, but is in fact of the same family as the camel,
standing towards his more clumsy fellow- slave in about the
same relation as a racer to a cart-horse. The fleetness and
endurance of this creature are extraordinary. It is not
usual to force him into a gallop, and I fancy, from his make,
that it would be quite impossible for him to maintain that
pace for any length of time ; but the animal is on so large
a scale, that the jog-trot at which he is generally ridden im-
plies a progress of perhaps ten or twelve miles an hour, and
this pace, it is said, he can keep up incessantly without
food, or water, or rest, for three whole days and nights.

Of the two dromedaries which I had obtained for this
journey I mounted one myself, and put Dthemetri on the
other. My plan was to ride on with Dthemetri to Suez as
rapidly as the fleetness of the beasts would allow, and to
let Mysseri (then still remaining weak from the effects of
his late illness) come quietly on with the camels and bag-
gage.

The trot of the dromedary is a pace terribly disagreeable
to the rider, until he becomes a little accustomed to it ;
but after the first half-hour I so far schooled myself to this

ALONB IN THE DESERT.

the

and
not

nake,
that

large

kn inl-
and

ihout
\.

this
the

jable

it;
this

new exercise that I felt capable of keeping it up (though
not without aching limbs) for several hours together. Now,
therefore, I was anxious to dart forward, and annihilate at
once the whole space that divided me from the Red Sea.
Pthemetri, however, could not get on ci«all| every attempt
at trotting seemed to threaten the utter dislocation of his
whole frame, and, indeed, I doubt whether any one of Dthe-
metri's age (nearly forty, I think), and unaccustomed to
such exercise, could have borne it at all easily ; besides, the
dromedary which fell to his lot was evidently a very bad
one : he every now and then came to a dead stop, and
coolly knelt down, as though suggesting that the rider had
better get off at once, and abandon the experiment as one
that was utterly hopeless.

When for the third or fourth time I saw Dthemetri thus
planted, I lost my patience and went on without him. For
about two hours, I think, I advanced without once looking
behind me. I then paused, and cast my eyes back to the
western horizon. There was no sign of Dthemetri, nor of
any other living creature. This I expected, for I knew that
I must have far out distanced all my followers. I had rid-
den away from my party merely by way of humouring my
impatience, and with the intention of stopping as soon as I
felt tired, until I was overtaken. I now observed, however
(this 1 had not been able to do whilst advancing so rapidly)
that the track which I had been following was seemingly
the track of only one or two camels. I did not fear that I
had diverged very largely from the true route, but still I
could not feel any reasonable certainty that my party would
follow any line of march within sight of me.

I had to consider, therefore, whether I should remain
where I was, upon the chance of seeing my people come
up, or whether I should push on alone, and find my own
way to Suez. I had now learned that I could not rely upon
the continued guidance of any track, but I knew that (if
maps were right) the point for which I was bound bore just
due east of Cairo, and I thought that, although I might
miss the line leading most directly to Suez, I could not well
fail to find my way, sooner or later, to the Red Sea. The
worst of it was that I had no provision of food or water
with me, and already I was beginning to feel thirst. I de-
liberated for a minute, and then determined that I would
abandon all hope of seeing my party again in the desert,
and would push forward as rapidly as possible towards Suez.

It was not without a sensation of awe that I swept wiLli

ALONE IN THE DESERT.

my sight the vacant round of the horizon, and remembered
that I was all alone, and miprovisioned in the midst of the
arid waste 5 but this very awe gave tone and zest to the
exultation with which I felt myself launched. Hitherto, in
all my wandering 1 had been under the care of other people
— sailors, Tartars, guides and dragomen had watched over
my welfare; but now, at last, I was here in this African de-
sert, and I myself, and no other, had charye of my Ife. I liked
the office weil ; I had the greatest part of the day before
me, a very fair dromedary, a fur pelisse, and a brace of pis-
tols, but no bread, and worst of all, no water | for that 1
must ride — and ride I did.

For several hours I urged forward my beast at a rapid,
though steady pace, but at length the pangs of thirst began
to torment me. I did not relax my pace, however, and I
had not suffered long, when a moving object appeared in
the distance before me. The intervening space was soou
traversed, and I found myself approaching a Bedouin Arab,
mounted on a camel, attended by another Bedouin on foot.
They stopped. I saw that there hung from the pack- saddle
of the camel one of the large skin water flasks commonly
carried in the desert, and it seemed to be well filled. I
steered my dromedary close up along-side of the mounted
Bedouin, caused my beast to kneel down, then alighted,
and keeping the end of the halter in my hand, went up
to the mounted Bedouin without speaking, took hold of
his water-flasks, opened it, and drank long and deep from
its leathern lips. Both of the Bedouins stood fast in amaze-
ment and mute horror 5 and really if they had never hap-
pened to see a European before, the apparition was enough
to startle them. To see for the flrst time a coat and a
waistcoat, with the semblance of a white human face at
the top, and for this ghastly figure to come swiftly out of
the horizon, upon a fleet dromedary— approach them silently,
and with a demoniacal smile, and drink a deep draught
from their water-flask — this was enough to make the Be-
douins stare a little ; they, in fact, stared a great deal —
not as Europeans stare, with a restless and puzzled ex-
pression of countenance, but with features all hxed and
rigid, and with still, glassy eyes. Before they had time
to get decomposed from their state of petrifaction, I had
remounted my dromex-'.ary, and was darting away towards
the east.

Without pause or remission of pace, I continued to press
forward ; but after a while, I found to my confusion that

ALONE IN THE DESERT.

up
Id of

ex-
and

time
had

^ard8

J>resB
(that

the slight track which had hitherto guided me now failed
altogether. I began to fear that I must have been all
along following the course of some wandering Bedouins,
and I felt that if this were the case, my fate was a little
uncertain.

I had no compass with me, but I determined upon the
eastern point of the horizon as accurately as I could, by
reference to the sun, and so laid down for myself a way
over the pathless sands.

But now my poor dromedary, by whose life and strength
I held my own, began to show signs of distress ; a thick,
clammy, and glutinous kind of foam gathered about her
lips, and piteous sobs burst from her bosom in the tones
of human misery. I doubted for a moment, whether I
would give her a little rest or relaxation of pace, but I
decided that I w6uld not, and continued to push forward
as steadily as before.

The character of the country became changed. I had
ridden away from the level tracks, and before me now,
and on either side, there were vast hills of sand and cal-
cined rocks that interrupted my progress, and baffled my
doubtful road, but I did my best. *With rapid steps I swept
round the base of the hills, threaded the winding hollows,
and at last, as I rose in my swift course to the crest of a
lofty ridge, Thalatta! Thalatta ! the sea-— the sea was before
me!

It has been given me to know the true pith, and to
feel the power of ancient Pagan creeds, and so (distinctly
from all mere admiration of the beauty belonging to Nature's
works) I acknowledge ^ sense of mystical reverence when
first 1 approach some illustrious feature of the globe —
some coast-line of ocean — some mighty river or dreary
mountain range, the ancient barrier of kingdoms. But the
Red Seal It might well claim my earnest gaze by force
of the great Jewish migration which connects it with the
history of our own religion. From this very ridge, it is likely
enough, the panting Israelites first saw that shining inlet
of the sea. Ay 1 ay ! but moreover, and best of all, that
beckoning sea assured my eyes, and proved how well I had
marked out the east for my path, and gave me good promise
that sooner or later the time would come for me to drink of
water cool and plenteous, and then lie down and rest. It
was distant the sea, but I felt my own strength, and I had
heard of the strength of dromedaries, I pushed forward as
eagerly as though I had spoiled the Egyptians, and were
flying from Pharaoh's police.

ALONE IN THE DESERT.

I had not yet been able to see any mark of distant Suez,
but after a while I descried, far away in the east, a large,
blank, isolated building. I made towards this, and in time
got down to it. The building was a fort, and had been built
there for the protection of a well, contained within its pre-
cincts. A cluster of small huts adhered to the fort, and in
a short time I was receiving the hospitality of the inhabitants
a score or so of people who sat grouped upon the sands near
their hamlet. To quench the fires of my throat with about
a gallon of muddy water, and to swallow a little of the food
placed before me, was the work of a few minutes, and be-
fore the astonishment of my hosts had even begun to sub-
side, I was pursuing my onward journey. Suez, I found,
was still three hours distant, and the sun going down in the
west warned me that I must find some other guide to keep
me straight. This guide I found in the most fickle and un-
certain of the elements. For some hours the wind had been
freshening, and it now blew a violent gale ; it blew — not fit-
fully and in squalls — ^but with such steadiness that I felt
convinced it would blow from the same quarter for several
hours ; so when the sun set, I carefully looked for the point
whence the wind came, and found that it blew from the
very west — blew exactly in the direction of my route. I
had nothing to do therefore but to go straight to leeward,
and this I found easy enough, for the gale was blowing so
hard that, if I diverged at all from my course, I instantly
felt the pressure of the blast on the side towards which I
had deviated. Very soon after sunset there came on com-
plete darkness, but the strong wind guided me well, and
sped me too on my way.

I had pushed on for about, 1 think, a couple of hours
after nightfall, when I saw the glimmer of a light in the
distance, and this I ventured to hope must be Suez. Upon
approaching it, however, I found that it was only a solitary
fort, and this I passed by without stopping.

On I went, still riding down the wind, but at last an un-
lucky misfortune befell me — a misfortune so absurd that,
if you like, you shall have your laugh against me. I have
told you already what sort of a lodging it is that you have
upon the back of a camel. You ride the dromedary in the
same fashion ; you are perched, rather than seated, on a
bunch of carpets or quilts upon the summit of the hump.
It happened that my dromedary veered rather suddenly
from her onward course. Meeting the movement, I me-
chanically turned my left wrist, as though I were holding a

▲LONE IK THE DESERT.

lOurs

the

ipon

^itary

un-
Ithat,
Ihave
Ihave
the

on a

imp.

lenly
me-

inga

bridle rein, for the complete darkness prevented my eyes
from reminding me that I had nothing but a halter in my
hand. The expected resistance failed, for the halter was
hanging upon that side of the dromedary's neck towards
which 1 was slightly leaning ; I toppled over, head foremost,
and then went falling through air till my crown came whang
against the ground. And the ground too was perfectly hard
(compacted sand) but my thickly wadded head-gear (this
I wore for protection against the sun) nq,w stood me in
good part, and saved my life. The notion of my being able
to get up again after falling head-foremost from such an
immense height seemed to me at first too paradoxical to
be acted upon, but I soon found that I was not a bit hurt.
My dromedary had utterly vanished ; I looked round me,
and saw the glimmer of a light in the fort whiieh I had
lately passed, and I began to work my way back in that
direction. The violence of the gale made it hard for me
to force my way towards the west, but I succeeded at last in
regaining the fort. To this, as to the other fort which I
had passed, there was attached a cluster of huts, and I soon
found myself surrounded by a group of villainous, gloomy-
looking fellows. It was sorry work for me to swagger and
look big at a time when I felt so particularly small on ac-
count of my tumble and my lost dromedary, but there was
no help for it ; I had no Dthemetri now to " strike terror"
for me. I knew hardly one word of Arabic, but some how
or other I contrived to announce it as my absolute will and
pleasure that these fellows should find me the means of
gaining Suez. They acceded, and having a donkey, they
saddled it for me, and appointed one of their number to
attend me on foot.

I afterwards found that these fellows were not Arabs, but
Algerine refugees, and that they bore the character of being
sad scoundrels. They justified this imputation to some ex-
tent on the following day. They allowed Mysseri with my
baggage and the camels to pass unmolested, but an Arab
lad belonging to the party happened to lag a little way in
the rear, and him (if they were not maligned) these rascals
stripped and robbed. Low indeed is the state of bandit
morality, when men will allow the sleek traveller with well
laden camels to pass in quiet, reserving their spirit of en-
terprise for the tattered turban of a miserable boy.

I reach'id Suez at last. The British agent, though roused
from his midnight sleep, received me in his home with the
utmost kindness and hospitality. How delightful it was to

THE THIN RED' LINE.

lie on fair sheets, and to dally with sleep, and to wake, and
to sleep, and to wake once more, for the sake of sleeping
again !

" THE THIN BED LINE."
From " The Invasion of the Crimea." A. W. Kinglahe.

Including the chasm which divided the Grenadier Guards
from the Coldstream, the whole line in which the Duke of
Cambridge now moved forward to the attack of the Kour-
gane Hill was more than a mile and a half in length. It was
only two deep ; but its right regiment was supported by a
part of Sir Kichard England's division; and Sir George
Cathcart was on its left rear with the part of his Division
then on the field. On the extreme left and left rear of the
whole force there was the cavalry under Lord Lucan.

These troops were going to take part in the first approach
to close strife which men had yet seen on that day between
bodies of troops in a state of formation deliberately mar-
shalled against each other. The slender red line which
began near the bridge, and vanished from the straining
sight on the eastern slopes of the Kourgane Hill, was a
thread which in any one part of it had the strength of only
two men. But along the whole line from east to west these
files of two men each were strong in the exercise of their
country's great prerogative. They were in English array.
They were fighting in line against column.
. After the rupture of the peace of AmienS, Sir Arthur
Wellesley, being then in India, became singularly changed,
growing every day more and more emaciated, and seeming-
ly more and more sad. He pined ; and was like a man
dying without any known bodily illness, the prey of some
consuming thought. At length he suddenly announced to
Lord Wellesley his resolve to go back to England ; and
when he was asked why, he said, "I observe that in Europe
the French are fighting in column, and carrying everything
before them, and I am sure that I ought to go home direct-
ly, because I know that our men can fight in line." From
that simple yet mighty faith he never swerved ; for, always
encountering the massive columns of infantry, he always
was ready to meet them with his slender line of two deep
— with what result the world knows.

T^ TBIM RED LIKE.

irope
thing
Irect-
I'rom
Iways
|way8
leep

iiOng years had passed smce the close of those great wars,
and now once more m Europe there was going to be waged
yet again the old strife of line against column.

Looking down a smooth, gentle, green slope, chequered
red with the slaughtered soldiery who had stormed the
redoubt, the front-rank men of the great Vladimir column
were free to gaze upon two battalions of the English Guards,
far apart the one from the other, but each carefully drawn
up in line ; and now that they saw more closely, and with-
out the distractions of artillery, they had more than ever
grounds for their wonder at the kind of array in which the
English soldiery were undertaking to assail them j " we were
all astonished," says Chodasiewicz — yet he wrote of what
he saw when the English line was much less close to the
foe than the Guards now were — " we were all astonished at
the extraordinary firmness with which the red jackets,
having crossed the river, opened a heavy fire in line upon
the redoubt. This was the most extraordinary thing to us,
as we had never before seen troops fight.in lines of two deep,
nor did we think it possible for men to be found with suf-
ficient firmness of morale to be able to attack in this ap-
parently weak formation our massive columns." But soon
the men of the column began to see that though the scar-
let line was slender, it was very rigid and exact. Presently,
too, they saw that even when the Grenadiers or the Cold-
streams began to move, the long line of the black bearskins
still kept a good deal of its straightness, and that here, on
the bloody slope no less than in the barrack- yard at home,
the same moment was made to serve for the tramp of a
thousand feet.

Beginning on our right hand with the Grenadier Guards,
and going thence leftwards to the Coldstream, and, lastly,
to the Highland brigade, we shall now see what manner of
strife it was when at length, after many a hindrance, five
British battalions, each grandly formed in line, marched up
to the enemy's columns.

Advancing upon the immediate left of the ground aL eady
won by Pennefather's brigade, the Grenadiers were covered
on their right, but their left was bare : and it was in that
direction — in the direction of their left front — that the Vla-
dimir battalions stood impending. The Grenadiers were
marching against the defeated but now rallied column which
had fought with the 7th Fusileers, when Prince Gortscha-
koff, having just ridden up to the two left battalions of the
Vladimir, undertook to lead them forward. First sending

*nis fsxH ABO tmti.

his only unwounded aide-de-camp to press the advance of
any troops he could find, the Prince put himself at the head
of the two left Vladimir battalions, and ordered them to
charge with the bayonet. The Prince then rode forward a
good deal in advance of his troops, and his order for a
bayonet charge was so far obeyed, that the column, without
firing a shot, moved boldly down towards the chasm which
bad been left in the centre of our brigade of Guards* The
north-west angle of this strong and hitherto victorious co-
lumn was coming down nearer and nearer to the file — the
file composed of only two men — which formed tlie extreme
left of the Grenadiers.

Then, and by as fair a test as war could apply, there was
tried the strength of the line formation, the quality of the
English officer, the quality of the English soldier. Col-
onel Hood first halted; and then caused the left sub-
division of the left company to wheel — to wheel back
in such a way as to form, with the rest of the battalion,
an obtuse angle. The manosuvre was executed by
Colonel Percy (he was wounded just at this time) under
the direction of Colonel Hamilton, the officer in command
of the left wing. In this way whilst he still faced the column
which he had originally undertaken to attack. Colonel Hood
showed another front, a small but smooth comely front, to
the mass which was coming upon his flank. His manoeuvre
instantly brought the Vladimir to a halt ; and to those who
— ^without being near enough to hear the giving and the
repeating of orders — still were able to see Colonel Hood
thus changing a part of his front and stopping a mighty
column, by making a bend in his line, it seemed that he was
handling his fine slender English blade with a singular grace |
with the gentleness and grace of the skilled swordsman,
when smiling all the while he parries an angry thrust. In the
midst of its pride and vast strength of numbers, the Vladi-
mir found itself checked ; nay, found itself gravely engaged
with half a company of our Guardsmen ; and the minds of
these two score of soldiers were so little inclined to bend
under the weight of the column, that they kept their per-
fect array. Their fire was deadly, for it was poured into a
close mass of living men. It was at the work of <' file firing"
that the whole battalion now laboured.

On the left of the interval wrought by the displacement
of the centre battalion of the guards, the Coldstream, drawn
up in superb array, began to open its smart, crashing fire
upon the more distant battalions which formed the right
Wing of the Vladimir foroe.

THE TUIN RED LINE.

per-
ito a

lent

lawn

fire

ight

We shall see the share which other Bussian and other
British troops were destined to have in governing the result
of the struggle, but if, for a moment we limit our reckoning
to the troops which stood fighting at this time, it appears
that the whole of the four Vladimir battalions and the less-
ened mass of the left Kazan column were engi^ged with the
Grenadiers and the Coldstream. In other words two Eng-
lish battalions, each ranged in line, but divided the one from
the other by a very broad chasm, were contending with six
battalions in column. And, although of these six battalions
standing in column there were two which had cruelly
suffered, the re'maining four had hitherto had no hard fight-
ing, and were flushed with the thought that they stood on
ground which they themselves had reconquered.

But, after all, if only the firmness of the slender English
line should chance to endure, there was nothing except the
almost chimerical event of a thorough charge home with the
bayonet which could give to the columns the ascendancy
due to their vast weight and numbers ; for the fire from a
straightened, narrow front could comparatively do little
harm, whilst the fire of the battalion in line was carrying
havoc into the living masses. Still neither column nor line
gave way. On the other hand, neither column nor line moved
forward. Fast rooted as yet to the ground, the .groaning
masses of the Russians and the two scarlet strings of Guards-
men stood receiving and deliv3ring their fire.

The Grenadiers were busy with their rifles along their
whole line, and were making good use of that delicate
bend in the formation of their leftmost company which en-
abled them to pour their fire into the heart of the Vladimir
column then hanging on their flank. The reckoning of
him who puts his trust in column is mainly based on the
notion that its mere grandeur of aspect will give it a clear
ascendant as soon as it is seen at all near ; and when the
English line had once delivered its fire, the front-rank men
of the column were not without grounds for making sure
that their next glimpse of the fed-coats would be a glimpse
of men in retreat ; for to have come forward to within a
distance convenient for musket-shots, and to have once de-
livered their fire, this was surely the utmost, in the way of
close fighting, that files of only two men each would
attempt against masses. But when, though only a little, the
smoke began to lift, the gleams that pierced it were the
light that is shed from bayonet points and busy ramrods —
gleams twinkling along the line of the two ranks of soldiery

THB THIN BED LINK.

who still, as it seemed, must be lingering in their strange .
array ; and wherever the smoke lifted clear, there — steawi-
fast as oaks disclosed by rising mist — the long avenue of
the Bearskins loomed out ; and so righteously in place, as
to begin to enforce a surmise that, after all the files of the
two men each might be minded to stand where they were,
ceremoniously shooting into the column and filling it minute
by minute with the tumult of men killed or wounded. And,
though it was but a few of the men planted close in the
massive columns who could thus from time to time look upon
the dim forms of the soldiery who dealt the slaughter, yet
the anxiety of those who could gain no glimpse of the
Bearskins was not for that reason the less. Nay, it was the
greater ; for he who knows of a present danger through his
reading of other men's countenances, or by seeing his neigh-
bours fall wounded or killed around him, is commonly more
disturbed than he who, standing in the firont, looks straight
into the eye of the storm.

Still, up to this time it was only from the extreme left
of the Grenadiers' line that fire was poured into the column.
A harder trial was awaiting the Vladimir men. Colonel Hood
had hitherto wielded his line as though he judged it right
to deal carefully with the left Kazan battalions still linger-
ing on his front ; and up to the last, he d'd not think him-
self warranted in disdaining their presen e ; for he could
not know that their loss in officers had made them so help-
less as they were ; but he now saw enough to assure him
that his real foe was the left Vladimir column on his flank.
Thither, therefore (though he would not altogether avert
his line from the defeated troops in his front), he now de-
termined to bend the eyes and the rifles of a great portion
of his battalion. So he wheeled forward his battalion upon
its left — or in other, and perhaps the more expressive form
of military speech, he " brought forward his right shoulder."
Still, respecting the presence of the defeated Kazan troops,
he did not carry this mangeiuvre so far as to place his bat-
talion bodily on the flank of the Vladimir column, but he
carried it far enough to make the column a mark for the
troopfe which formed his left wing. The Vladimir was wrap-
ped in fire : was wrapped in that fire which is hardly toler-
able to soldiery massed in column — fire poured upon its
flank. Even this for some minutes the brave Vladimir
bore.

If the voice of the English soldier is heard loud in fight,
bis shout may be the shout of triumph achieved, or else — and

A BULL-FIGHT.

I upon
I form

then it is of a thousandfold higher worth — it may be the like
of what used to foretoken the crisis of the old Peninsular
battles when late in the day the voice of " the Light Divi-
sion " was heard ; — the almost inspired utterance by which
the soldier growing suddenly conscious of an overmastering
power, declares and makes known his ascendant. Of two
things happening on a field of battle at nearly the same
tiaae it is often hard to say which was the first, and yet upon
that narrow priority of a few moments there may depend
the question of which event was the cause and which the
eflfect. What people know is that there was an instant when
the Vladimir column was se^n to look hurt and unstable,
and that, either at the same instant, or the instant before,
or the instant after the Grenadiers were hurrahing on their
left, hurrahing at their centre, hurrahing along their whole
line. As though its term of life were measured, as though
its structure were touched and sundered by the very ca-
dence of the cheering, the column bulged, heaving, heav-
ing. " The line will advance on the centre ! Thq men may
advance firing." This, or this nearly, was what Hood had
to say to his Grenadiers. Instant sounded the echo of his
will. •' The line will advance on the centre ! Quick march !"
Then between the column and the seeing of its fate, the
cloud which hangs over a modem battle-field was no longer
a sufficing veil ; for although whilst the English battalion
stood halted, there lay in front of its line that dim, mystic
region which divides contending soldiery, yet the Bearskins
since now they were marching, grew darker from east to
west, grew taller, grew real, broke through. A moment, and
the column hung loose. Another, and it was lapsing into
sheer retreat. Yet another, and it had come to be like a
throng in confusion. Of the left Kazan troops there was
no more question. In an array which was all but found
fault with for being too grand and too stately, the English
battalion swept on.

rrap-

boler-

|n its

Limir

ight,
-and

A SPANISH BULL-FIGHT.

The Right Honourable Benjamin Disraeli, a distinguished
politician and novelist ; born 1805.

A Spanish bull-fight taught me fully to comprehend the
rapturous exclamation of <' Panem et Circenses 1" The

A BULL-nOHT.

amusement apart, there is something magnificent in the
assembled thousands of an amphitheatre. It is the trait
in modem manners which most effectually recalls the no-
bility of antique pastimes.

The poetry of a bull-fight is very much destroyed by the
appearance of the cavahers. Instead of gay, gallant knights
bounding on caracoling steeds, three or four shapeless,
unwieldy beings, cased in armour of stuffed leather, and
looking more like Dutch burgomasters than Si)ani8h chi-
valry, enter the list on limping rips. The bull is, in fact,
the executioner for the dogs ; and an approaching bull-fight
is a respite for any doomed steed throughout all Seville.

The tauridors, in their varying, fanciful, costly, and
splendid dresses, compensate in a great measure for your
disappointment. It is diflBcult to conceive a more brilliant
band. These are ten or a dozen footmen, who engage the
bull unarmed, distract him as he rushes at one of the cava-
liers by unfolding, and dashing before his eyes, a glittering
scarf, and saving themselves from an occasional chase by
practised agility, which elicits great applause. The per-
formance of these tauridors is, without doubt, the most
graceful, the most exciting, and the most surprising portion
of the entertainment.

The ample theatre is nearly full. Be careful to sit on
the shady side. There is the suspense experienced at all
public entertainments, only here upon a great scale. Men
are gliding about, selling fans and refreshments ; the go-
vernor and his suite enter their box j a trumpet sounds I—
all is silent.

The knights advance, poising their spears, and for a mo-
ment trying to look graceful. The tauridors walk behind
them, two by two. They proceed around and across the
lists ; they bow to the vice-regal party, and commend
themselves to the Virgin, whose portrait is suspended
above.

Another trumpet ! A second and a third blast! The
governor throws the signal , the den opens, and the bull
bounds in. That first spring is very fine. The animal
stands for a moment still, staring, stupefied. Gradually
his hoof moves ; he paws the ground ; he dashes about the
sand. The knights face him, with their extended lances,
at due distance. The tauridors are still. One flies across
him, and waves his scarf. The enraged bull makes at the
nearest horseman; he is frustrated in his attack. Again
he plants himself, lashes his tail, and rolls his eye. He

A BULl-FIOHT.

makes another charge, and this time the glance of the spear
does not drive him back. He gores the horse : rips up hie
body : the steed staggers and falls. The bull rushes at the
rider, and his armour will not now preserve him, but just as
his awful horn is about to avenge Ms future fate, a skilful
tauridor skims before him, and flaps his nostrils with his
scarf. He flies after his new assailant, and immediately
finds another. Now you are delighted by all the evolutions
of this consummate band; occasionally they can save
themselves only by leaping the barriers. The knight,
in the meantime, rises, escapes, and momits another
steed.

The bull now makes a rush at another horseman ; the
horse dexterously veers aside. The bull rushes on, but the
knight wounds him severely in the flank with his lance.
The tauridors now appear, armed with darts. They rush,
with extraordinary swiftness and dexterity, at the infuri-
ated animal, plant their galling weapons in different parts
of his body, and scud away. To some of their darts are
affixed fire- works, which ignite by the pressure of the stab.
The animal is then as bewildered as infuriate ; the amphi-
theatre echoes to his roaring, and witnesses the greatest
efforts of his rage. He flies at all, staggering and stream-
ing with blood ; at length, breathless and exhausted, he
stands at bay, his black, swollen tongue hanging out, and
his mouth covered with foam.

'Tis horrible 1 Throughout, a stranger's feelings are for
the bull, although this even the fairest Spaniard cannot
comprehend. As it is now evident that the noble victim
can only amuse them by his death, there is a universal cry
for the matador ; and the matador, gaily dressed, appears
amid a loud cheer. The matador is a great artist. Strong
nerves must combine with great quickness and great expe-
rience to form an accomplished matador. It is a rare cha-
racterj highly prized ; their fame exists after their death,
and different cities pride themselves on producing or pos-
sessing the most eminent.

The matador plants himself before the bull, and shakes
a red cloak suspended over a drawn sword. This last insult
excites the lingering energy of the dying hero. He makes
a violent charge : the mantle falls over his face, the sword
enters his spine, and he falls amid thundering shouts. The
death is instantaneous, without a struggle, and without a
groan. A car, decorated with flowers and ribbons, and
drawn by oxen, now appears, anf* bears off the body in
triumph.

TOM BROWN GOES TO SCHOOL.

I have seen eighteen horses killed in a biill-fight, and
eight bulls ; but the sport is not always in proportion to
the slaughter. Sometimes the bull is a craven, and then,
if, after recourse has been had to every mode of excitement,
he will not charge, he is kicked out of the arena, amid the
jeers and hisses of the audience. Every act of skill on the
part of the tauridors elicits applause ; nor do the specta-
tors hesitate, if necessary, to mark their temper by a con-
trary method. On the whole, it is a magnificent but
barbarous spectacle ; and, however disgusting the principal
object, the accessories of the entertainment are so brilliant
and interesting that, whatever may be their abstract disap-
probation, those who have witnessed a Spanish bull-fight
will not be surprised at the passionate attachment of the
Spanish people to their national pastime.

TOM BROWN GOES TO SCHOOL.

Thomas Hughes, M. P. ; horn in England, educated at Rugby
and Oxfordj called to the bar of Lincoln^ s Inn.

" Now, sir, time to get up, if you please. Tally-ho. coach
for Leicester '11 Le round in half-an-hour, and don't wait
for nobody." So spake the Boots of the " Peacock Inn,"
Islington, at half-past two o'clock on the morning of a day
in the early part of November, 183 — , giving Tom at the
same time a shake by the shoulder, and then putting down
a candle and carrying off his shoes to clean.

Tom and his father had arrived in town from Berkshire
the day before, and finding, on inquiry, that the Birming-
ham coaches which ran from the city did not pass through
Rugby, but deposited their passengers at Dunchurch, a
village three miles distant on the main road, where said
passengers haO to wait for the Oxford and Leicester coach
in the evening, or to take a post-chaise — had resolved that
Tom should travel down by the Tally-ho, which diverged
from the main road and passed through Rugby itself.
And as the Tally-ho was an early coach, they had driven
out to the "Peacock" to be on the road.

Tom had never been in London, and would have liked
to have stopped at the "Belle Savage," where they had
been put down by the Star, just at dusk, that he might
have gone roving about those endless, mysterious, gas lit
streets, which, with their glare and hum and moving

TOM BROWN GOES TO SCHOOL.

crowds, excited him so that he couldn't talk even. But as
soon as he found that the " Peacock " arrangement would
get him to Eugby by twelve o'clock in the day, whereas
otherwise he wouldn't be there till the evening, all other
plans melted away ; his one absorbing aim being to become
a public school-boy as fast as possible, and six hours sooner
or later seeming to him of the most alarming importance.

Tom and his father had alighted at the "Peacock," at
about seven in the evening ; and having heard* with un-
feigned joy the paternal order at the bar, of steaks and
oyster-sauce for suppei in half-an-hour, and seen his father
seated cosily by the bright fire in the coffee-room with the
paper in his hand — ^Tom had rim out to see about him,
had wondered at all the vehicles passing and repassing,
and had fraternised with the Boots and ostler, from whom
he ascertained that the Tally-ho was a tip- top goer, ten
miles an hom* including stoppages, and so punctual that
all the road set their clocks by her.

Then, being summoned to supper, he had regaled him-
self in one of the bright little boxes of the "Peacock"
coffee-room on the beef-steak and unlimited oyster-sauce,
and brown stout (tasted then for the first time — a day to
be marked for ever by Tom with a white stone) ; had at
first attended to the excellent advice which his father was
bestowing on him from over his glass of steaming brandy
and water, and then begun nodding, from the united effects
of the stout, the fire, and the lecture, till the squire,
observing Tom's state, and remembering that it was nearly
nine o'clock, and that the Tally-ho left at three, sent the
little fellow off to the chambermaid, with a shake of the
hand (Tom having stipulated in the morning before start-
ing, that kissing should now cease between them) and a
few parting words.

" And now, Tom, my boy," said the squire, " remember
you are going at your own earnest request, to be chucked
into this great school, like a young bear, with all your
troubles before you — earlier than we should have sent you,
perhaps. If schools are what they were in my time, you'll
see a great many cruel blackguard things done, and hear
a deal of foul bad talk. But never fear. You tell the
truth, keep a brave and kind heart, and never listen to or
say anything you wouldn't have your mother and sister hear,
and you'll never feel ashamed to come home, or we to see
you."

Tlie allusion to his mother made Tom feel rather choke^,

TOH BROWN GOES TO SCHOOL.

and he would have liked to have hugged his father well, if
it hadn't been for the recent stipulation.

As it was, he only squeezed his father's hand, and looked
bravely up and said, "I'll try, father."

" I know you will, my boy. Is your money all safe ?"

" Yes," said Tom, diving into one pocket to make sure.

" And your keys?" said the squire.

''All right/' said Tom, diving into the other pocket.

"Well then, good night. God bless you ! I'll tell Boots
to call you, and be up to see you off."

Tom was carried off by the chambermaid in a brown
study, from which he was roused in a clean little attic, by
that buxom person calling him a little darling, and kissing
Lim as she left the room : which indignity he was too much
surprised to resent. And still thinking of his father's last
words, and the look with which they were spoken, he knelt
down and prayed that, come what might, he might never
bring shame and sorrow on the dear folk at home.

Indeed, the squire's last words deserved to have their
effect, for they had been the result of much anxious
thought. All the way up to London he had pondered what
he should say to Tom by way of parting advice ; something
that the boy could keep in his head ready for use. By way
of assisting meditation, ,he had even gone the length of
taking out his flint and steel, and tinder, and hammering
away for a quarter of an hour till he had manufactured a
light for a long Trichinopoli cheroot, which he silently
puffed ; to the no small wonder of (Joachee, who was an
old friend, and an institution on the Bath road ; and who
always expected to talk on the prospects and doings, agri-
cultm-al and social, of the whole country when he carried
the squire.

To condense the squire's meditation, it was somewhat as
follows : "I won't tell him to read his Bible, and love and
serve God; if he don't do that for his mother's sake and
teaching, he won't for mine. Shall I go into the sort of
temptations he'll meet with? No, I can't do that. Never
do for an old fellow to go into such things with a boy. He
won't understand me. Do him more harm than good, ten
to one. Shall I tell him to mind his work, and say he's
sent to school to make himself a good scholar? Well, but
he isn't sent to school for that — at any rate, not for that
mainly. I don't care a straw for Greek particles, or the
digamma, no more does his mother. What is he sent to
school for ? Well, partly because he wanted so to go. If

bed

this

TOM BROWN OOBS TO SCEOOL.

he'll only turn out a brave, helpful, truth-telling English-
man, and a gentleman, and a Christian, that's all I want,"
thought the squire ; and upon this view of the casfe framed
his last words of advice to Tom, which were well enbugh
suited to his purpose.

For they were Tom's first thoughts as he tumbled out of
bed at the summons of Boots, and proceeded rapidly to
wash and dress himself. At ten minutes to three he was
down in the coffee-room in his stockings, carrying his hat-
box, coat, and comforter in his hand ; and there he found
his father nursing a bright fire, and a cup of hot coffee and
a hard biscuit on the table.

"Now then, Tom, give us your things here, and drink
this ; there's nothing like starting warm, old fellow."

Tom addressed himself to the coffee, and prattled away
while he worked himself into his shoes and his great- coat,
well warmed through ; a Petersham coat with velvet collar,
made tight after the abominable fashion of those days.
And just as he is swallowing his last mouthful, winding his
comforter round his throat, and tucking the ends into the
breast of his coat, the hoin sounds. Boots looks in and
says, *' Tally-ho, sir;" and they hear the ring and the rat-
tle of the four fast trotters and the town-made drag, as it
dashes up to the '< Peacock."

" Anything for us. Bob?" says the burly guard, dropping
down from behind, and slapping himself across the chest.
"Young genl'm'n, Kugby; three parcels, Leicester;
hamper o' game, Rugby," answers ostler.

"Tell young gent to look alive," says guard, opening
the hind-boot and shooting in the parcels, after examining
them by the lamps. " Here, shove the portmanteau up
a-top — I'll fasten him presently. Now then, sir, jump up
behind."

" Good-bye, father — my love at home." A last shake of
the hand. Up goes Tom, the guard catching his hat-box
and holding on with one hand, while with the other he
claps the horn to his mouth. Toot, toot, toot I the ostlers
let go their heads, the four bays plunge at the collar, and
away goes the Tally-ho into the darkness, forty-five seconds
from the time they pulled up ; ostler, Boots, and the squire
stand looking after them under the " Peacock" lamp.

" Sharp work 1" says the squire, and goes in again to his
bed, the coach being well out of sight and hearing.

Tom stands up on the coach and looks back at his father's
figure as long as he can see it, and then the guard, having dis-

§4

TOM BROWN AT SCHOOt.

posed of his luggage, comes to an anchor, and finishes his
buttonings and other preparations for facing the three
hours before dawn ; no joke for those who minded cold,
on a fast coach in November, in the reign of his late majesty.

I sometimes think that you boys of this generation are a
deal tenderer fellows than we used to be*. At any rate,
you're much more comfortable travellers, for I see every
one of you with his rug or plaid, and other dodges for pre-
serving the caloric, and most of you going in those fuzzy,
dusty, padded first-class carriages. It was another afiair
altogether, a dark ride on the top of the Tally-ho, I can
tell you, in a tight Petersham coat, and your feet dangling
six inches from the floor. Then you knew what cold was,
and what it was to be without legs, fee not a bit of feeling
had you in them after the first half-hour. But it had its
pleasures, the old dark ride. First, there was the con-
sciousness of silent endurance, so dear to every Englishman
—of standing out against something, and not giving in.
Then there was the music of the rattling harness, and the
ring of the horses' feet on the hard road, and the glare of
the two bright lamps through the steaming hoar-frost, over
the leaders' ears, into the darkness ; and the cheery toot
of the guaid's horn, to warn some drowsy pikeman or the
ostler at the next change ; and the looking forward to day-
light — and last but not least, the delight of returning sen-
sation in your toes.

Then the break of dawn and the sunrise, where can they
be ever seen in perfection but from a coach roof? You
want motion and change and music to see them in their
glory ; not the music of singing-men and singing- women,
but good silent music, which sets itself in your own head,
the accompaniment of work and getting over the ground.

TOM BROWN AT SCHOOL.

T. Hughes.

The school-house prayers were the same on the first night
as on the other nights, save for the gaps caused by the
absence of those boys who came late, and the line of new
boys, who siood altogether at the further table — of all sorts
and sizes, like young boars with all their troubles to come,
as Tom's father had said to him when he was in the same

TOM BROWN AT SCHOOL.

position. He thought of it as he looked at the line, and
poor little slight Arthur standhig with them, and as he
was leading him upstairs to No. 4, directly after prayers,
and shewing him his bed. It was a huge, high, airy room,
with two large windows looking on to the school close.
There were twelve beds in the room. The one in the fur-
thest corner by the fire-place occupied by the sixth form
boy, who was responsible for the discipline of the room,
and the rest by boys in the lower-tifth and other junior
forms, all fags, for the fifth-form boys, as has been said,
slept in rooms by themselves. Being fags, the eldest of
them was not more than about sixteen years old, and were
all bound to be up and in bed by ten; the sixth-form boys
came to bed from ten to a quarter past (at which time the
old verger came round to put the candles out), except
when they sat up to read.

Within a few minutes, therefore- of their entry all the
other boys who slept in Numbe*- 4 had come up. The little
fellows went quietly to their own beds, and began undress-
ing and talking to each other in whispers, while the elder,
amongst whom was Tom, sat chatting about Oii one another's
beds, with their jackets and waistcoats off. Poor little
Arthur was overwhelmed with the novelty of his position.
The idea of sleeping in the room with strange boys had
clearly never crossed his mind before, and was as painful
as it was strange to him. He could hardly bear to take
his jacket off; however, presently, with an effort, off it
came, and then he paused and looked at Tom, who was
sitting at the bottom of his bed tallang and laughing.

"Please, Brown," he whispered, "may I wash my face
and hands?"

"Of course, if you like," said Tom, staring; 'that's
your washhand-stand, under the window, second from your
bed. You'll have to go down for more water in the morn-
ing, if you use it all." And on he went with his talk, while
Arthur stole timidly from between the beds out to his
washhand-stand, and began his ablutions, thereby drawing
for a moment on himself the attention of the room.

On went the talk and laughter. Arthur finished his
washing and undressing, and put on his nightgown. He
then looked round more nervously than ever. Two or
three of the little boys were already in bed, sitting up with
their chins on their knees. The light burned clear, the
noise went on. It was a trying moment for the poor little
lonely boy: however, this time ho didn't ask Tom what he

^OM BROWN At aOHddL.

might or might liot do, but dropped on his knees by his
bedside, as he had done every day from his childhood, to
open his heart to Him who heareth the cry and beareth
the sorrows of the tender child, and the strong man in
agony.

Tom was sitting at the bottom of his bed unlacing his
boots, so that his back was towards Arthur, and he didn't
see what had happened, and looked up in wonder at the
sudden silence. Then two or three boys laughed and
sneered, and a big brutal fellow, who was standing in the
middle of the room, picked up a slipper, and shied it at the
kneeling boy, calling him a snivelling young shaver. Then
Tom saw the whole, and the next moment the boot he had
just pulled off flew straight at the head of the bully, who
had just time to throw up his arm and catch it on his
elbow.

''Confound you. Brown 1 what's that for?" roared he,
stamping with pain.

"Never mind what I mean," said Tom, stepping onto
the floor, every drop of blood in his body tingling : "if any
fellow wants the other boot, he knows how to get it."

What would have been the result is doubtful, for at this
moment the sixth-form boy came in, and not another word
could be said. Tom and the rest rushed into bed and
finished their unrobing there, and the old verger, as punc-
tual as the clock, had put out the candle in another
minute, and toddled on to the next room, shutting their
door with his usual "Good night, genl'm'n."

There were many boys in the room by whom that little
scene was taken to heart before they slept. But sleep
seemed to have deserted the pillow of poor Tom. For
some time his excitement, and the flood of memories which
chased one another through his brain, kept him from think-
ing or resolving. His head throbbed, his heart leaped, and
he could hardly keep himself from springing out of bed
and rushing about the room. Then the thought of his own
mother came across him, and the .promise he had made at
her knee, years ago, never to forget to kneel by his bed-
side, and give himself up to his Father, before he laid his
head on the pillow, from which it might never rise ; and
he lay down gently, and cried as if his heart would break.
He was only fourteen years old.

It was no light act of courage in those days, my dear
boys, for a little fellow to say his prayers publicly, even at
Rugby. A few years later, when Arnold's manly piety had

TOM BP.OW^ A* SCHOOL.

begun to leaven the school, the tables turned ; before he
died, in the school-house at least, and I believe in the
other houses, the rule was the other way. But poor Tom
had come to school in other times. The first few nights
after he came he did not kneel down because of the noise,
but sat up in bed till the candle was out, and then stole
out and said his prayers, in fear lest some one should find
him out. So did many another poor little fellow. Then
he began to think that he might just as well say his prayers
in, bed, and then that it didn't matter whether he was
kneeling or sitting, or lying down. And so it had come to
pass with Tom, as with all who will not confess their Lord
before menj and for the last year he had probably not said
his prayers in earnest a dozen times.

Poor Tom 1 the first and bitterest feelingVhich was like
to break his heart, was the sense of his own cowardice.
The vice of all others which he loathed was brought in and
burned in on his own soul. He had lied to his mother, to
his conscience, to his God. How could he bear it ? And
then the poor little weak boy, whom he had pitied and
almost soorned for his weakness, had done that which he,
braggart as he was, dared not do. , The first dawn of com-
fort came to him in swearing to himself that he would
stand by that boy through thick and thin, and cheer him.
and help him, and bear his burdens, for the good deed
done that night. Then he resolved to write home next
day and tell his mother all, and what a coward her son had
been. And then peace came to him as he resolved, lastly,
to bear his testimony next morning. The morning would
be harder than the night to begin with, but he felt that he
could not aftbrd to let one chance slip. Several times he
faltered, for the devil showed" him, first, all his old friends
calling him ^' Saint " and ^^ Square-toes," and a dozen
hard names, and whispered to him that his motives would
be misunderstood, and he would only be left alone with
the new boy ; whereas it was his duty to keep all means of
influence, that he might do good to the largest number.
And then came the more subtle b3mptation, <' Shall I not
be shO\ving myself braver than others by doing this ? Have
I any right to begin it now ? Ought I not rather to pray
in my own study, letting other boys knew that I do so, and
trying to lead them to it, while in public at least I should
go on as I have done ?" However, his good angel was too
strong that night, and he turned on his side and slept^
tired of trying to reason, but resolved to follow tho ixr^-

* T

'it

♦foM BROwif AT scnoot.

pulse which had been so strong, and in which he had found
peace.

Next morning he was up, and washed, and dressed, all
but his jacket and waistcoat, just as the ten minutes' bell
began to ring, and then in the face of the whole room
knelt down to pray. Not five words could he say — the bell
mocked him ; he was listening for every whisper in the
room — what were they all thinking of him? He was
ashamed to go on kneeling, ashamed to rise from his knees.
At last, as it were from his inmost heart, a still small voice
seemed to breathe forth the words of the publican, •' Gbd
be merciful to me a sinner 1" He repeated them over and
over, clinging to them as for his life, and rose from his

knees comforted and humbled, and ready to face the whole
world. It was not needed j two other boys besides Arthur
had already followed his example,, and he went down to
the great school with a glimmering of another lesson in his
heart — the lesson that he who has conquered his own
coward spirit has conquered the whole outward world 5 and
that other one which the old prophet learned in the
cave in Mount Horeb, when he hid his face, and the still
small voice asked, "What doest thou here, Elijah?" — that
however we may fancy o\irselves alone on the side of good,
the King and Lord of men is nowhere without his wit-
nesses; for in every society, however seemingly corrupt
and godless, there are those who have not bowed the knee
to Baal.

He found, too, how greatly he had exaggerated the effect
to be produced by his act. For a few nights there was a
sneer or a laugh when he knelt down, but this passed off
soon, and one by one all the other boys but three or four
followed the lead. I fear that this was in some measure
owing to the fact, that Tom could probably have thrashed
any boy in the room except the prepositor ; at any rate,
every boy knew that he would try upon very slight provo-
cation, and didn't choose to run the risk of a hard fight
because Tom Brown had taken a fancy to say his prayers.
Some of the small boys of Number 4 communicated the
new state of things to their chums, and in several other
rooms the poor little fellows tried it on ; in one instance
or so, where the prepositor heard of it and intdfered very
decidedly, with partial success ; but in the rest, after a
short struggle, the confessors were bullied or laughed down,
and the old state of things went on for some time longer.
Before either Tom Brown or Arthur left the school -house,

THE BOAT Race.

thftre was no room in which it had not become the regular
custom. 1 trust it is so still, and that the old heathen
state of things has gone out for ever.

room
ae bell
in the
le was
knees.
11 voice
•« Gbd
irer and
^om his
e whole
Arthur
lown to
n in his
his own
Id; and
. in the
the still
►"—that
of good,
his wit-
corrupt
ihe knee

THE BOAT RACE.
Thomas Hughes.

The St. Ambrose boat was almost the last, so there were
no punts in the way, or other obstructions | and they
swung steadily down past the University barge, the top of
which was already covered with spectators. Every man in
the boat felt as if the eyes of Europe were on him, and
pulled in his very best form. Small groups of gownsmen
were scattered along the bank in Christchurch meadow,
chiefly dons, who were really interested in the races, but,
at that time of day, seldom liked to display enthusiasm
enough to cross the water and go down to the starting-
place. These sombre groups were lighted up here and there
by the dresses of a few ladies, who were walking up and
down, and watching the boats. At the mouth of the Cher-
well were moored two punts, in which reclined at their ease
some dozen young gentlemen, f^moking ; several of these
were friends of Drysdale, and hailed him as the boat passed
them.

" What a fool I am to be here 1" he grumbled, in an under
tone, casting an envious glance at the punts in their com-
fortable berth, up under the banks, and out of the wind.
<<I say, Brown, don't you wish we were well past this on the
way up?"
<< Silence in the bows 1" shouted Miller.
Tom got more comfortable at every stroke, and by the
time they reached the Gut began to hope that he should
not liave a fit, or lose all his strength just at the start, or
cut a crab, or come to some other unutterable grief, the fear
of which had been haunting him all day.

"Here they are at last! — come along now— keep up with
them," said Hardy to Grey, as the boat neared the Gut ;
and the two trotted along downwards, Hardy watching the
crew, and Grey watching him.
" Hardy, how eager yv.u look 1"

100

THE BOAT RACE!.

■Ul

"I'd give twenty pounds to bo going to pull in the race."

Grey shambled on in silence by the side of his big friend,
and wished he could understand what it was that moved
him so.

As the boat shot into the Gut from under the cover of
the Oxfordshire bank, the wind caught the bows.

'• Feather high, now !" shouted Miller; and then added
in a low voice to the captain, ''It will be ticklish work,
starting in this wind."

''Just as bad for all the other boats," answered the
captain.

" Well said, old philosopher !" said Miller. "It's a com-
fort to steer you; you never make a fellow nervous. I
wonder if you ever feel nervous yourself, now ?"

"Can't say," said the captain. "Here's our post; we
may as well turn."

"Eapy, bow side — now, two and four, pull her round —
backwater, seven and five!" shouted the coxswain; and
the boat's head swung round, and two. or three strokes took
her into the bank.

Hark ! — the first gun. The report sent Tom's heart into
his mouth again. Several of the boats pushed oft" at once
into the stream ; and the crowds of men on the bank began
to be agitated, as it were, by the shadow of the coming
excitement. The St. Ambrose crew fingered their oars, put
a last dash of grease on their rowlocks, and settled their
feet against the stretchers.

" Shall we push her off?" asked bow.

"No, lean give you another minute," said Miller, who
was sitting, watch in hand, in the stern ; only be smart
when I give the word."

The captain turned on his seat, and looked up the b.\at.
His face was quiet, but full of confidence, which seemed to
pass from him into the crew. Tom felt calmer and stronger,
as he met his eye. " Now mind, bojs, don't quicken," ho
said, cheerily ; " four short strokes, to get way on her, and
then steady. Here, pass up the lemon."

And he took a sliced lemon out of his pocket, put a small
piece into his mouth, and then handed it to Blake, who
followed his example, and passed it on. Each man took a
piece ; and just as bow had secured the end, Miller called

"Now, jackets off, and get her head out steadily."
The jackets were thrown on shore, and gathered up by
the boatmen in attendance. The crew poised their oars.

THE BOAT RACE.

101

No. 2 pushing out her head, and the captain doing the
same for the stern. Miller took the starting rope in his
j^and.

Q "How the wind catches her stern," he said : " here, pay
ut the rope, one of you. No, nut you — some fellow with
''*' strong hand. Yes, you'll do," he went on, as Hardy
^tepptd down the bank and took hold of the rope ; " let
me have it foot by foot as I want it. Ni<t too quick ; make
the most of it — that'll do. Two and three, just dip your
oars in to give her way."

The rope paid out steadily, and the boat settled to her
place. But now the wind rose again, and the stern drifted
towards the band. •

"You must back her a bit. Miller, and keep her a little
further out, or our oars on stroke side will catch the bank."
"So I see; Back her, cne;stroke, all. Back her, I sayl"
shouted Miller.

It is no easy matter to get a crew to back her an inch just
now, particularly as there are in her two men who have
never rowed a race before, except in the torpids, and one
who has never rowed a race in his life.

However, back she comes ; the starting rope slackens in
Miller's left hand, and the stroke, unshipping his oar, pushes
the stern gently out again.

There goes the second gun 1 one short minute more, and
we are ott" Short minute, indeed ! you wouldn't say so if
you were in the boat, with your heart in your mouth, and
trembling all over like a man with the palsy. Those sixty
seconds before the starting-gun in your first race — why, they
are a little lifetime.

"By Jove, we are drifting in again!" said Miller, in
horror. The captain looked grim, but said nothing; it
was too late now for him to be unshipping again.

" Here, catch hold of the long boat-hook, and fend her
off."

Hardy, to whom this was addressed, seized the boat-hook,
and, standing with one foot in the water, pressed the end
of the boat-hook against the gun-wale, at the full stretch
of his arm, and so, by main force, kept the stern out. There
was just room for stroke oars to dip, and that was all. The
starting-rope was as taut as a harp-string ; will Miller's left
hand hold out?

It is an awful moment. But the coxswain, tliough almost
dragged backwards off his seat, is equal to the occasion. Ho
holds his watch in his right hand with the tiller-rope.

102

THE BOAT RACE.

"Eight socoivls more only. Look out for the flash.
Eemember, all eyes in the boat."

There it comes, at last — the flash of the star tin;^- gun. Long
before the sound of the report can roll up the river, the
whole pent-up life and energy which has been held in leash,
as it were, for the last six minutes, is let loose, and breaks
away with a bound and a dash which ho who has felt it
.will remember for his life, but the like of which will he ever
feel again ? The starting- ropes drop from the coxswains'
hands ; the oars flash into the water, and gleam on the
feather ; the spray flies from them, and the boats leap
forward.
• The crowds on the bank scatter, and rush along, each
keeping as close as may be to his own boat. Some of the
men on the towing-path, some on the very edge of, often
in, the water — some slightly in advance, as if they could
help to drag their boat forward — some behind, where they
can see the pulling better — but all at full speed, in wild ex-
citement, and shouting at the top of their voices to those
on whom the honour of the college is laid.

" Well pulled, all I" '< Pick her up there, five 1" " You're
gaining, every stroke 1" *'Time in the bowsl" "Bravo,
8t. Ambrose 1"

On they rushed by the side of the boats, jostling one
another, stumbling, struggling and panting along. For a
quarter of a mile along the bank, the glorious maddening
hurlyburly extends, and rolls up the side of the stream.

For the first ten strokes Tom was in too great a fear of
making a mistake to feel, or hear, or see. His whole soul
was glued to the back of the man before him, his one
thought to keep time, and get his strength into the stroke.
But as the crew settled down into the well-known long
sweep, what we may call consciousness returned ; and while
every muscle in his body was straining, and his chest heaved,
and his heart leaped, every nerve seemed to be gathering
new life, and his senses to wake into unwonted acuteness.
He caught the scent of the wild thyme in the air, and found
room in his brain to wonder how it could have got there,
as he had never seen the plant near the river, or smelt it
before. Though his eye never wandered from the back of
Diogenes, he seemed to pee all things at once. The boat
behind, which seemed to be gaining — it was all he could do
to prevent himself from quickening on the stroke as ho
fancied that — the eager face of Miller, with his compressed
lips, and eyes fixed so earnestly ahead that Tom could

THE nOAT QACE.

103

almost foel the glance passing over his right shoiild«i* ; the
Hying banjos and the shouting crowd ; see thorn with his
bodily eyes he could not, but he knew nevertheless that
Grey had been upset and nearly rolled down the bank into
the water in the first hundred yards ; that Jack was bound-
ing and scrambling and barking along by the very edge of
the stream ; above all, he was just as well aware as if he had
been looking at it, of a stalwart form in cap and gown,
bounding along, brandishing the long boat hook, and always
keeping just opposite the boat ; and amid all the Babel of
voices, and the dash and pulse of the stroke, and the labour-
ing of his own breathing, he heard Hardy's voice coming to
him again and again, and clear as ifthere had been no other
sound in the air, " Steady, two ! steady 1 well pulled 1 steady,
steady." The voice seemed to give him strength and keep
him to his work. And what work it was ! he had had many
a hard pull in the last six weeks, but "never aught like
this." _

But it can't last for ever ; men's muscles are not steel, or
their lungs bulls' hide, and hearts can't go on pumping a
hundred miles an hour long without bursting. The St.
Ambrose boat is well away from the boat behind, there is
a great gap between the accompany ing crowds ; and now, as
they near the Gut, she hangs for a moment or two in hand,
though the roar from the bank grows louder and louder,
and Tom is already aware that the St. Ambrose crowd is
melting into the one ahead of them.

" We must be close to Exeter !" The thought flashes
into him, and it would seem into the rest of the crew at the
same moment. For, all at once, the strain seems taken off
their arms again ; there is no more drag ; she springs to
the stroke as she did at the start ; and Miller's face, which
had darkened for a few seconds, lightens up again.

Miller's face and attitude are a study. Coiled up into
the smallest possible space, his chin almost resting on his
knees, his hands close to his sides, firmly but lightly feeling
the rudder, as a good horseman handles the mouth of a
free-going hunter — if a coxswain could make a bump by his
own exertions, surely he will do it. No sudden jerks of
the St. Ambrose rudder will you see, watch as you will
from the bank : the boat never hangs through fault'of his,
but easily and gracefully rounds every point. "You're
gaining 1 you're gaining I" he now and then mutters to the
captain, who responds with a wink, keeping his breath for
other matters. Isn't ho grand, the captain, as he comes

104

THE BOAT RACE.

forward like lightning, stroke after stroke, his back flat, his
teeth set, his whole frame working from the hips with the
regularity of a machine? As the space still narrows, the eyes
of the fiery little coxswain flash with excitement, but he is
far too good a judge to hurry the final effort before the
victory is safe in his grasp.

The two crowds are mingled now, and no mistake ; and
the shouts come all in a heap over the water. " Now, St.
Ambrose, six strokes more." " Now, Exeter, you're gain-
ing; pick her up." ''Mind the Gut, Exeter." "Bravo,
St. Ambrose !" The water rushes by, still eddying from the
strokes of the boat ahead. Tom fancies now he can hear
their oars and the workings of their rudder, and the voice
of their coxswain. In another moment both boats are in
the Gut, and a perfect storm of shouts reaches them from
the crowd, as it rushe:; madly off" to the left to the foot-
bridge, amidst which, " Oh, well steered, well steered, St.
Ambrose !" is the prevailing cry. Then Miller, motionless
as a statue till now, lifts his right hand and whirls the tassel
round his head. "Give it her no vv, boys; six strokes and
we're into them." Old Jervis lays down that great broad
back, and lashes his oar through the water with the might
of a giant : the crew catch him up in another stroke, the
tight new boat answers to the spurt, and Tom feels a little
shock behind him, and then a grating sound, as Miller
shouts, "Unship oars, bow and three," and the nose of the
St. Ambrose boat glides quietly up the side of the Exeter,
till it touches their stroke oar.

" Take care where you're coming to." It is the coxswain
of the bumped boat who speaks.

Tom, looking round, find himself within a foot or two of
him ; and being utterly unable to contain his joy, and yet
unwilling to exhibit it before the eyes of a gallant rival,
turns away towards the shore, and begins telegraphing to
Hardy.

" Now then, what are you at there in the bows ? Cast her
off* quick. Come, look alive ! Push across at once out of the
way of the other boats."

"I congratulate you, Jervis," says the Exeter stroke, as
the St. Ambrose boat shoots past him. " Do it again next
race, and I shan't care."

"We were within three lengths of Brasenose when we
bumped," says the all-observant Miller, in a low voice.

"All right," answers the captain; "Brasono.se isn't so

TUE BOAT RACE.

105

strong as usual. We shan't have much trouble there, but,
a tough job up above, I take it."
''Brasenose was better steered than Exeter."
" They muffed it in the Gut, eh?" said the captain. '*' I
thought so by the shouts."

" Yes, we were pressing them a little down below, and
their coxswain kept looking over his shoulder. He was iu
the Gut before he knew it, and had to pull his left hand
hard, or they would have fouled the Oxfordshire corner.
That stopped their way, and in we went.' '
"Bravo, and how well we started too."
" Yes, thanks to that Hardy. It was touch and go though ;
I couldn't have held the rope two seconds more."

"How did our fellows work? She dragged a good deal
below the Gut."

Miller looked somewhat serious, but even he cannot be
finding fault just now. For the first step is gained, the first
victory fyon ; and as Homer sometimes [nods, so Miller
relaxes the sterness of his rule. The crew, as soon as they
have found their voices again, laugh and talk and answer
the congratulations of their friends, as the boat slips along
close to the towing-path on the Berks side, "easy all,"
almost keeping pace nevertheless with the lower boats,
which are racing up under the willows on the Oxfordshire
side. Jack, after one or two feints, makes a frantic bound
into the water, and is hauled dripping in the boat by Drys-
dale, uncliid by Miller, but to the intense disgust of Dio-
genes, whoso pantaloons and principles are alike outraged
by the proceeding. He — the Cato of the oar — scorns to
relax the strictness of his code, even after victory won.
Neither word nor look does he cast to the exulting St. Am-
brosians on the bank 5 a twinkle in his eye, and a subdued
chuckle or two, alone betray that, though an oarsman, he
is mortal. Already ho revolves in his mind the project of
an early walk under a few pea-coats, not being quite satis-
fied (conscientious old boy!) that he tried his stretcher
enough in that final spurt, and thinking that there must
be an extra pound of flesh on him somewhere or other which
did the mischief.

" I say, Brown," said Drysdale, " how do you feel ?"
"All right," said Tom ; " I never felt jollier in my life."
" It was an awful grind though! didn't you wish yourself
well out of it below the Gut?"
" No, nor you cither."

106

lUIUlAL OF LITTLB NULL.

" Didn't I ? I wns awfully baked, my throat is like a lime-
kiln yet. What did you think about?"

"Well, about keeping time, I think," said Tom, laughing ;
" but I can't remember much."

" I only kept on my thinking how I hated those fellows
in the Exeter boat, and how done up they must be, and
hoping their number two felt like having a fit."

At this moment they came opposite the CherwoU. The
leading boat was just passing the winning-post, of Univer-
sity barge, and the band struck up the ** Conquering Hero,"
with a crash. And while a mighty sound of shouts, murmurs,
and music went up into the evening sky, Miller shook the
tiller-ropes again, the captain shouted, " Now then, pick up
here!" and the St. Ambrose boat shot up between the
swarming banks at racing pace to her landing-place, the
lion of the evening,

BURIAL OF LITTLE NELL.

Charles Dickens, the most popular of living novelists ; horn at
Landport, Hants, Feb. 1812.

When morning came, and they could speak more calmly
on the subject of their grief, they heard how her life had
closed.

She had been dead two days. They were all about her at
the time, knowing that the end was drawing on. She died
soon after daybreak. They had read and talked to her in
the earlier portion of the night, but as the hours crept on,
she sunk to sleep. They could tell by what she faintly
uttered in her dreams, that they were of her journeyings
with the old man ; they were of no painful scenes, but of
those who had helped and used them kindly, for she often
said "God bless you!" with great fervor. Waking, she
never wandered in her mind but once, and that was at
beautiful music which she said was in the air. God knows.
It may have been.

Opening her eyes at last, from a very quiet sleep, she
begged that they would kiss her once again. That done,
she turned to the old man with « lovely smile upon her face
— such, they said, as they had never seen, and never could
forget — and clung with both her arms about his neck.
They did not know that she was dead at tirstr

HUKIAL OF LITTLE NELL.

107

Slio had spoken very often of the two sisters, who, she
. said, were like dear friends to her. She wished they could
be told how much she thought about them, and how she
had watched them as they walked to/jother by the river side
at night. She would like to see po -r Kit, she had often said
of late. She wished there .".us somebody to take her love
to Kit. And even then, she never thought or spoke about
him but with something of her old, clear, merry laugh.

For the rest, she had never murmured or complained ;
but, with a quiet mind, and manner quite unaltered — save
that she every day became more earnest and more grateful
to them — faded like the light upon the summer's evening.

The child who had been her little friend came there
almost as soon as it was day, with an ottering of dried
flowers, which he begged them to lay upon her breast. It
was he who had come to the window over night and spoken
to the sexton, and they saw in the snow traces of small
feet, where he had been lingering near the room in which
she lay before he went to bed. He had a fancy, it seemed,
that they had left her there alone ; and could not bear the
thought.

He told them of his dream again, and that it was of her
being restored to them, just as she used to be. He begged
hard to see her, saying that he would be very quiet, and
that they need not fear his being alarmed, for he had sat
alone by his younger brother all day long, when he was
dead, and had felt glad to be so near him. They let him
have his wish ; and indeed he kept his word, and was in his
childish way a lesson to them all.

Up to that time the old man had not spoken once — ex-
cept to her— or stirred from the bedside. But when he
saw her little favorite, he was moved as they had not seen
him yet, and made as though he would have him come
nearer. Then pointing to the bed he burst into tears for
the first time, and they who stood by, knowing that the
sight of this child had done him good, left them alone
together.

Soothing him with his artless talk of her, the child per-
suaded him to take some rest, to walk abroad, to do almost
as he desired him. And when the day came on, which must
remove her in her earthly shape from earthly eyes forever,
he led him away, thit h© might not know when she was
taken from him.

They were to gather fresh leaves and berries for her bed.
Jt was Sunday — a bright clear, wintry afternoon — and as

108

BURIAL OF LITTLE NELL.

they traversed the village street, those who were walking
in their path drew back to make way for them, and gave
them a softened greeting. Some shook the old man kindly
by the hand, some stood uncovered while he tottered by,
and many cried "God help him !" as he passed along.

"Neighbour!" said the old man, stopping at the cottage
where his young guide's mother dwelt, "how is it that the
folks are nearly all in black to-day ? I have seen a mourn-
ing ribbon or a piece of crape on almost every one."

She couid not tell, the woman said.

" Why, you yourself — you wear the color too !" he ci'ied.
" Windows are closed that never used to be by doy . What
does this mean?"

Again the woman said she could not tell.

" We must go back," said the old man, hurriedly. " Wo
must see what this is.''

" No, no," cried the cnild detaining him, " Remember
what you promised. Our way is to the old green lane,
where she and I so often were, and where you found us
more than once making those garlands for her garden.
Po not turn backl"

"Where is she now?" said the old man. "Tell me
that."

" Do you not know ?" returned the child. " Did we not
leave her but just now?"

"True. True. It was her wo left— "'is it !"

He pressed his hand upon his bi.rx, looKed vacantly
round, and as if impelled by a suddei. thought, crossed
the road, and entered the sexton's house. lie and his
deaf assistant were sitting before the fire. Both rose up
on seeing who it was.

The child made a hasty sign to them with his hand. It
was the action of an instant, but that, and the old man's
look, were quite enough.

"Do you — do you bury any one to-day?" he said eager-

ly.

" No, no ! Who should we bury, sir?" returned the sex-
ton.

" Ay, vfho indeed ! I say with you, who indeed?"

"It is a holiday with us, good sir," returned the sexton
jnildly. "' We have no work to do to-day."

"Why then, I'll go whore you will," said the old man,
turning to the child. " You're sure of what you tell me/
You would not deceive mo? I am changod even in the
jittlo time since you last saw nic."

ftURlAL OV LITTLE NELL.

109

''Go thy ways with him, sir," cried the sexton, "and
Heaven be with ye both !"

" I am i^uite ready," said the old man, meekly. " Come,
boy, come " — and so submitted to be led away.

And now the bell — the bell she had so often heard by
night and day, and listened to with solemn pleasure almost
as a living voice — rung its remorseless toll for her, so young
so beautiful, so good. Decrepit age, and vigorous life, and
blooming youth, and helple-s infancy, poured forth — on
crutches, in the pride of strength and health, in the full
blush of promise, in the mere dawn of life — to gather round
her tomb. Old men were there, whose eyes were dim and
senses failing — grandmothers, who might have died ten
years ago, and still been old — the deaf, the blind, the
lame, the palsied, the living dead in many shapes and
forms, to see the closing of that early grave. What was
the death it would shut in, to that which still could crawl
and creep above it !

Along the crowded path they bore her now ; pure as the
newly-fallen snow that covered it; whose day on earth had
been as fleeting. Under that porch, where she had sat when
Heaven in its mercy brought her to that peaceful spot, she
passed again, and the old church received her in its quiet
shade.

They carried her to one old nook, where she had many
and many a time sat musing, and laid their burden softly
on the pavement. The light streamed on it through the
coloured window — a window, where the boughs of trees were
ever rustling in the summer, and where the birds sang
&weetly all day long. With every breath of air that stirred
among those branches in the sunshine, some trembling,
changing light, would fall upon her grave.

Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Many a
young hand dropped in its little wreath, many a stifled sob
was heard. Some — and they were not a few — knelt down.
All were sincere and truthful in their sorrow.

The service done, the mourners stood apart, and the vil-
lagers closed round to look into the grave before the pave-
ment stone should be replaced. One called to mind how
he had seen her sitting on that very spot, and how her
book had fallen on her lap, ai;id she was gazing with a pen-
sive face upon the sky. Another told, how he had wondered
much that one so delicate as she, should be so bold ; how
she had never feared to enter the church alone at night,
but had loved to linger there when all was quiet ; and even

110

OUR DOOS.

to climb the tower stair, with no more light than that of
the moon-rays stealing through the loopholes in the ohick
old wall. A whisper went about among the oldest there,
that she had seen and talked with angels | and when they
called to mind how she had looked, and spoken, and her
early death, some thought it might be so indeed. Thus,
coming to the grave in little knots, and glancing di-wn,
and giving place to others, and falling off in whispering
groups of three or four, the church was cleared in time of
all but the sexton and the mourning friends.

They saw the vault covered and the stone fixed down.
Then, when the dusk of evening had come on, and not a
sound disturbed the sacred stillness of the place — when the
bright moon poured in her light on tomb and monument,
on pillar, wall, and arch, and most of all (it seemed to them)
upon her quiet grave — in that calm time, when all outwarcl
things and inward thoughts teem with assurance of immor-
tality, and worldly hopes and fears are humbled in the dust
before them — then, with tranquil and submissive hearts
they turned away, and left the child with God.

Oh 1 it is hard to take to heart the lesson that such deaths
will teach, but let no man reject it, for it is one that all must
learn,'and is a mighty universal Truth. When Death strikes
down the innocent and young, for every fragile form from
which he lets the panting spirit free, a hundred virtues rise,
in shapes of mercy, charity and love, to walk the world,
and bless it with their light. Of every tear that sorrowing
mortals shed on such green graves, some good is born,
some gentler nature comes. In the Destroyer's steps there
spring up bright creations that defy liis power, and his dark
path becomes a way of light to Heaven.

OUR DOGS.

John Drown M.D., Edinhurgh) author of ^* ISpare 7/om?\s',''
burn 1810, aiill living.

I was bitten severely by a little dog when with my mother
at Moffat Wells, being then three years of age, and 1 have
remained << bitten" ever since in the matter of dogs. I
remember that little dog, and can at this moment not only
recall my pain and terror — 1 have no doubt I was to blame
— also her face j and wore I allowed to search among

but

OtJR D003.

Ill

thfi shades in the cynic Elysian fields, I could pick her out
still. All my life I have been familiar with these faithful
creatures, making friends of them, and speaking to them j
and the only time I ever addressed the public, about a year
after being bitten, was at the farm of Kirklaw Hill, near
Biggar, when the text, given out from an empty cart in
which the ploughmen had placed me, was "Jacob's dog,"
and my entire sermon was as follows: — ''Some say that
Jacob had a black dog (the o very long), and some say the
Jacob had a white dog, but 7 (imagine the presumption of
four years I) say Jacob had a brown dog, and a brown dog
it shall le."

I had many intimacies from this time onwards — but it
was not till I was at college, and my brother at the High
School, that we possessed a dog.

TOBY

Was tho most utterly shabby, vulgar, mean-looking cur I
ever beheld : in one word, a tyke. lie had not one good
feature except his teeth and eyes, and his bark, if that can
be called a feature. He was not ugly enough to be inter-
esting ; his colour black and white, his shape leggy and
clumsy ; altogether what Sydney Smith would have called
an extraordinarily ordinary dog ; and, as I have said
not even greatly ugly, or, as the Aberdonians have it,
honnie wi'' illfaur^dness. My brother William found him
the centre of attraction to a multitude of small blackguards
who were drowning him slowly in Lochend Loch, doing their
best to lengthen out the process, and secure the greatest
amount of fun with the nearest approach to death. Even
then Toby showed his great intellect by pretending to be
dead, and thus gaining time and an inspiration. William
bought him for twopence, and as he had it not, the boys
accompanied him to Pilrig Street, when I happened to meet
him, and giving the twopence to the biggest boy, had tho
satisfaction of seeing a general engagement of much seve-
rity, during which tho twopence disappeared ; one penny
going oft* with a very small and swift boy, and the other
vanishing hopelessly into the grating of a drain.

Toby was for weeks in the house unbeknown to any one
but ourselves two and the cook, and from my grandmother's
love of tidiness and hatred of dogs and of dirt, I balievo

112

OtR DOGS.

'ai

she would have expelled " him whom we saved from drown-
ing," had not he, in his straightforward way, walked into
my father's bedroom one night when he was bathing his
feet, and introduced himself with a wag of his tail, inti-
mating a general willingness to be happy. My father
laughed most heartily, and at last Toby, having got his way
to his bare feet, and having begun to lick his soles and
between his toes with his small rough tongue, my father
gave such an unwonted shout of laughter, that we — grand-
mother, sisters, and all of us — went in. Grandmother might
argue with all her energy and skill, but as surely as the
pressure of Tom Jones' infantile fist upon Mr. AUworthy's
forefinger undid all the arguments of his sister, so did Toby's
tongue and fun prove too many for grandmother's elo-
quence. I somehow think Toby must have been up to all
this, for I think he had a peculiar love for my father ever
after, and regarded grandmother from that hour with a
careful and cool eye.

Toby, when full grown, was a strong, coarse dog ; coarse
in shape, in countenance, in hair, and in manner. I used
to think that, according to the Pythagorean doctrine, he
must have been, or been going to be a, Gilmerton carter.
He was of the bull-terrier variety, coarsened through much
mongrelism and a dubious and varied ancestry. His teeth
were good, and he had a large skull, and a rich bark as of
a dog three times his aize, and a tail which I never saw
equalled — indeed it was a tail per se ; it was of immense
girth and not short, equal throughout like a policeman's
baton ; the piachinery for working it was of great power,
'and acted in a way, as far as I have been able to discover,
quite original. We called it his ruler.

When he wished to get into the house, he first whined
gently, then growled, then gave a sharp bark, and then
came a resounding, mighty s\ roke which shook the house ;
this, after much study and watching, we found was done by
his Ijringing the entire length of his solid tail flat upon the
door, with a sudden and vigorous stroke ; it was quite a
tour deforce or a coup de queue, and he wim perfect in it at
once, his first bang authoritative, having been as masterly
and telling as his last.

With all this iftbred vulgar air, he was a dog of great
moral excellence — affectionate, faithful, honest up to his
light, with an odd humor as peculiar and as strong as his
tail. My father, in his reserved way, was very fond of him,
and there must have been very funny scenes with them, for

OUK D003.

113

we heard bursts of laughter issuing from his study when
they two were by themselves ; there was something in him
that took that grave, beautiful, melancholy face. One can
fancy him in the midst of his books, and sacred work and
thoughts, pausing and looking at the secular Toby, who
was looking out for a smile to begin his rough fun, and
about to end by coursing and guriin' round the "room, up-
setting my father's books, laid out on the floor for consul-
tation, and himself nearly at times, as he stood watching
him— and off liis guard and shaking with laughter. Toby
had always a great desire to accompany my father up to
town ; this my father's good taste and sense of dignity,
besides his fear of losing his friend (a vain fear !), forbade,
and as the decision of character of each was great and nearly
equal, it was often a drawn game. Toby ultimately, by
making it his entire object, triumphed. He usually was
nowhere to be seen on my father leaving | he however saw
him, and lay in wait at the head of the street, and up Leith
Walk he kept him in view from the opposite side like a
detective, and then, when he knew it was hopeless to hound
him home, he crossed unblushingly over, and joined com-
pany, excessively rejoiced of course.

One Sunday he had gone with him to church, and loft
him at the vestry door. The second psalm was given out,
and my father was sitting back in the pulpit, when the
door at its back, up which he came from the vestry, was
seen to move, and gently open, then, after a long pause, a
black shining snout pushed its way steadily into the con-
gregation, and was followed by Toby's entire body. He
looked somewhat abashed, but snuffing his friend, he ad-
vanced as if on thin ice, and not seeing him, put his fore-
legs on the pulpit, and behold there he was, his own fami-
liar chum. I watched all this, and anything more beautiful
than his look of happiness, of comfort, of entire ease when
he beheld his friend, — the smoothing down of the anxious
ears, the swing of gladness of that mighty tail, — I don't
expect soon to see. My father quietly opened the door,
and Toby was at his feet and invisible to all but himself ;
had he sent old George Peaston, the '' minister's man," to
put him out, Toby would probably have shown his teeth,
and astonished George. He slunk home as soon as he could,
and never repeated that exploit.

I never saw in any other dog the sudden transition from
discretion, not to say abject cowardice, to blazing and per-
inanent valor. From his earliest years he showed a general

114

OUR DOQ,S.

meanness of blood, inherited from many generations of
starved, bekicked, and down-trodden forefathers and
mothers, resulting in a condition of intense abjectness in
all matters of personal fear ; anybody, even a beggar, by a
gowl and a threat of eye, could send him oil' howling by an-
ticipation, with that mighty tail between his legs. But it
was not always so to be, and I had the privilege of seeing
courage, reasonable, absolute, and for life, spring up in
Toby at once, as did Athgne from the skull of Jove. U
happened thus : —

Toby was in the way of hiding his culinary bones in the
small giirdens before his own and the neighbouring doors.
Mr. Scrjrmgeour, two doors off, a bulky, choleric, red-
haired, red-faced man — torvo miltu — was, by the law of con-
trast, a great cultivator of flowers, and he had often scowled
Toby into all but non-existence by a stamp of his foot and
a glare of V' -ve. One day his gate being open, in walks
Toby \ '-^^' %xr<^ bone, and making a hole whwe Scrym-
geour liao t . / n^i .nutes before been planting some precious
slip, the name of which on paper and on a stick Toby made
very ligh': -^^f, subet'tuted his bone, and wm engaged cover-
ing it, or iiiinku g lit v-^h covering it up with his shovelling
nose (a very odd relic of piiradise in the dog), when S. spied
him through the inner glass door, and was out upon him
like the Assyrian, with a terrible gowl. I watched them.
Instantly Toby made straight at him with a roar too, and
an eye more torve than Scrymgeour's, who, retreating with-
out reserve, fell prostrate, there is reason to believe, in his
own lobby. Toby contended himself with proclaiming his
victory at the door, and returning finished his bone-plant-
ing at his leisure ; the enemy, who had scuttled behind the
glass-door, glaring at him.

From this moment Toby was an altered dog. Pluck at
first sight was lord of all ; from that time dated his first
tremendous deliverance of tail against the door, which we
called " come listen to my tail." That very evening he
paid a visit to Leo, next door's dog, a big, tyrannical bully
and coward, which its master thought a Newfoundland, but
whose pedigree we knew better ; this brute continued the
same system of chronic extermination which was inter-
rupted at Lochend, — having Toby down among his feet, and
threatening him with instant death two or three times a
day. To him Toby paid a visit that very evening, down
into his den, and walked about, as much as to say *' Come
on, Macduff!" but .Macduff did not come on, and hence-

OUR DOGS.

115

)wn
;ome
knee-

forward there was an armed neutrality, and they merely
stiffened up and made their backs rigid, pretended each
not to see the other, walking solemnly round^ as is the
manner of dogs. Toby worked his new-found faculty
thoroughly, but with discretion. He killed cats, astonished
beggars, kept his own in his own garden against all comers,
and came off victorious in several well-fought battles : but he
was not quarrelsome or foolhardy. It was very odd now his
carriage changed, holding his head up, and how much
pleasanter he was at home. To my father, next to William,
who was his Humane Society man, he remained stanch. And
what of his end ? for the misery of dogs is that they die so
soon, or as Sir Walter says, it is well they do ; for if they
lived as long as a Christian, and we liked them in propor-
tion, and they then died, he said that was a thing he could
not stand.

His exit was miserable, and had a strange poetic or tra-
gic relation to his entrance. My father was out of town ;
1 was away in England. Whether it was that the absence
of my father had relaxed his power of moral restraint, or
whether through neglect of the servant he had been des-
perately hungry, or most likely both being true, Toby was
discovered with the remains of a cold leg of mutton, on
which he had made an ample meal|* tliis he was in vain
endeavouring to plant as of old, in the hope of its remaining
undiscovered till to-morrow's hunger returned, the whole
shank bone sticking up unmistakably. This was seen by
our excellent and Eadamanthine grandmother, who pro-
nounced sentence on the instant ; the next day, as William
was leaving for the High School, did he in the sour morn-
ing, through an easterly haur, behold him "whom ho
saved from drowning," and whom, with better results than
in the case of Launce and Crab, he had taught, as if one
should say, '^ thus would I teach a dog," dangling by his
own chain from his own lamp-post, one of his hind feet just
touching the pavement, and his body pretornaturally
elongated.

William found him dead and warm, and falling in with
the milk-boy at the head of the street, questioned him,
and discovered that he was the executioner, and had got
twopence, he — ^Toby's every morning crony, who mot him

• Toby was in the state of the shepherd boy whom George Webster mot
in Glonslioe, and asliod, "My man, were you ever fou' ?" "Ay, aince"
spealiinffslowly, as if remembering—" Ay, aince." " Wliaton?''^ "Cauld
mutton T"

116

OUR DOGS.

1 ,1

and accoaipanied him up Llie street, and licked the outside
of his can — had, with an eye to speed and convenience,
and a want of taste, not to say principle and aflection,
horrible still to tliink of, suspended Toby's animation
beyond all hope. William instantly fell upon him, upset-
ting his milk and cream, and gave him a thorough licking
to his own intense relief; and, being late, he got from
Pyper, who was a martinet, the customary palmies, which
he bore with something approaching to pleasure. So died
Toby ; my fathei* said little, but he missed and mourned
his friend.

There is reason to believe that by one of those curious
intertwistings of existence, the milk-boy was that one
of the drowning party who got the penny of the twopence.

^YLIE.

Our next friend was an exquisite shepherd's dog; fleet,
thin-flanked, dainty, and handsome as a small gray-hound,
with all the grace of silky waving black and tan hair. We got
him thus. Being then young and keen botanists, and full
of the knowledge and love of Tweedside, having been on
every hill-top from Muckle Mendic to Hundleshope and
the Lee Pen, and having fished every water from Tarth to
the Leithen, we discovered early in spring that ycung
Stewart, author of an excellent book on natural history, a
young man of great promise and early death, had found
the Buxbaumia aphylla, a beautiful and odd -looking moss,
west of Newbie heights, in the very month we were that
moment in. We resolved to start next day. We walked
to Peebles, and then up Haystoun Glen to the cottage of
Adam Cairns, the aged shepherd of the Newbie hirsel, of
whom we knew, and who knew of us from his daughter,
Nancy Cairns, a servant with Uncle Aitken of Callands.
We found our way up the burn with difficulty, as the even-
ing wa-^ getting dark; and on getting near the cottage
heard them at worship. We got in, and made ourselves
known, and got a famous tea, and such cream and oat
cakel — old Adam looking on us as ''clean dementit " to
come out for "a bit of moss," which, however, he knew,
and with some pride said he would take us in the morning
to the place. As we were going into a box bed for the
night, two young men came in, ani said they were '* gaun
to burn the water." Oil' we set. It was a clear, dark star-
light frosty night. They had their leisters and tar torches,

OtR Dooa.

and it was somethimg worth seeing — the wild flame, the
young fellows striking the tish coming to the light — how
splendid they looked with the light on their scales, coming
out of the darkness — the stumblings and quenchings sud-
denly of the lights, as the torch-bearer fell iuLu a deep pool.
We got home past midnight, and slept as we seldom sleep
now. In tlie morning Adam, who had been long up, and had
been up the " Ho^-'e^' with his dog, when he saw we had
wakened, told us there was four inches of snow, and we
soon saw it was too true. So we had to go home without
our cryptogamic prize.

It turned out that Adam, who was an old man and frail,
and had made some money, was going at Whitsunday to
leave, and live with his son in Glasgow. We had been
admiring the beauty and gentleness and perfect shape of
Wylie, the finest coUey I ever saw, and said, ''What are
you going to do with Wylie?" "'Deed," says he, "I
hardly ken. I canna think o' sellin' her, though she's
worth four pound,' and she'll no like the toun." I said,
" Would you let me have her?" and Adam, looking at her
fondly — she came up inetantly to him, and made of him —
said, "Ay, I wull, if ye' 11 be gude to h(r ;" and it was set-
tled that when Adam left for Glasgow she should be sent
into Albany Street by the carrier.

She came, and was at once taken to all our hearts, even
grandmother liked her; and though she was often pensive,
as if thinking of her master and her work on the hills, she
made herself at home, and behaved in all respects like a
lady. When out with me, if she saw sheep in the streets
or road, she got quite excited, and helped the work, and
was curiously useful, the being so making her wonderfully
happy. And so her little life went on, never doing wrong,
always blithe and kind and beautiful. But some months
after she came, there was a mystery about her: every
Tuesday evening she disappeared ; we tried to watch her,
but in vain, she was always off by nine p.m., and was away
all night, coming back next day wearied and all over mud,
as if she had travelled far. She slept all next day. This
went on for some months and we could make nothing of it.
Poor dear creature, she looked at us wistfully when she
came in, as if she would have told us if she could, and was
especially fond, though tired.

Well, one day as I was walking across the Grassmarket,
with Wylie at my heels, when two shepherds started, and
looking at her, one said, " That's her ; that's the wondcrfu'

118

OUB DOOS.

wee bitch that tiaebody kens. ' ' I asked him what he meant
and he told me that for months past she had made her
appearance by the first daylight at the " buchts " or sheep
pens in the cattle market, and worked incessantly, and to
excellent purpose, in helping the shepherds to get their
sheep and lambs in. The man said with a sort of transport,
"She's a perfect meeracle; flees about like a speerit, and
never gangs wrang ; wears but never grups, and beats a'
oor dowgs. She's a perfect, meeracle, and as soople as a
maukin." Then he related how they all knew her, and
said, "There's that wee fell yin ; we'll get them in noo."
They tried to coax her to stop and be caught, but no, she
was gentle, but off'; and for many a day that " wee fell
yin" was spoken of by these rough fellows. She con-
tinued this amateur work till she died, which she did in
peace.

It is very touching the regard the south- country shep-
herds have to their dogs. Professor Syme one day, many
years ago, when livmg in Forres Street, was looking out of
his window, and he saw a young shepherd striding down
North Chai'lotte Street, as if making for his house ; it was
midsummer. The man had his dog with him, and Mr.
Syme noticed that he followed the dog, and not it him,
though he contrived to steer for the house. He came, and
was ushered into his room ; he wished advice about some
ailment, and Mr. Syme saw that he had a bit of twine
round the dog's neck, which he let drop out of his hand
when he enterec^he room. He asked him the meaning of
this, and he explained that the magistrates had issued a
mad-dog proclamation, commanding all dogs to be muzzled
or led on pain of death. "And why do you go about as I
saw you did before you came in to me ?" " Oh," said he,
looking awkward, "I didna want Berkie to ken he was
tied." Where will you find truer courtesy and finer feel-
ing? He didn't want to hurt Berkie' s feelings.

Mr. Carruthers of Inverness told me a new story of these
wise sheep-dogs. A butcher from Inverness had purchased
some sheep at Dingwall, and giving them in charge to his
dog, left the road. The dog drove them on, till coming to
a toll, the toll-wife stood before the drove, demanding her
dues. The dog looked at her, and, jumping on her bfcck,
crossed his forelegs over her arms. The sheep passed
through, and the dog took his place behind them, and went
on his way.

READINGS IN POETRY.

THE SCHOOLMISTKESS.

W. Shenstone, born in England ; educated at Oxford, died

February llth, 1763.

In overy village, marked with little spire,

Embowered in trees and hardly known to fame,

There dwells, in lowly shed and mean attire,

A matron old, whom we Schoolmistress name.

Who boasts unruly brats with birch to tame ;

They grieven sore, in piteous durance pent.

Awed by the power of this relentless dame,

And ofttimes, on vagaries idly bent.

For unkempt hair, or task unconned, are sorely shent.

Near to this dome is found a patch so green.

On which the tribe their gambols do display.

And at the door imprisoning board is seen.

Lest weakly wights of smaller siae should stray,

Eager, perdie, to bask in sunny day I

The noises intermixed, which thence resound,

Do learning's little tenement betray.

Where sits the dame, disguised in look profound,

And eyes her fairy throng, and turns her wheel around.

Her cap, far whiter than the driven snow.
Emblem right meet of decency does yield j
Her apron died in grain, as blue, I trow,
As is the harebell that adorns the field ;
And in her hand, for sceptre, she does wield
'Tway birchen sprays, with anxious fear intwined,
With dark distrust, and sad repentance filled,
And steadfast hate, and sharp affliction joined.
And fury uncontrolled, and chastisement unkind.

120

THE SOnOOLJnSTRESd.

A russet stole was o'er her shoulders throWn,
A russet kirtle fenced the nipping air ;
'Twas simple russet, but it was her own ;
'Twas her own country bred the flock so fair ;
'Twas her own labour did the fleece prepare ;
And, sooth to say, her pupils ranged around,
Through pious awe did term it passing rare,
For they in gaping wonderment abound.
And think, no doubt, she been the greatest
ground.

wight

Albeit, ne flattery did corrupt her truth,

Ne pompous title did debauch her ear.

Goody, good- woman, gossip, n'aunt, forsooth,

Or dame, the sole additions she did hear ;

Yet these she challenged, these she held right dear ;

Ne would esteem him act as mought behove

Who should not honored eld with these revere :

For never title yet so mean could prove,

But there was eke a mind which did that title love.

Herbs too she knew, and well of each could speak

That in her garden sipped the silvery dew.

Where no vain flower disclosed a gaudy streak,

But herbs for use and physic, not a few

Of grey renown, within those borders grew ;

The tufted basil, pun-provoking thyme.

Fresh baum, and marygold of cheerful hue.

The lowly gill, that never dares to climb,

And more I fain would sing, disdaining here to rhyme.

Yet euphrasy may not be left unsung.

That gives dim eyes to wander leagues around,

And pungent radish, biting infant's tongue.

And plantain ribbed, that heals the reaper's wound,

And marjoram sweet, in shepherd's posy found.

And lavender, whose spikes of azure bloom

Shall be, erewhile, in arid bundles bound,

To lurk amidst the labours of her loom,

And crown her kerchiefs clean with mickle rare perFumo,

Here oft the dame, on Sabbath's decent eve.
Hymned such psalms as Sternhold forth did mete ;
If winter 'twere, she to her hearth did cleave.
But in her garden found a t ummer seat :

Hftife IDIOT hot. I2I

l^weet melody 1 to hear her then repeat

flow Israel's sons, beneath a foreign king,

While taunting foemen did a song entreat,

All for the nonce untuning every string,

Upon their useless lyres — small heart had they to sing.

For she was just, and friend to virtuous lore,

And passed much time in truly virtuous deed ;

And m those elfins' ears would oft deplore

The times when Truth by Popish rage did bleed,

And tortuous death was true Devotion's meed ;

And simple faith in iron chains did mourn.

That n' ould on wooden image place lier creed ;

And lawny saints in smouldering flames did bum :

Ah ! dearest Lord I forefend, thilk days should e'er returti.

Right well she knew each temper to descry.
To thwart the proud, and the submiss to raise.
Some with vile copper prize exalt on high.
And some entice with pittance small of praise.
And other some with baleful sprig she 'frays :
Ev'n absent, she the reins of power doth hold,
While with quaint arts the giddy crow.l she sways ;
Forewarned, if little bird their pranks behold,
Twill whisper in her ear, and all the scene unfold.

THE IDIOT BOY.
Anonymous*

It had pleased God to form poor Ned

A thing of idiot mind,
Yet to that poor, unreasoning lad,

God had not been unkind.

Old Mary loved her helpless child,
Whom helplessness made dear,

And life was everything to him
Who knew nor hope, nor fear.

She knew his wants, she understood

His half articulate call ;
And she was everything to^him.

And he to her was all.

THE IDIOT BOY.

And SO they lived for years, nor knew

A single want beside ;
When age, at length on Mary came,

And she fell sick, and died !

He tried in vain to waken her;

And called her o'er and o'er j
They told him she was dead : the sound

To him no import bore.

They closed her eyes : they shrouded her j

And he stood wondering by j
And as thej^ bore her to the grave,

He followed silwitly.

hey laid her in the narrow house,
And sang the funeral stave ;
And when the funeral train dispersed,
He loitered by the grave.

The idle boys who used to jeer,
Whene'er they saw poor Ned ;

Now stood and watched him by the grave.
But not a word they said.

They came and went, and came again.

Till night at last came on -,
And still he loitered by the grave,

Till ail the rest were gone.

And when he found himself alone,

He quick removed the clay ;
He raised the coffin i^'in haste.

And carried it away.

And brought it to his mother's cot,

And laid it on the floor.
And in the eagerness of joy

He barred the cottage-door.

And out he took his mother's corse.

And placed it in a chair,
And piled the blazing hearth, and blew

The kindling flame with cai'e.

THE FUTURE GREATNESS OF ROME.

And pausing now her hand would feel,

And now her cheek behold ;
Mother, " Why do you look so pale.

And why are you so cold."

And scarcely had he said these words,
When a low knock was heard ;

And closer still he clave to her,
Who neither spake nor stirred.

"Oh 1 mother, they will take thee hence !"
He said, and parted her white hair,

And looked into those glassy eyes,
That gazed with vacant stare.

And scarcely had the idiot spoke.

When lo ! the opening door
Disclosed the mother and the boy.

And the coffin on the floor.

The neighbours gathered round, — to part

Poor Ned they vainly tried ;
But found, alas I that in that struggle,

The idiot boy had died.

It had pleased God, from the poor v;rotch

His only friend to call ;
But God was good to him, and soon

In death restored him all.

123

CAPYS PROPHESIES TO ROMULUS THE FUTURE
GREATNESS OF ROME.

Lord Macaulay. (Seepage 51.) ' j

Thine, Roman, is the pilum :

Roman, the sword is thine,
The even trench, the bristling mound,

The legion's ordered line ;
And thine the wheels of triumph,

Which, with theii' laurelled train,
Move slowly up the shouting streets

To Jovo's eternal fane.

1^ I'liB PttriR^ oRHAT^^sa of ll6^t.

Beneath thy yoke the Volscian

Shall vail his lofty brow ;
Soft Capua's curled revellers

Before thy chairs shall bow ;
The Lucumoes of Amus

Shall quake thy rods to see^
And the proud Granite's heart of steel

Shall yield to only thee.

The Gaul shall come against thee,
From the land of snow and night ;

Thou shalt give his fair-haired armies
To the raven and the kite.

The Greek shall come against thee,

The conqueror of the East ;
Beside him stalks to battle

The huge, earth-shaking beast —
The beast on whom the castle,

With all its guards, doth stand —
The beast who hath between his eyes

The serpent for a hand.
First march the bold Epirotes,

Wedged close with shield and spear ;
And the ranks of false Tarentum

Are glittering in the rear.

The ranks of false Tarentum

Like hunted sheep shall fly :
In vain the bold Epirotes

Shall round their standards die.
And Apennine's grey vultures

Shall have a noble feast
On the fat and the eyes

Of the huge, earth-shaking beast.

Hurrah for the good weapons

That keep the war-god's land I
Hurrah for JRome's stout pilum,

In a stout Boman hand I
Hurrah for Home's short broadsword,

That through the thick array
Of levelled spears and serried shields

Hows deep its gory way I

THE FUTURE GREATNESS OF ROME.

Hurrah for the great triumph

That stretches many a mile t
Hurrah for the wan captives

Tliat pass in endless file 1
Ho 1 bold Epirotes, whither

Hath the Ked King ta' en flight?
Ho I dogs 9f false Tarentum,

Is not the gown washed white ?

Hurrah for the great triumph

That stretches many a mile !
Hurrah for the rich dye of Tyre,

And the fine web of Nile !
The helmets gay with plumage

Torn from the pheasant's wings ;
The belts set thick with starry gems

That shone on Indian kings ;
The urns of massy silver,

The goblets rough with gold.
The many coloured tablets bright

With loves and wars of old ;
The stone that breathes and struggles,

The brass that seem to speak -,
Such cunning they who dwell on high

Have given unto the Greek I

Hurrah for Manius Curius,

The bravest son of Rome,
Thrice in utmost need sent forth,

Thrice drawn in triumph home?
Weave, weave for Manius Curius

The third embroidered gown 1
Make ready the third lofty car,

And twine the third green crown I
And yoke the steeds of Rosea,

With necks like bended bow.
And deck the bull — Mevania's bull —

The bull as white as snow.

Blest, and thrice blest, the Roman

Who sefes Rome's brightest day —
Who sees that long, victorious pomp

Wind down the fcJacred Way,
And through the bellowing forum,

And round the suppliants' grove^
Up to the everlasting gates

Of Capitolian Joye,

125

126 EDINBURGH AFTER FLODDEN.

Then where, o'er two bright havens,
The towers of Corinth frown ;

Where the gigantic King of Day
On his own Khodes looks down ;

Where soft Orontes murmurs,

Beneath the laurel shades ;
Where Nile reflects the endless length

Of dark-red colonnades ;
Where, in the still deep water.

Sheltered from cares and blasts,
Bristles the dusky forest

Of Byrsa's thousand masts;

Where fur-clad hunters wander

Amidst the northern ice ;
Where, through the sand of morning- land.

The camel bears the spice ;
Where Atlas flings his shadow

Far o'er the western foam.
Shall be great fear on all who hear

The mighty name of Kome.

EDINBUKGH AFTER FLODDEN.

William Edmonston Aytoim, Professorlpf Rhetoric; Editor
of Blackwoods^ Magazine. Author of '' Lays of Scottish
Vavaliers,^^ &c., born 1813, died 1865.

News of battle !— news of battle !

Hark I 'tis ringing down the street ;
And the archways and the pavement

Bear the clang of hurrying feet.
News of battle 1 who hath brought it ?

News of triumph ? Who should bring
Tidings from our noble army,

Greetings from our gallant King ?
All last night we watched the beacons

Blazing on the hills afar,
Each one bearing, as it kindled,

Message of the open'd war.
All night long the northern streamers

Shot across the trembling sky :

Fearful lights, that never beacon

^ Save when kings or heroes die.

EDINBURGH AFTER FLODDEN.

News of battle ! who hath brought it?

All are thronging to the gate :
" Warder — warder ! open quickly !

Man — is this a time to waitT'
And the heavy gates are opened :

Then a murmur long and loud,
And a cry of fear and wonder

Bursts from out the bending crowd.
For they see in battered harness

Only one hard stricken man ;
And his weary steed is wounded,
And his cheek is pale and wan :
Spearless hangs a bloody banner

In his weak and drooping hand —
What 1 can that be Randolph Murray,

Captain of the city band ?

Round him crush the people, crying,

" Tfell us alh-oh, tell us true 1
Where are they who went to battle,

Randolph Murray, swem to you ?
Where are they, our brothers — children?

Have they met the English foe ?
Why art thou alone, unfoUowed ?

Is it w,eal or is it woe?"
Like a corpse the grisly warrior

Looks from out his helm of steel j
But no word he speaks in answer —

Only with his armed heel
Chides his weary steed, and onward

Up the city streets they ride ;
Fathers, sisters, mothers, children.

Shrieking, praying by his side.
" By the God that made thee, Randolph !

Tell us what mischance hh.th come."
Then he lifts his riven banner,

And the asker's voice is dumb.

The eliilers of the city

Have met within their hall —
The men whom good King James had charged

To watch the tower and wall.
" Your hands are weak with age," he said,

" Your hearts are stout and true ;
So bide ye in the Maiden Town,

While othora^fight for you.

127

12S EDINBUROH AFTER FLODDEN.

My trumpet from the Border-side

Shall send a blast so clear,
That all who wait within the gate

That stirring sound may hear.
Or, if it be the will of heaven

That back I never come,
And if, instead of Scottish shouts,

Ye hear the English drum, —
Then let the warning bells ring out,

Then gird you to the fray.
Then man the walls like burghers stout,

And fight while fight you may.
'Twere better that in fiery flame

The roof should thunder down,
Than that the foot of foreign foe

Should trample in the town !"

V Then in came Randolph Murray, —

His step was slow and weak,
And, as he doffed his dinted helm.

The tears ran down his cheek :
They fell upon his corslet,

And on his mailed hand,
As he gazed around him wistfully.

Leaning sorely on his brand.
And none who then beheld him

But straight were smote with fear,
For a bolder and a sterner man

Had never couched a sprear.
They knew so sad a messenger

Some ghastly news must bring,
And all of them were fathers,

And their sons were with the King.

And up then rose the Provost — '

A brave old man was he,
Of ancient name, and knightly fame,

And chivalrous degree.

• • • •

Oh, woeful now was the old man's look.

And he spake right heavily —
<' Now, Randolph, tell'thy tidings,

However sharp they be 1
Woe is written on thy visage.

Death is looking from thy face :
Speak ! thotigh it be of overthr9W"7F

It cannot be disgrace 1"

EDINBURGH AFTER FLODOEN.

Bight bitter was the agony

That wrung that soldier proud :
Thrice did he strive to answer,

And thrice he groaned aloud.
Then he gave the riven banner

To the old man's shaking hand,
Saying — " That is all I bring ye

From the bravest of the land I
Ay I ye may look upon it —

It was guarded well and long.
By your brothers and your children, '

Sy the valiant and the strong.
One by one they fell ar?)und it,

A.S the archers laid them low,
Grimly dying, still unconquered.

With their faces to the foe.
Ay ! ye may well look upon it —

There is more than honour there.
Else, be sure, I had not brought it

From the field of dark despair.
Never yet was royal banner

Steeped in such a costly dye j
It hath lain upon a bosom

Where no other shroud shall lie.
Sirs ! I charge you keep it holy.

Keep it as a sacred thing,
For the stain ye see upon it

Was the life-blood of your King I"

Woe, woe, and lamentation 1
What a piteous cry was there I

Widows, maidens, mothers, children,
Shrieking, sobbing in despah 1

• • • • *

" the blackest day for Scotland

That she ever knew before 1
O our King 1 the good, the noble,

Shall we see him never more ?
Woe to us, and woe to Scotland 1

our sons, our sons and riien !
Surely some have 'scaped the Southron,

Surely some will come again ! "
Till the oak that fell last winter

Shall uprear its shattered stem —
Wives and mothers of Dunedin — ■

Ye may look in vain for them !

129

130

PARRHASIUS.

PAKRHASIUS.

Nathaniel P. Willis^ American author and journalist, born

1807.

' Parrhasius, a painter of Athens, amongst those Olynthian captives
Philip of Macedon brousht home to sell, bought one very old man ; and,
wben he had him at his house, put him to death with extreme torture and
torment, the better, by his example, to express the pains and passions of
his Prometheus, whom he was then about to paxat.'—Burtows Anat. qf
Mel.

The golden light into the painter's room
Streamed richly, and the hidden colom's stole
From the dark pictures radiantly forth,
And in the soft and dewy atmosphere,
Like forms and landscapes magical, they lay. '
The walls were hung with armour, and about,
In the dim comers^ stood the sculptured foims
Of Cytheris, and Dian, and stern Jove,
And from the casement soberly away
Fell the grotesque^ long shadows, fidl and true.
And, like a veil of filmy mellowness.
The lint-specks Itoated in the twilight air.

Parrhasius stood, gazing forgetfully
Upon his canvas. There Prometheus lay,
ChEuned to the cold rocks of Mount Caucasus,
The vulture at his vitals, and the links
Of the lame Lemnian festering in his flesh ;
And, as the painter's mind felt through the dim.
Rapt mjrstery, and plucked the shadows wild
Forth with its reaching fancy, and with form
And colour clad them, his fine, earnest eye
Flashed with a passionate fire, and the quick curl
Of his thin nostril, and his quivering lip.
Were like the winged god's, breathing from his flight.

< Bring me the captive now I
My hand feels skilf\il^ and the shadows lift
From my waked spirit airily and swift ;

And I could paint the bow
Upon the bended heavens, around me play
Coloui's of such divinity to-day.

PARRIIAS1U8.

' Ha ! bind him on his back I
Look 1 as Prometheus in my picture here —
Quick — or he faints ! — stand with the cordial near I

Now bend him to the rack !
Press down the poisoned links into his flesh 1
And tear agape that healing wound afresh 1

< So — let him writhe I How long
Will he live thus ? Quick, my good pencil, now !
What a line agony works upon his brow 1

Hal gray-haired and so strong !
How fearfully he stifles that short moan !
Gods 1 if I could but paint a dying groan !

'^'Pity" thee! So Idol
I pity the dumb victim at the altar ;
But does the robed priest for his pity falter ?

I'd rack thee, though I knew
A thousand lives were perishing in thine :
What were ten thousand to a fame like mine ?

' '' Hereafter 1" Ay, hereafter!
A whip to keep a coward to his track !
What gave death ever from his kingdom back

To check the sceptic's laughter ?
Come from the grave to-morrow with that story,
And I may take some softer path to glory.

No, no, old man ; we die
E'en as the flowers, and we shall breathe away
Our life upon the chance wind, e'en as they.

Strain well thy fainting eye ;
For, when that bloodshot quivering is o'er.
The light of heaven will never reach thee more.

' Yet there's a deathless name —
A spirit that the smothering vault shall spurn.
And, like a steadfast planet, mount and burn ;

And though its crown of flame
Consumed my brain to ashes as it won me,
By all the fiery stars 1 I'd pluck it on me.

* Ay, though it bid me rifle
My heart's last fount for its insatiate thirst*,
Though every life-strung nerve be maddened first ;

Though it should bid me stifle

131

132

SOLILOQUY OF THK DYING ALCHEMIST.

The yearning in my throat for my sweet child,
And taunt its mother till my brain went wild :

* All, I would do it all,

Sooner than die, like a dull worm, to rot ;
Thrust foully in the earth to be forgot.
O heavens 1 but I appal

Your heart, old man ! forgive Ha I on your lives

Let him not faint 1 — rack him till he revives !

* Vain, vain : give o'er ! His eye
Glazes apace. He does not feel you now.

Stand back ! I'll paint the death-dew on his brow.

Gods ! if he do not die
But for oiie moment — one — till I eclipse
Conception with the scorn of those calm lips !

• 'Shivering! Park I he mutters
Brokenly now — that was a difficult breath —
Another? Wilt thou never come, O Death ?

Look 1 how his temple flutters 1
Is his heart still ? Aha I lift up his head 1
He shudders— gasps — Jove help him — so — he's dead 1

SOLILOQUY OF THE DYING ALCHEMIST.

Willis. ^

The night wind with a desolate moan swept by ;
And the old shutters of the turret swung.
Creaking upon their hinges | and the moon,
As the torn edges of the clouds flew past,
Struggled aslant the stained and broken panes
So dimly, that the watchful eye of death
Scarcely was conscious when it went and came.
The tire beneath his crucible was low :
Yet still it burned ; and ever as his thoughts
Grew insupportable, he raised himself
Upon his wasted arm, and stirred the coals
With difficult energy ; and when the rod
Fell from his nerveless fingers, and his eye
Felt faint within its socket, ho shrunk back
Upon his pallet, and with unclosed lips
Muttered a curse on death !

SOLILOQUY OP THE DYING ALCHEMIST.

The silent room,
From its dim comers, mockingly gave back
His rattling breath j the humming in the fire
Had the distinctness of a knell ; and when
Duly the antique horologe beat one,
He drew a vial from beneath his head.
And drank. And instantly liis lips compressed,
And, with a shudder in his skeleton frame.
He rose with supernatural strength, and sat
Upright, and communed with himself : —

I did not think to die
Till I had finished what I had to do :
I thought to pierce the eternal secret through

With this my mortal eye ;
I felt, O God I It seemeth even now
This cannot be the death-dew on my brow.

And yet it is, — I feel.
Of this dull sickness at my heart, afraid ;
And in my eyes the death-sparks flash and fade :

And something seems to steal
Over my bosom like a frozen hand,
Binding its pulses with an icy band.

And this is death ! But why
Feel I this wild recoil ? It cannot be
The immortal spirit shuddereth to be free :

Would it not leap to fly
Like a chained eaglet at its parents' call ?
I fear — I fear — that this poor life is all I

Yet thus to pass away ! —
To live but for a hope that mocks at last, —
To agonize, to strive, to watch, to fast,

To waste the light of day,
Night's better beauty, feeling, fancy, thought,
All we have or are — for this— for naught.

Grant me another year,
God of my spirit ! — but a day, — to win
Something to satisfy this thirst within I

1 would know something here 1
Break for me but one seal that is unbroken !
Speak for me but one word that is unspoken !

133

134 SOLILOQUY OF THE DYING ALCHEMIST.

Vain — vain ! — my brain is turning
With a swift dizziness, and my heart grows sick,
And these hot temple-throbs come fast and thick,

And I am freezing— burning-
Dying ! O God I if I might only live 1
My vial Ha I it thrills me ! — I revive.

O, but for time to track
The upper stars into the^pathless sky, —
To see the invisible spirits, eye to eye, —

To hurl the lightning back, —
To tread unhurt the sea's dim-lighted halls, —
To chase day's chariot to the horizon-walls, —

And more, much more, — for now
The life-sealed fountains of my nature move
To nurse and purify this human love )

To clear the godlike brow
Of weakness and mistrust, and bow it down.
Worthy and beautiful, to the much- loved one.

This were indeed to feel
The soul-thirst slacken at the living stream, —
To live — God ! that life is but a dream !

And death Aha ! I reel —

Dim — dim — I faint — darkness comes o'er my eye !
Cover me 1 save me I God of heaven I I die !

'Twas morning, and the old man lay alone.
No friend had closed his eyelids, and his lips.
Open and ashly pale, the expression wore
Of his death-struggle. His long silvery hair
Lay on riis hollow temples thin and wild.
His frame was wasted, and his features wan
And haggard as with want, and in his palm
His nails were driven deep, as if the throe
Of the last agony had wrung him sore.

The fire beneath the crucible was out :
The vessels of his mystic art lay round.
Useless and cold as the ambitious hand
That fashioned them, and thp small rod,
Familiar to his touch for three-score years,
Lay on the alembic's rim, as if it still
Might vex the elements at its master's will.

MAUD HULLER.

And thus had passed from its unequal frame
A soul of fire, — a sunbent eagle stricken
From his high soaring down, — an instrument
Broken with its own compass. O, how poor
Seems the rich gift of genius, when it lies.
Like the adventurous bird that hath outnown
His strength upon the sea, ambition wrecked, —
A thing the thrush might pity, as she sits
Brooding in quiet on her lowly nest.

135

MAUD MULLEK.

John Q. Whittier, bom of Quaker parents at Haverhill
Mass., 1808 ; spent the first eighteen years of his life on
a farm; but in 1828 became a journalist and editor.

Maud Muller on a summer's day.
Raked the meadow sweet with hay.

Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth
Of simple beauty and rustic health.

Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee
The mock-bird echoed from his tree.

But when she glanced to. the far-off town,
White from its hill slope looking down,

The sweet song died, and a vague unrest
And a nameless longing filled her breast, —

A wish, that she hardly dared to own,
For something better than she had known.

The judge rode slowly down the lane.
Smoothing his horse's chestnut mane.

He drew his bridle in the shade

Of tto apple-trees, to greet the maid,

And ask a draught from the spring that flowed
Through the meadow across the road.

136 [MAtD MtLLfeB^

She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up,
And filled for him her small tin cup.

And blushed as she gave it, looking down
On her feet so bare, and her tattered gown;

"Thanks 1" said the Judge; ''a sweeter draught
From a fairer hand was never quaffed."

He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees,
Of the singing birds and the humming bees ;

Then talked of the haying, and wondered whether
The cloud in the west would bring foul weather.

And Maud forgot her brier torn gown,
And her graceful ankles bare and brown ;

And listened, while a pleased surprise
Looked from her long-lashed hazel eyes.

At last, like one who for delay
Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away.

Maud Muller looked and sighed : ''Ah me 1
That I the Judge's bride might be !

*' He would dress me up in silks so fine,
And praise and toast me at his wine.

"My father should wear a broadcloth cOat j
My brother should sail a painted boat.

*' I'd dress my mother so grand and gay.
And the baby should have a new toy each dity.

" And I'd feed the hungry and clothe the poor,
And all should bless me who loft our door."

The Judge looked back as he climbed the hill,
And saw Maud Muller standing still.

" A form more fair, a face more sweet.
Ne'er hath it been my lot to meet.

" And her modest answer and graceful air
Show her wise and good as she is i'nir.

%tAJiD MI^LtER.

137

"Would she were mine, and I to-day,
Like her, a harvester of hay :

"No doubtful balance of rights and wi'oligs,
Nor weary lawyers with endless tongues,

"But low of cattle and song of birds,
And health and quiet and loving words."

But he thought of his sisters proud and cold,
And his mother vain of her rank and gold.

So, closing his heart, the Judge rode on,
And Maud was left in the field alone.

But the lawyers smiled that afternoon,
When he hummed in court an old love- tune :

And the young girl mused beside the well,
Till the rain on the unraked clover fell.

He wedded a wife of richest dower,
Who lived for fashion, as he for power.

Yet oft, in his marble hearth's bright glow^
He watched a picture come and go ;

And sweet Maud MuUer's hazel eyes
Looked out in their innocent surprise.

Oft, when the wine in his glass was red,
He longed for the wayside well instead j

And closed his eyes on his garnished rooms,
To dream of meadows and clover-blooms.

And the proud man sighed, with a secret pain,
"Ah, that I were free again !

"Free as when I rode that day,

Where the barefoot maiden raked her hay."

She wedded a man unlearned and poor,
And many children played i-ound her door.

138 ' MAUD MULLEK.

But care and sorrow, and weary pain,
Left their traces on heart and brain.

And oft, when the summer sun shone hot
On the new-mown hay in the meadow lot,

And she heard the little spring brook fail
Over the roadside, through the wall,

In the shade of the apple-tree again
She saw a rider draw his rein.

And, gazing down with timid grace,
She felt his pleased eyes read her face.

Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls
Stretched away into stately halls :

The weary wheel to a spin net turned.
The tallow candle an astral burned.

And for him who sat by the chimney lug,
Dozing and grumbling o'er pipe and mug,

A manly form at her side she saw,
And joy was duty and love was law.

Then she took up her burden of life again,
Saying only " It might have been,"

Alas for maiden, alas for Judge,

For rich repiner and household drudge !

God pity them both \ and pity us all.
Who vainly the dreams of youth recall.

For of all sad words of tongue or pen,

The saddest are these : '< It might have been ?'

Ah, well 1 for us all some sweet hope lies
Deeply buried from human eyes :

And, in the hereafter, angels may
Roll the stone from its grave away I

HOW THET BROUOHT THE GOOD NEWS FROM OHEUT TO AIX. 139

HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS FROM
GHENT TO AIX.

Robert Browning, horn at Camberwellj 1812; educated at Lon-
don University; he married Miss Elizabeth Barrett the
poetess, but was left a mdower in 1851.

I sprang to the stirrups, and Joris, and he ;

I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three ;

" Good speed 1" cried the watch, as the gate-bolts undrew;

" Speed I" echoed the wall to us galloping through ;

Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest,

And into the midnight we galloped abreast.

Not a word to each other ; we kept the great pace '
Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place ;
I turned in my saddle and nuAe its girths tight.
Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right,
Rebuckled the checkstrap, chained slacker the bit,
Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit.

'Twas moonset at starting ; but while we drew near

Lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear ;

At Boom, a great yellow star came out to see ;

At Dflffeld, 'twas morning as plain as could be ;

And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half-chime.

So Joris broke silence with "Yet there is time 1"

At Aerschot, up leaped of a sudden the sun.
And against him the cattle stood black every one,
To stare through the mist at us galloping past,
And I saw my stout galloper Roland at last.
With resolute shoulders, each butting away
The haze, as some bluff river headland its spray.

And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back
For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track ;
And one eye's black intelligence, ever that glance
O'er its white edge at mo, his own master, askance 1
And the thick heavy spume- flakes which aye and anon
His fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on.

140 HOW THEY BROtrOHT THE GOOD NETS I'ROM GHENT TO AIX.

By Hasselt, Dirck groaned ; and cried Joris, " Stay spur !
Your Koos galloped bravely, the fault's not in her,
We'll remember at Aix," — for one heard the quick wheeze
Of her chest, saw the stretched neck and staggering knees,
And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank.
As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank.

So we were left galloping, Joris and I,

Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky ;

The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh,

'Neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like chaff |

Till over by Dalkem a dome-spire sprang white,

And *' Gallop," gasped Joris, ''for Aix is in sight!"

" How they'll greet us !" — and all in a moment his roan
Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone ;
And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight
Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate.
With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim,
And with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim.

Then I cast loose my buff-coat, each holster let fall,
Shook off' both my jack-boots, let go belt and all,
Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear.
Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse without peer ;
Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or good,
Till at length into Aix, Roland, galloped and stood.

And all I remember is, friends flocking round
As I sat with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground,
And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine.
As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine,
Which (the burgesses voted by common consent)
Was no more than his due who brought good news from
Ghent.

FATHER ROACH.

141

eze

jes,

%ff:

>d,

FATHER ROACH.
S. Lover, Irish novelist and poet, horn 1800 ; died 18C8.

Father Roach was a good Irish priest,
Who stood in his stocking-feet, six feet, at least.
I don't mean to say he'd six feet in his stockings;
He only had two — so leave off with your mockiiigs.
I know that you think I was making a blunder :
Jf Paddy says lightning, you think he means thunder :
kSo I'll say, in his boots Father Roach stood to view
A fine comely man, of six feet two.

Oh, a pattern was he of a true Irish priest.

To carve the big goose at the big wedding feast,

To peel the big pratie, and take the big can

(With a very big picture upon it of " Dan "),

To pour out the punch for the bridegroom and bride,

Who sat smiling and blushing on either side.

While their health went around — and the innocent glee

Rang merrily under the old roof-tree.

Father Roach had a very big parish.

By the very big name of Knockdundherumdharish,

With plenty of bog, and with plenty of mountain :

^rhe miles he'd to travel would throuble you countin*.

Tlie duties were heavy, to go through them all,

Of the wedding and christ'ning, the mass and sick-call.

Up early, down late, was the good parish pastor :

Few ponies than his were oblige \ to go faster.

He'd a big pair o' boots, and a purty big pony,

The boots greas'd with fat — but the baste was but bony ;

For the pride of the flesh was so far from the pastor.

That the baste thought it manners to copy his master j

And, in this imitation, the baste, by degrees,

Would sometimes attempt to go down on his knees ; *

But in this too great freedom the Father soon stopp'd him

With a dig of the spurs, or, if need be, he whopp'd him.

And Father Roach had a very big stick,
Which could make very thin any crowd he found thick ;
In a fair he would rush through the heat of the action,
And scatter, like chaff to the wind, every faction.

142

FATHER ROACH.

If the leaders escap'd from the strong holy man,
He made sure to be down on the heads of the clan,
And the Blackfoot who courted each foeman's approach,
Faith, 'tis hot foot he'd fly from the stout Father Roach.

Father Roach had a very big mouth.

For the brave broad brogue of the beautiful South ;

In saying the mass, sure his fine voice was famous.

It would do your heart good just to hear his " Oremus,"

Which brought down the broad-shoulder'd boys to their

knees,
As aisy as winter shakes leaves from the trees :
But the rude blast of winter could never approach
The power of the sweet voice of good father Roach.

Father Roach had a very big heart.

And "a way of his own" — far surpassing all art j

His joke sometimes carried reproof to a clown ;

He could chide with a smile — as the thistle sheds down.

He was simple tho' sage — he was gentle, yet strong :

When he gave good advice, he ne'er made it too long,

But just rolled it up like a snowball, and pelted

It into your ear— where, in softness, it melted.

The good Father's heart, in its unworldly blindness,
Overflow' d with the milk of human kindness,
And he gave it so freely, the wonder was great
That it lasted so long — for, come early or late,
The unfortunate had it. Now some people deem
This milk is so precious, they keep it for cream j
But that's a mistake — for it spoils by degrees.
And, tho' exquisite milk, it makes very bad cheese.

You will pause to inquire, and with wonder, perchance,
How so many perfections are plac'd, at a glance
In your view, of a poor Irish priest, who was fed
On potatoes, perhaps, or, at most, griddle bread ;
Who ne'er rode in a coach, and whose simple abode
Was a homely thatched cot, on a wild mountain road }
To whom dreams of a mitre yet never occurr'd —
I will tell you the cause, then — and just in one word.

Father Roach had a Mother, who shed
Round the innocent days of his infant bed —
The influence holy which early inclin'd
In hoav'nward direction the boy's gentle mind,

FATHER ROAOH.

143

And stamp'd there the lessons its softness could take,
Which, strengthen'd in manhood, no power could shake.
In vain might the Demon of Darkness approach
The mother-made virtue of good Father Hoach 1
Father Boach had a brother beside :
His mother's own darling — his brother's fond pride;
Great things were expected from Frank, when the world
Should see his broad banner of talent unfurl'd.
But Fate cut him short — for the murderer's knife
Abrid^'d the young days of Frank's innocent life ;
And the mass for his soul was the only approach
To comfort now left for the fond Father Boach.

Father Eoach had a penitent grim
Coming, of late, to confession to him ;
He was rank in vice— he was steep'd in crime.
The reverend Father, in all his time.
So dark a confession had never known^
As that now made to th' Eternal Throne ;
And when he ask'd was the catalogue o'er,
The sinner replied — ''I've a thrifle more."

'' A trifle ? What mean you, dark sinner, say?

A trifle ? Oh, think of your dying day I

A trifle more f — ^what more dare meet

The terrible eye of the Judgment-seat

Than all I have heard ? — the oath broken, the theft

Of a poor maiden's honour — 'twas all she had left 1

Say what have you done that worse could be ?"

He whispered, " Your brother was murdered by me."

" O God !" groan'd the Priest, " but the trial is deep,

My own brother's murder a secret to keep.

And minister here to the murderer of mine —

But not my will, Father, but Thine!"

Then the penitent said, " You will not betray?"

« What 1 ? — thy confessor ? Away, away 1' '

<'0f penance, good Father, what cup shall I drink ?"

"Drink the dregs of thy life — live on and think I"

The hypocrite penitent cunningly found

This means of suppressing suspicion around.

Would the murderer of Frank e'er confess to his brother?

Hcj surely, was guiltless — it must be some other.

And years roll'd on, and the only record

'Twixt the murderer's hand and the eye of the Lord

144

FATHER roach;

Was that brother — by rule of his Church decreed

To silent knowledge of guilty deed.

Twenty or more of years pass'd away,

And locks once raven were growing grey,

And some, whom the Father once christen' d, now stood,

In the ripen' d bloom of womanhood,

And held at the font thdr babies' brow

For the holy sign and the sponsor's vow;

And grandmothers smil'd by their wedded girls 1 ,

But the eyes, once diamond — the teeth, once pearls,

'"'he casket of beauty no longer grace ;

Mem'ry, fond mem'ry alone might trace

Through the mist of y^ars a dreamy light

Gleaming afar from the gems once bright.

O, Time! 'how varied is thy sway

'Twixt beauty's dawn and dim decay !

By line degrees beneath thy hand

Doth latent loveliness expand ;

The coral casket richer grows
With its second pearly dow'r.

The brilliant eye still brighter glows
With the maiden's ripening hour: —
So gifted are ye of Time, fair girls,

But Time, while his gifts he deals,

From the sunken socket the diamond steals.
And takes back to his waves the pearls I

It was just at this time that a man, rather sallow,
WTiose cold eye burned dim in his features of tallow.
Was seen, at a cross -way, to mark the approach
Of the kind-hearted parish priest, good Father Roach.
A deep salutation he render' d the Father,
Who return' d it but coldly, and seem'd as he'd rather
Avoid the same track ; so he struck o'er a hill.
But the sallow intruder would follow him still.

"Father," said he, '' as I'm going your way,
A word on the road to your Reverence I'd say.
Of late so entirely I've alter'd my plan.
Indeed, holy sir, I'm a diflferent man ;
I'm thinking of wedding, and bettering my lot."
The Father replied, "You had better not."
" Indeed, reverend sir, my wild oats are all sown."
"But perhaps," said the Priest, "they are not
grovm : —

yet

FATHER ROACH.

"At least, they're not reap'd^^^ — and his look became

keener ;
" And ask not a woman to be your gleaner.
You have my advice 1" The Priest strode on.
And silence ensued, as, one by one,
They threaded a deep defile, which wound
Through the lonely hills — and the solemn profound
Of the silence was broken alone by the cranch
Of their hurried tread on some wither'd branch.

The sallow man foUow'd the Priest so fast,

That the setting sun their one shadow cast.

« Why press," said the Priest, "so close to me?"

The follower answer' d convulsively,

As, gasping and pale, through the hollow he hurried,

" 'Tis here, close by, poor Frank is buried."

" What Frank?" said the Priest—" What Frank 1" cried

the other}
" Why, he whom I slew — your brother — your brother!"

< Great God 1" cried the priest—" in Thine own good time,

Thou liftest the veil from the hidden crime.

Within the confessional, dastard, the seal

Was set on my lips, which might never reveal

What there was spoken ; but now the sun,

The daylight hears what thine arm hath done.

And now, under Heaven, my arm shall bring,

Thy felon neck to the hempen string 1"

Pale was the murd'rer, and paler the Priest.

Destiny ! rich was indeed thy feast.

In that awful hour I The victim stood

His own accuser j the Pastor good.

Freed from the chain of silence, spoke ;

No more the confessional's terrible yoke

Made him run, neck and neck, with a murderer in peace

And the villain's life had run out its lease. '

The gaol, the trial, conviction came,

And honour was given to the poor Priest's name,

Who held, for years, the secret dread.

Of a murderer living — a brother dead,

And still, by the ride of his Church compell'd

The awful mystery in silence held.

Till the murderer himself did the secret broach —

A triumph to justice and Father Roach.

146

HORTE D'ARTHtR.

MORTE D' ARTHUR.

Alfred Tennyson, D.C.L., the poet laureate, hdrn ^nl809 at
Somersby in Lincolnshire, where hi^ father was rector.

So all day long the noise of battle roll'd

Among the mountains by the winter sea j

Until King Arthur's table, man by man,

Had fall'n in Lyonness about their Lord,

King Arthur : then, because his wound was deep,

The bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him.

Sir Bedivere the last of all his knights,

And bore him to a chapel nigh the field,

A broken chancel with a broken cross,

That stood on a dark strait of barren land.

On one side lay the Ocean, and on one

Lay a great water, and the moon was full.

Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere :
" The sequel of to-day unsolders all
The goodliest fellowslup of famous knights
Whereof this world holds record. Such a sleep
They sleep — the men I loved. I think that we
Shall never more, at any future time,
Delight our souls with talk of knightly deeds,
Walking about the gardens and the halls
Of Camelot, as in the days that were.
I perish by this people which 1 made, —
Tho' Merlin sware that 1 should come again
To rule once more — but let what will be, be,
I am so deeply smitten thro' the helm
That without help I cannot last till mom.
Thou therefore take my brand Excalibur,
Which was my pride : for thou rememberest how
In those old days, one summer noon, an arm
Rose up from out the bosom of the lake.
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful.
Holding the sword — and how I rowed across
And took it, and have worn it, like a king :
And, wheresoever I am sung or told
In aftertime, this also shall be known:
But now delay not : take Excalibur,
And iling him far into the middle mere :
Watch what thou seest, and lightly bring me word."
To him replied the bold Sir Bevidere :

MORTB D' ARTHUR.

14T

" It is not meet, Sir King to leave thee thus,
Aidless, alone and smitten thro' the helm.
A little thing may harm a wounded man.
Yet I thy hest will all perform at full,
Watch what I see, and lightly bring the word."

Then quickly rose Sir Bedivere. and ran,
And, leaping down the ridges ligntly, plunged
Among the bulrush-beds, and clutch'd the sword.
And strongly wheel' d and threw it. The great brand
Made lightnings in the splendor of the moon,
And flashing round and round, and whirl'd in an arch,
Shot like a streamer of the northern mom.
Seen where the moving isles of winter shock
iJy night, with noises of the northern sea.
So flash' d and fell the brand Excalibur :
But ere he dipt the surface, rose an arm
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful.
And caught him by the hilt, and brandished him
Three times, and drew him under in the mere.
And lightly went the other to the King.

Then spoke King Arthur, drawing thicker breath :
"Now see I by thine eyes that this is done.
Speak out : what is it thou hast heard, or seen?"

And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere :
" Sir King, I closed mine eyelids, lest the gems
Should blind my purpose, for I never saw,
Nor shall see, here or elsewhere, till I die.
Not tho' I live three lives of mortal men,
So great a miracle as yonder hilt.
Then with both hands I flung him, wheeling him ;
But when I look'd again, behold an arm.
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful.
That caught him by the hilt, and brandish'd him
Three times, and drew him under in the mere."

And answer made King Arthur, breathing hard:
" My end draws nigh ; 'tis time that I were gone.
Make broad thy shoulders to receive my weight,
And bear me to the margin ; yet I fer •
My wound hath taken cold, and I shaxl die."

Then saw they how there hove a dusky barge,
Dark as a funeral scarf from stem to stem,

148

IfORTB D'ABTHtTR.

Beneath them ; and descending they were ware
That all the decks were dense with stately forms
Black>8toled, black-hooded, like a dream — by these
Three Queens with crowns of gold — and from them rose
A cry that shiver'd to the tingling stars,
And, as it were one voice, an agony
Of lamentation, like a wind, that shrills
All night in the waste land, where no one comes
Or hath come, since the making of the world.

Then murmur'd Arthur, "Place me in the barge,"
And to the barge they came. There those three Queens
Put forth their hands, and took the King, and wept.
But she that rose the tallest of them all
And fairest, laid his head upon her lap.
And loosed the shattered casque, and chafed his hands,
And call'd him by his name, complaining loud,
And dropping bitter tears against his brow
Striped with dark blood : for all his face was white
And colorless, and like the wither'd moon
Smote by the fresh beam of the springing east ;
And all his greaves and cuisses dash'd with drops
Of onset ; and the light and lustrous curls —
That made his forehead like a rising sun
High from the dais-throne — were parch'd with dust ;
Or, clotted into points and hanging loose,
Mix'd with the knightly growth that fringed his lips.
So like a shatter'd column lay the King ;
Not like that Arthur who, with lance in rest.
From spur to plume a star of tournament,
IShot thro' the lists of Camelot, and charged
Before the eyes of ladies and of kings.

Then loudly cried the bold Sir Bedivere,
♦' Ah 1 my Lord Arthur, whither shall I go ?
Where shall I hide my forehead and my eyes ?
For now 1 see the true old times are dead,
When every morning brought a noble chance,
And every chance brought out a noble night.
Such times have been not since the light hath led
The holy Elders with the gift of myrrh.
But now the whole round table is dissolved
Which was an image of the mighty world j
And I, the last, go forth companionless.
And the days darken round me, and the years,
Among new men, strange fhces, other minds."
And slowly answer'd Arthur from the barge -,

MORTB d'aRTHUR.

149

<< The old order changeih, yielding place to new,

And God fulfils himself in many ways,

Lest one good custom should corrupt the world.

Comfort thyself : what comfort is in me ?

I have lired my life, and that which I have done

May He within himself make pure 1 but thou,

If thou shouldst never see my face again,

Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer

Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice

Rise like a fountain for me night and day.

For what are men better than sheep or goats

That nourish a blind life within the brain,

If knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer,

Both for themselves and those who call them friend 7

For so the whole round eai^th is every way

Bound by gold chains about the feet of God.

But now farewell. I am going a long way

With these thou seest — if indeed I go —

(For all my mind is clouded with a doubt) .

To the island- valley of Avilion ;

Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow.

Nor ever wind blows loudly ; but it lies

Deep-meadow' d, happy, fair with orchard-lawns

And bowery hollows crown' d with summer sea,

Where I will heaTme of my grievous wound."

So said he, and the barge with oar and sail
Moved from the brink, like some full-breasted swan —
That, fluting a wild carol ere her death.
Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood
With swarthy webs. Long stood Sir Bedivere
Revolving many memories, till the hull
Look'd one black dot against the verge of dawn,
And on the mere the wailing died away.

150

THE DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR.

Alfred Tennyson,

Full knee-deep lies the winter snow,
And the winter winds are wearily sighing :
Toll ye the church-bell ssd and slow,
And tread softly and speuk low.
For the old year lies a dying.

Old year you must not die \

You came to us so readily.

You lived with us so steadily,

Old year, you shall not die.

He lieth still : he doth not move :

He will not see the dawn of day.

He hath no other life above.

He gave me a friend, and a true true-love,

And the New-year will take 'em away.

Old year you must not go :

So long as yoq have been with ut',

Such joy as you' have seen with us,

Old year, you shall not go.

He frothed his bumpers to the brim } '
A jollier year we shall not see.
But tho' his eyes are waxing dim.
And tho' his foes speak ill of him.
He was a friend to me.

Old year, you shall not die.

We did so laugh and cry with you,

I've half a mind to die with you,

Old year, if you must die.

He was full of joke and jest,
But all his merry quips are o'er.
To see him die across the waste
His son and heir doth ride post-haste.
But he'll be dead before.

Every one for his own.

The night is starry and cold, my friend,

And the New-year, blithe and bold, my friend,

Comes up to take his own.

How hard he breathes ! over the snow
\ heard just now the crowing cock.

PORA.

151

The shadows flicker to and fro :

The cricket chirps ; the light burns low :

'T is nearly twelve o'clock.

Shake hands, before you die.

Old year, we'll dearly rue for you:

What is it we can do for you ?

Speak out before you die.

His face is growing sharp and thin.
Alack ! our friend is gone,
Close up his eyes : tie up his chin :
Step from the corpse, and let him in
That standeth there alone.

And waiteth at the door.

There's a new foot on the floor, my friend,
• And a new face at the door, my friend,

A new face at the door.

If!

ind.

PORA.

Alfred Tennyson,

With farmer Allan at the farm abode

William and Dora. William was his son.

And she his niece. He often look'd at them,

And often thought "I'll make them man and. wife."

Now Dora felt her uncle's will in all,

And yeam'd towards William: but the youth, because

He had been always with her m the house.

Thought not of Dora.

Then there came a day
When Allan call'd his son, and said : " My son,
I married late, but I would wish to see
My grandchild on my knees before I die ;
And I have set my heart upon a match.
Now therefore look to Dora ; she is well
To look to : thrifty too beyond her age.
She is my brother's daughter t he and I
Had once hard words, and parted, and he died.

For his sake I bred
His daughter Dora ; take her for your wife ;
For I have wish'd this marriage, night and day.

Wi^lliani answer' d short :

M
II

152

DORA.

" I cannot marry Dora : by my life,
I will not marry Dora." Then the old man
Was wroth, and doubled up his hands, and said :
"You will not boy ! you dare to answer thus 1
But in my time a father's word was law,
And so it shall be now for me. Look to it :
Consider, William : take a month to think,
And let me have an answer to my wish :
Or, by the Lord that made me, you shall pack.
And never more darken my doors again."
But William answer'd madly j bit his lips.
And broke away. The more he look'd at her
The less he liked her ; and his ways were harsh ;
But Dora bore them meekly. Then before
The month was out he left his father's house.
And hired himself to work within the fields 5 '

And half in love, half spite, he woo'd and wed
A laborer's daughter, Mary Morrison.

Then, when the bells were ringing, Allan call'd
His neice and said : " My girl, I love you well ;
But if you speak with him that was my son
Or change a word with her he calls his wife,
My home is none of yours. My will is law."
And Dora promised, being meek. She thought,
<' It cannot be : my uncle's mind will change !"

And days went on, and there was born a boy
To William ; then distresses came on him ;
And day by day he pass'd his father's gate,
Heart-broken, and his father help'd him not,
But Dora stored what little she could save,
And sent it them by stealth, nor did they know
Who sent it ; till at last a fever seized
On William, and in harvest time he died.

Then Dora went to Mary. Mary sat
And look'd with tears upon her boy, and thought
Hard things of Dora. Dora came and said :

'< I have obey'd my uncle until now.
And I have sinn'd, for it was all thro' me
This evil came on William at the Hrst.
But, Mary, for the sake of him that's gone.
And for your sake, the woman that ha chose,
And for this orphan, I am come to you <
You know there has not been for these five years
So full a harvest : let mo take the boy,
And I will set him in my uncle's eye

DORA. 153

Among tho wheat ; I hat vrhen his heart is glad

Of the full harvest, he may see the boy,

And bless him for the sake of him that's gone."

And Dora took the child, and went her way
Across the wheat, and sat upon a mound
That was unsown, where many poppies grew.
Far 9ft' the farmer came into the field
And spied her not ; for none of all his men
Dare tell him Dora waited with the child ;
And Dora would have risen and gone to him.
But her heart fail'd her; and the reapers reap'd,
And the sun fell, and all the land was dark.

But when the morrow came, she r.ose and took
The child once more, and sat upon the mound j
Ar d made a little wreath of all the flowers

lat grew about, and tied it round his hat
To make him pleasing in her uncle's eye.
Then when the farmer pass'd into the field
He spied her, and he left his men at work.
And came and said : " Where were you yesterday ?
Whose child is that I What are you doing here ?' *
So Dora cast her eyes upon the ground.
And answer' d softly : " This is William's child !"
"And did I not," said Allan, '<did I not
Forbid you, Dora?" Dora said again,
''Do with me as you will, but take the child
And bless him for the sake of him that's gone 1"
And Allan said, " I see it is a trick
Got up betwixt you and the woman there.
I must be taught my duty, and by youl
You knew my word was law, and yet you dared
To slight it. Well — for I will take the boy ;
But go you hence, and never see me more."

So saying, he took the boy, that oried aloud
And struggled hard. The wreath of fiowors fell
At Dora's feet. She bow'd upon her hands,
And the boy's cry came to her from the field.
More and more distant. She bow'd down her head,
Remembering the day when first she came.
And all the things that had been. She bow'd down
And wept in secret; and tho reapers reap'd,
And the sun fell, and all tho land was dark.

Then Dora went to Mary's house, and stood
Upon tho threshold. Mary saw the boy
Was not with Dora. She broke out in praise

154

DORA.

To God, that help'd her in her widowhood.
And Dora said, *' My uncle took the boy ;
But, Mary, let me live and work with you :
He says that he will never see me more."
Then answer'd Mary, " This shall never be,
That thou shouldst take my trouble on thyself j
And, now I think, he shall not have the boy,
For he will teach him hardness, and to slight
His mother ; therefore thou and I will go
And I will have my boy, and bring him home ;
And I will beg of him to take thee back ;
But if he will not take thee back again,
Then thou and I will live within one house,
And work for William's child, until he grows
Of age to help us."

• So the women kiss'd
Each other, and set out, and reach'd the farm.
The door was off the latch : they peep'd, and saw
The boy set up betwixt his grandsire's knees,
Who thrust him in the hollows of his arm.
And clapt him on the hands and on the cheeks.
Like one that loved him ; and the lad stretch' d out
And babbled for the golden seal, that hung
From Allan's watch, and sparkled by the fire.
Then they came in ; but when the boy beheld
His mother, he cried out to come to her |
And Allan set him down, and Mary said :
" Father — if you let me call you so —
I never came a-begging for myself.
Or William, or this child ; but now I come
For Dora : take her back ; she loves you well.

Sir, when William died, he died at peace
With all men ; for I ask'd him, and he said,
He could not ever rue his marrying me —

1 had been a patient wife ; but, sir, he said
That he was wrong to cross his father thus :

* God bless him 1' he said, ' and may he never know

The troubles I have gone thro' 1' Then he turn'd

His face and pass'd — unhappy that I am 1

But now, sir, let me have my boy, for you

Will make him hard, and he will learn to slight

His father's memory; and take Dora back,

And let all this be as it was before."

So Mary said, and Dora hid her face
By Mar/. There was silence in the room ;

And
Rud
And
Nev<

For,
Had
Pret
Eh?

Will

Nev'
''H(

The]

Stro

I on
I ca
Per

THE ORANDMOTHBR.

155

And all at once the old man burst in sobs :

*' I have been to blame — to blame. I have kill'd my son,

I have kill'd him — but I lov'd him — my dear son.

May God forgive me I I have been to blame.

Kiss me, my children."

Then they clung about
The old man's neck, and kiss'd him many times.
And all the man was broken with remorse ;
And all his love came back a hundred fold ;
And for three hours he sobb'd o'er William's child,
Thinking of William.

So those four abode
y/ithin one house together ; and as years
Went forward, Mary took another mate ;
But Dora lived unmarried till her death.

THE GRANDMOTHER.

Alfred Tennyson.

And Willy, my eldest-born, '& gone, you say, little Anne?
Ruddy and white,and strong on his legs, he looks like a man.
And Willy's wife has written ; she never was over- wise,
Nevee the wife for Willy: he would n't take my advice.

For, Annie, you see, her father was not the man to save.
Had n't a head to manage, and drank himself into his grave.
Pretty enough, very pretty 1 but I was against it for one.
Eh ? — but he would n't hear me — and Willy, you say, is gone.

Willy, my beauty, my eldest-born, the flower of the flock :
Never a man could fling him : for Willy stood like a rock.
''Here's a leg for a baby of a week!" says doctor; and

he would be bound.
There was not his like that year in twenty parishes round.

•
Strong of his hands, and strong on his legs, but still of his

tongue !
I ought to have gone before him : I wonder he went so young,
I cannot cry for him, Annie : I have not long to stay ;
Perhaps X shall see him the sooner^ for he lived far away,

156

THB ORATTDMOTUBR.

Why do you look at me, Annie ? you think I am hard and

cold;
But all my children have gone before me, I am so old :
I cannot weep for Willy nor can I weep for the rest ;
Only at your age, Annie, I could have wept with the best.

But I wish'd it had been God's will that I, too, then could

have died :
I began to be tired a little, and fain had slept at his side.
And that was ten years back, or more, if I don't forget ;
But as to the children, Annie, they're all about me yet.

Pattering over the boards, my Annie who left me at two.
Patter she goes, my own little Annie, an Annie like you ;
Pattering over the boards, she comes and goes at her will.
While Harry is in the five-acre and Charlie ploughing the
hill.

And Harry and Charlie, I hear them too— they sing to their

team:
Often they come to the door in a pleasant kind of a dream.
They come and sit by my chair, they hover about my bed —
I am not always certain if they be alive or dead.'

And yet I know for a truth, there's none of them left alive j
For Harry went at sixty, your father at sixty-five ;
And Willy, my eldest- born, at nigh threescore and ten ;
I knew them all as babies, and now they're elderly men.

For mine is a time of peace, it is not often I grieve ;
I am oftener sitting at home in my father's farm at eve :
And the neighbors come and laugh and gossip, and so do I ;
I find myself often laughing at things that have long gone by.

To be sure the preacher says, our sins should make us sad
But mine is a time of peace, and there is Grace to be had
And God, not man, is the Judge of us all when life shall cease
And in this Book, little Annie, the message is one of Peace.

And age is a time of peace, so it be free from pain,
And happy has been my life ; but 1 would not live it again.
I seem to be tired a little, that's all, Add long for rest :
Only at your age, Annie, I could have wept with th« best,

■KOOH ABDBN't RETURN.

157

So Willie has gone, my beauty, my eldest born, my flower.
But how can I weep for Willy, he has but gone for an hour, —
Gone for a minute, my son, from this room into the next,
I, too, shall go in a minute. What time have I to be vext ?

And Willy's wife has written, she never was over- wise.
Get me my glasses, Annie : tnank God that I keep my eyes.
There is but a trifle left you, when I shall have pass'd away.
But stay with the old woman now : you cannot have long to
stay.

ENOCH AKDEN'S RETURN.
Alfred Tennyson.

Down to the pool and narrow wharf he went.
Seeking a tavern which of old he knew,
A front of timber-crost antiquity.
So propt, worm-eaten, ruinously old.
He thought it must have gone j but he was gone
Who kept it ; and his widow, Miriam Lane,
With daily dwindling profits held the house ;
A haunt of brawling seamen once, but now
Stiller with yet a bed for wandering men. .
There Enoch rested silent many days.

But Miriam Lane was good and garrulous.
Nor let him be, but often breaking in.
Told him, with other annals of the port,
Not knowing — Enoch was so brown, so bow'd,
So broken, all the story of his house.
His baby's death, her growing poverty,
How Philip put her little ones to school,
And kept them in it, his long wooing her,
Her slow consent, and marriage, and the birth
Of Philip's child ; and o'er his countenance
No shadow past, nor motion; any one,
Regarding, well had deem'd he felt the tale
Less than the teller : only when she clAsed,
*' Enoch, poor man, was oast away and lost,"
He shaking his gray head pathetically,
Repeated muttering ''Cast away and lost" ;
Again in deeper inward whispers ''Lost !"

158

ENOCH ABDEN'S RETURN.

But Enoch yearn' d to see her face again j
" If I might look on her sweet face again
And know that she is happy." So the thought
Haunted and harass' d him, and drove him forth
At evening when the dull November day
Was growing duller twilight, to the hill.
There he sat down gazing on all below :
There did a thousand memories roll upon him,
Unspeakable for sadness. By and by
The ruddy square of comfortable light.
Far-blazing from the rear of Philip's house,
Allured him, as the beacon-blaze allures
The bird of passage, till he madly strikes
Against it, and beats out his weary life.

For Philip's dwelling fronted on the street,
Th^ latest house to landward ; but behind,
With one small gate that open'd on the waste,
Flourish'd a little garden square and wall'd ;
And in it throve an ancient evergreen,
A yewtree, and all round it ran a walk
Of shingle, and a walk divided it ;
But Enoch shunn'd the middle walk and stole
Up by the wall, behind the yew ; and thence
That which he better might have shunn'd, if griefs
Like his have worse or better, Enoch saw.

For cups and silver on the burnish'd board
Sparkled and shone ; so genial was the hearth ;
And on the right hand of the hearth he saw
Philip, the slighted suitor of old times.
Stout, rosy, with his babe across his knees;
And o'er her second father stoopt a girl,
A later but a loftier Annie Lee,
Fair-hair'd and tall, and from her lifted hand
Dangled a I'ength of ribbon and a ring
To tempt the babe, who rear'd his creasy arms,
Caught at and ever miss'd it, and they laugh'd ;
And on the left hand of the hearth he saw
The mother glancing often toward her babe,
But turning ^^ow and then to speak with him.
Her son, who stood before her tall and strong,
And saying that which pleased him, for he smiled.

Now when the dead man come to life beheld
His wife his wife no more, and saw the babe

BKOCH AKDEIt's BETtntK.

159

Hers, yet not his, upon the father's knee^
And all the warmth, the peace, the happiness,
And his own children, tall and beautiful,
And him, that other, reigning in his place,
Lord of his rights and of his children's love, —
Then he, tho' Miriam Lane had told him all.
Because things seen are mightier than things heard.
Stagger' d and shook, holding the branch, and fear'd
To send abroad a shrill and terrible cry.
Which in one moment, like the blast of doom.
Would shatter all the happiness of the hearth.

He therefore turning softly like a thief.
Lest the harsh shingle should grate underfoot,
And feeling all along the garden wall,
Lest he should swoon and tumble and be found.
Crept to the gate, and open'd it, and closed,
As lightly as a sick man's chamber-door,
Behind him, and came out upon the waste.

And there he would have knelt, but that his knees
Were feeble, so that falling prone he dug
His fingers into the wet earth, and pray'd.

" Too hard to boar ! why did they take me thence ?
O God Almighty, blessed Saviour, Thou
That didst uphold me on my lonely isle.
Uphold me, Father, in my loneliness
A little longer ! aid me, give me strength
Not to tell her, never to let her know.
Help me not to break in upon her peace.
My children, too 1 must I not speak to these ?
They know me not. I should betray myself.
Never : no father's kiss for me", — the girl
So like her mother, and the boy, my son."

There speech and thought and nature fail'd a little.
And he lay tranc'd | but when he rose and paced
Back toward his solitary home again.
All down the narrow street he went
Beating it in upon his weary brain.
As tho' it were the burthen of a song,
"Not to tell her, never to let her know."

Then the third night after this,
While Enoch slumber'd motionless and pale,

160

THE RED FISHERMAK.

And Miriam watch'd and dozed at intervals,

There came so loud a calling of the sea,

That all the houses in the haven rang.

He woke, he rose, he spread his arms abroad.

Crying with a loud voice, ^< A sail ! a sail !

I am saved J " and so fell back and spoke no more.

THE RED FISHERMAN.

Winthrop Mackword Praed, bom in London, educated at Eton
and Cambridgef associated with MacauJay in Knights Quar-
lerly Magazine ; died llth July, 1839.

The abbott arose, and closed his book,

And donn'd his sandal shoon.
And wander'd forth, alone, to look

Upon the summer moon :
A starlight sky was o'er his head,

A quiet breeze around ;
And the flowers a thrilling fragrance shed

And the waves a soothing sound :
It was not an hour, nor a scene, for aught

But love and calm delight -,
Yet the holy man had a cloud of thought

On his wrinkled brow that night.
He gazed on the river that gurgled by

But he thought not of the reeds :
He clasp' d his gilded rosary.

But he did not tell the beads ;
If he look'd to the heavens, 'twas not to invoke

The spirit that dwelleth there ; < >

If he open'd his lips, the words they spoke

Had never the tone of prayer.
A pious priest might the abbott seem,

He had swayed the crosier well ;
But what was the theme of the abbott's dream

The abbott was loth to tell.

Companionless for a mile or more.
He traced the windings of the shore.
Oh, beauteous is that river still.
As it winds by many a sloping hill,

THK RED FISHERMAN.

161

And many a dim o'er-arching grove,

And many a flat and sunny cove,

And terraced lawns, whose bright arcades

The honeysuckle sweetly shades,

And rocks whose very crags seem bowers,

So gay they are with grass and flowers !

But the abbott was thinking of scenery

About as much, in sooth,
As a lover thinks of constancy,

Or an advocate of truth.
He did not mark how the skies in wrath

Grew dark above his head.
He did not mark how the mossy path

Grew damp beneath his tread ; '

And nearer he came and still more near

To a pool, in whose recess
The water had slept for many a year

Unchanged and motionless ;
From the river stream it spread away

The space of half a rood ;
The surface had the hue of clay

And the scent of human blood ;
The trees and the herbs that round it grew

Were venomous and foul ;
And the birds that through the bushes flew

Were the vulture and the owl ;
The water was as dark and rank

As ever a company pump'd:
And the perch that was netted and laid on the bank.

Grew rotten while it jump'd ;
And bold was he who thither came

At midnight, man or boy ;
For the place was cursed with an evil name,

And that name was "The Devil's Decoy !"

The abbott was weary as abbott could be.
And he sat down to rest on the stump of a tree ;
When suddenly rose a dismal tone-
Was it a song or was it a moan?

*'Uh, ho! OK ho!
Above, below !
Lightly and brightly they glide and go ;
The hungry and keen on the top are leaping.
The lazy and fat in the depths are sleeping;

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162

THE RED FISHERMAN.

Fishing isjine wlien the pool is muddy ^
Broiling is rich tvhen the coals are ruddy /"

In a monstrous fright, by the murky light,
He looked to the left and he looked to the right,
And what was the vision close before him,
That flung such a sudden stupor o'er him ?
'Twas a sight to make the hair uprise,

And the life-blood colder run :
The startled priest struck both his thighs,

And the abbey clock struck one !

All alone, by the side of the pool,

A tall man sat on a three-legg'd stool.

Kicking his heels on the dewy sod.

And putting in order his reel and rod j

Bed were the rags his shoulders wore.

And a high red cap on his head he bore ;

His arms and his legs were long and bare ;

And two or three locks of long red hair

Were tossing about his scraggy neck,

Like a tattered flag o' er a splitting wreck.

It might be time, or it might bo trouble.

Had bent that stout back nearly double —

Sunk ii their dee;; and hollow sockets

That blazing couple of Congreve rockets,

And shrunk and shrivell'd that tawny skin,

Till ic hardly covered the bones within.

The line the abbott saw him throw

Had been fashion' d and form'd long ages ago,

And the hands that work'd his foreign vest

Long ages ago had gone to their rest :

You would have sworn as you look'd on them.

He had fished in the flood with Ham and Shem 1

There was turning of keys, and creaking of locks,

As he took forth a bait from his iron box.

Minnow or gentle, worm or fly —

It seemed not such to the abbott's eye :

Gaily it glitter' d with jewel and gem.

And its shape was the shape of a diadem.

It was fasten' d a gleaming hook about.

By a chain within and a chain without ;

And the fisherman gave it a kick and a spin.

And the water tizz'd as it tumbled in I

^
(J

''A

THE RED FISFIERMAX.

163

From the bowels of the earth
Strange and varied sounds had birth —
Now the battle's bursting peal,
Neigh of steed, and clang of gteel ;
Now an old man's hollow groan
Echoed from the dungeon stone ;
Now the weak and wailing cry
Of a stripling's agony !
Cold by this was the midnight air ;

But the abbott's blood ran colder
When he saw the gasping knight lie thero,
With a gash beneath his clotted hair,

And a hump upon his shoulder.
And the loyal Churchman strove in vain

To mutter a Pater Noster
For he who writh'd in mortal pain
Was camp'd that night on Bos worth plain —
The cruel Duke of Glou'ster !

There was turning of keys and creaking of locks,
As he took forth a bait from his iron box.
It was a haunch of princely size,
Filling with fragrance, earth and skies.
The corpulent abbott knew full well
The swelling form and the steaming smell ;
Never a monk that wore a hood
Could better have guess' d the very wood
Where the noble hart had stood at bay,
Weary and wounded at close of day.
Sounded then the noisy glee
Ot a revelling company —
Sprightly story, wicked jest,
Kated servant, greeted guest,
Flow of wine, and flight of cork.
Stroke of knife, and thrust of fork :
But, where'er the board was spread,
Grace, I ween, was never said !

Pulling and tugging the fisherman sat ;

And the priest was ready to vomit.
When he hauled out a gentleman, fine and fat,
With a belly as big as a brimming vat,

And a nose as red as a comet.
''A capital stew," the fisherman said,

*' With cinnamon and sherry !"

164

THE RED FISHERMAN.

And the abbott turn'd away his head,
For his brother was lying before him dead,
The mayor of St. Edmond's Bury !

There was turning of keys and creaking of locks,

As he took forth a bait from his iron box :

It was a bundle of beautiful things —

A peacock's tail and a butterfly's wings,

A scarlet slipper, an auburn curl,

A mantle of silk, and a bracelet of pearl,

And a packet of letters, from whose sweet fold

Such a stream of delicate odours roU'd

That the abbott fell on his face, and fainted.

And deemed his spirit was half-way sainted.

Sounds seemed dropping from the skies.
Stifled whispers, smother'd sighs,
And the breath of vernal gales.
And the voice of nightingales ;
But the nightingales were mute.
Envious, when an unseen lute
Shaped the music of its chords
Into passion's thrilling words :
^^ Smile, lady, smile ! — / vdll not set
Upon my brow the coronet,
Till thou shall gather roses white
To wear around its gems of light.
Smile, lady, smile ! — / will not see
Rioers and Hastings bend the knee.
Till those bewitching lips of thine
Will bid me rise in bliss Jrom mine.
Smile, lady, smile ! — for toho would win
A loveless throne through guilt and sin f
Or who would reign o'er vale and hill,
If woman^s heari were rebel still f^
One jerk, and there a lady lay,

A lady, wondrous fair ;
But the rose of her lip had faded away,
And her cheek was as white and as cold as clay,

And torn was her raven hair.
*' Ah, ha /" said the fisher in merry guise,

♦' Her gallant was hookUl before ;^^
And the abbott heaved some piteous sighs.
For oft he had bles^'d those deep blue eyes,
The eyes of Mistress Shore 1

THE RED FISHERMAN.

There was turning of keys and creaking of locks,
As he took forth a bait from his iron box.
Many the cunning sportsman tried,
Many he flung with a frown aside ;
A minstrel's harp and a miser's chest,
A hermit's cowl and a baron's crest,
Jewels of lustre, robes of price,
Tomes of heresy, loaded dice.
And golden cups of the brightest wine
That ever was press'd from the Burgundy vine ;
There was a perfume of sulphur and nitre,
As he came at last to a bishop's mitre !
From top to toe the abbott shook,
As the fisherman armed his golden hook ;
And awfully were his features wrought
By some dark dream or waken' d thought.
Look how the fearful felon gazes
On the scaffold his country's vengeance raises,
When the lips are crack'd and the jaws are dry
With the thirst that only in death shall die :
Mark the mariner s phrenzied frown
As the swaling wherry settles down.
When peril has numb'd the sense and will,
Though the hand and the foot may struggle still :
Wilder far was the abbott's glance,
Deeper far was the abbott's trance :
Fix'd as a monument, still as air,
He bent no knee and he breathed no prayer;
But he signed — he knew not why or how —
The sign of the cross on his clammy brow —
There was turning of keys ahd creaking of locks,
As he stalk'd away with his iron box.

" Oh, ho ! Oh, ho !
The cock doth croio ;
It is iimefor thejisher to rise and go.
Fair luck to the abbott, fair luck to the shrine !
He hath gnavo'd in twain my choicest line ;
Let him swim to the north, let him swim to the south,
The abbott shall carry my hook in Jiis rnouthy

The abbott liad preach'd for many years,

With as clear articulation
As ever was heard in the House of Peers

Against emancipation ;

165

166

THE pauper's drive.

His words had made battalions quake,

Had roused the zeal of martyrs ;
He kept the Court an hour awake,

And the king himself three-quarters :
But ever, from that hour 'tis said,

He stammer'd and he stutter'd,
As if an axe went through his head

With every word he utter'd.
He stutter'd o'er blessing, he stutter'd o'er ban,

He stutter'd drunk or dry ;
And none but he and the fisherman

Could tell the reason why !

THE PAUPER'S DRIVE.

This refinarkahle Poem, which has often heeii aUrihuted to
Thomas Hood, is hy T. Noel, and loas Jirst published
in ^^ Rhymes and Roundelays.''^

There's a grim one-horse hearse in a jolly round trot ;
To the churchyard a pauper is going, I wot ;
The 7oad it is rough, and the hearse has no springs.
And hark to the dirge that the sad driver sings : —
*' Rattle his bones over the stones ;
He's only a pauper whom nobody owns !"

Oh, where are the mourners ? alas 1 there are none ;
He has left not a gap in the world now he's gone,
Not a tear in the eye of child, woman, or man —
To the grave with his carcase as fast as you can.
*' Rattle his bones over the stones ;
He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns I"

What a jolting and creaking, and splashing and din;
The whip how it cracks ! and the wheels how they spin !
How the dirt, right and left, o'er the hedges is hurled 1
The pauper at length makes a noise in the world.
" Rattle his bones over the stones ;
He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns !"

Poor pauper defunct, he has made some approach
To gentility, now that he's stretched in a coach.
He's taking a drive in his carriage at last ;
But it will not be long, if he goes on so fast.
" Rattle his bones over the stones ;
He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns !"

RtJPERt's MARCfl.

167

You bumpkin, who stare at your brother conveyed,
Behold what respect to a cloddy is paid,
And be joyful to think when by death you're laid low,
You've a chknce to the grave like a gemraan to go.
"Battle his bones over the stones;
He's only a pauper whom noboiy ownsl"

But a truce to this strain, — for my soul it is sad,
To think that a heart in humanity clad
Should make, like the brutes, such a desolate end,
And depart from the light without leaving a friend.
Bear softly his bones over the stones,
Though pauper, he's one whom his Maker yet
owns!

ihnted to
mhlished

trot ;

I"
bne:

le,

din*,
ley spin

lui'led 1
pld.

Is!"
»ach

RUPEET'S MARCH.

WaUer Thornhury, born 1828. Originally intended for an
artist, but discardtd the pencil for the pen, icith which
he has achieved distinction as poet, essayist and novelist.

Carabine slung, stirrup well hung,
Flagon at saddle-bow merrily swung j
Toss up the ale, — for our flag, like a sail,
Struggles and swells in the July gale.
Colours fling out, and then give them a shout |
W-a are the gallants to put them to rout.

Flash all your swords, like Tartarian hordes,

And scare the prim ladies of Puritan lords ;

Our steel caps shall blaze through the long summer days.

As we galloping sing our mad cavalier lays.

Then, banners, advance ! by the lilies of France,

We are the gallants to lead them a dance !

Ring the bells back, though the sexton look black.
Defiance to kn:\ves who are hot on our track.
" Murder and fire !" shout loudoi- and higher ;
Remember Edge Hill and the red-dabbled mire.
When our steeds we shall stall in the Parliament hall,
And shake the old nest till the roof- tree shall fall.

Froth it up, girl, t J 1 it splash every curl,
October's the liquor for trooper and earl ;

168

RtJPERT's MARdH.

Bubble it up, merry gold in the cup,
We never may taste of to-morrow night's sup
(Those red ribbons glow on thy bosom below
Like apple-tree bloom on a hillock of snow).

No, by my word, there never shook sword

Better than this in the* clutch of a lord.

The blue streaks that run are as bright in the sun

As the veins on the brow of that loveliest one ;

No deep light of the sky, when the twilight is nigh,

Glitters more bright than this blade to the eye.

Well, whatever may hap, this rusty steel cap
Will keep out full many a pestilent rap ;
This buff, though it's old, and not larded with gold.
Will guard me from rapier as well as from cold :
This scarf, rent and torn, though its colour is worn.
Shone gay as a page's but yesterday morn.

Here is a dint from the jagg of a flint

Thrown by a Puritan, just as a hint 5

But this stab through the buff was a warning more rough,

When Coventry city ai ose in a huff;

And I met with this gash, as we rode with a crash

Into Noll's pikes on the banks of the Ash.

No jockey or groom wears so.draggled a plume

As this, that's just drenched in the swift flowing Froom ;

Red grew the tide ere we reached the steep side,

And steaming the hair of old Barbary's hide j

But for branch of that oak, that saved me a stroke,

I had sunk there like herring in pickle to soak.

Pistolet crack flashed bright on our track,
And even the foam of the water turned black.
They were twenty to one, our poor rapier to gun,
But we charged up the bank, and we lost only one.
So I saved the old flag, though it was but a rag,
And the sword in my hand was snapped off to a jagg.

The water was churned as we wheeled and we turned,

And the dry brake, to scare out the vermin, we burned ;

We gave our halloo, and our trumpet we blew ;

Of all their stout fifty we left them but two ;

With a mock and a laugh, won their banner and staff,

And trod down the comets as tlneshers do chaff.

Sd;

t fttTPERT's March. 169

Saddle my roan, his back is a throne,

Better than velvet or gold, you will own.

Look to your match, for some harm you may catch,

For treason has always some mischief to hatch,

And Oliver's out with all Haslerigg's rout,

So I am told by this shivering, white-livered scout.

We came o'er the downs, through village and towns.
In spite of the sneers, and the curses, and frowns.
Drowning their psalms, and stilling their qualms,
With a clatter and rattle of scabbards and arms,
Down the long street, with a trample of feet.
For the echo of hoofs to a Cavalier's sweet.

See, black on each roof, at the soimd of our hoof,

The Puritans gather, but keep them aloof;

Their muskets are long and they aim at a throng,

But woe to the weak when they challenge the strong ! •

Butt-end to the door — one hammer more,

Our pikemen rush in and the struggle is o'er.

Storm through the gate, batter the plate,

Cram the red crucible into the grate.

Saddle-bags fill, Bob, Jenkin, and Will,

And spice the stavea wine that runs out like a rill ■,

That maiden shall ride all to-day by my side.

Those ribbons are fitting a Cavalier's bride.

Does Baxter say right, that a bodice laced tight
Should never be seen by the sun or the light ?
Like stars from a wood, shine under that hood
Eyes that are sparkling, though pious and good.
Surely this waist was by Providence placed,
By a true lover's arm to be often embraced.

Down on your knees, you villains in frieze ;

A draught to King Charles, or a swing from those trees.

Blow off this stiff lock, for 'tis useless to knock.

The ladies will pardon the noise and the shock ;

From this bright dewy cheek, might I venture to speak,

I could kiss off the tears, though she wept for a week.

Now loop me this scarf round the broken pike-statt)
'Twill do for a flag, though the Cropheads may laugh.
Who was it blew ? Give a halloo.
And hang out the pennon of crimson and blue.

170

DIOK 0* THE DlAMOlfD.

A volley of shot is welcoming hot —

It cannot be troop of the murdering Scot.

Fire the old mill on the brow of the hill ;
Break down the plank that runs over the rill :
Bar the town gate— if the burghers debate,
Shoot some to death — for the villains must wait.
Rip up the lead from the roofing overhead,
And melt it for bullets, or we shall be sped.

Now look to your buff, for steel is the stuff
To slash your brown jerkins with crimson enough*
There burst a flash : I heard their drums crash —
To horse I Now for race^^over moorland and plash.
Ere the stars glimmer out we will wake with a shout
The true men of York, who will welcome our rout.

We'll shake their red roofs with our echoing hoofs,
And flutter the dust from their tapestry woofs j
Their old minster shall ring with our " God save the King !"
And our horses shall drink at St. Christopher's spring;
We shall welcome the meat, oh ! the wine will taste sweet,
When our boots are flung oftj find as brothers we greet.

DICK O' THE DIAMOND.

Walter Tlwrnhimj.

The lad with the bonny blue feather,

That bore away jewel and ring :
That struck down Sir Walter de Tracey,

Before the proud eyes of the king.
Tawny-yellow his doublet of satin.

His hat was looped up with a stone,
His scarf was a flutter of crimson,

As he leaped like a prince on his roan.

The heralds their trumpets of silver
Blew loud at the multitude's shout ;

I saw the brave charger curvetting,
As Richard wound prancing about.

DICK O' THE DIAMOND.

But silent they grew when Sir Tracey
(A gold mine could scarce glitter more)

Galloped into the lists, cold and sullen,
Fool ! eyeing the jewels he wore.

There were diamonds on hat and on feather,

Diamonds from crest unto heel ;
Collars of diamonds and sapphires,

Hiding the iron and steel.
His housings were silver and purple,

All blazoned with legend and crest ;
But seamed by the sword of no battle.

For Sir Walter de Tracey loved rest.

The lad with the bonny blue feather

Was a page and a gentleman born -,
But Sir Walter, a Knight of the Garter,

Curled his thin lip in anger and scorn.
Shall he, who the lion at BuUen

Helped trample the tall fleur-de-lys,
Compete for the prize of the jewel

With such a mere stripling as this ?

" No, no !" cried the crowd of his varlets.

Waving with yellow and gold,
All shaking their colours and ribbons.

And tossing their banner's fringed fold.
To heighten the insolent clamour,

The drummers beginning to beat.
Bid the trumpet sound quick for the mounting 5

Never sound to my ear was so sweet.

For the varlets were flocking round Richard,

To hurry him down from his seat ;
I saw him look fierce at the rabble.

Disdaining to back or retreat.
That moment the drums and the trumpets

Made all the proud ears of them ring,
As slowly his cheek flushed with anger.

Rode into the tilt-yard the King.

Pale grew the lips of the vassals,

Sir Tracey turned colour and frowned •,

But the people, with scorn of oppression,
Hissed, jmd the liisses flew round.

171

172 DIOK O' THE DIAMOND.

Then the King waved his hand as for silence,
Stamped loud on the step of his throne,

And bade the two rivals together
Dismount, and their errors disown.

"Ah! this page is a rival for any,

And fit to break lance with his king ■,
Let the gallants first meet in the tourney.

And afterwards ride for the ring."
Dick stood at the feet of the monarch,

And bowed till his plume swept the ground ;
Then, clapping on helmet and feather,

Eode into the lists with a bound.

Sir Walter was silently waiting ;

He shone like a statue of gold ;
Blue heads of big pearls, like a netting,

Fell over his housings' red fold.
On his helmet a weathercock glittered,

A device of his errantry showing —
To prove he was ready to ride

Any way that the wind might be blowing.

Dick lifted his eyes up and smiled ;

Oh, it brought the blood hot to my cheek 1
I could see from his lips he was praying

That God would look down on the weak.
He seemed to be grown to his saddle —

I felt my brain tremble and reel j
He moved like a fire-ruling spirit.

Blazing from helmet to heel.

The King gave the sign, and the trumpet

Seemed to madden the horses, and drive
Them fast as the leaves in a tempest,

With a shock that tough iron would rive.
Both lances flew up, and the shivers

Leaped over the banners and flags.
As the champions, reigning their chargers,

Sat holding the quivering jags.

"Fresh lances I" God's blessing on Dickey

A blast, and in flashes they go -,
Well broken again on his scutcheon —

Again the wood snaps with a blow.

DICK O' THE DIAMOND. 173

Alas for Sir Walter de Tracey I

His spear has flown out of his hand,
While over his bright, gilded crupper,

He stretches his length on the sand.

•

One start, he is up in a moment,

His sword waves, a^torch, in his grasp ;
Dick leaps from his foam-covered charger,

And springs with a clash to his clasp.
Su" Walter is shorn of his splendour :

His weathercock beaten to dust ;
Hifi armour has lost all its glitter.

And is dented with hammer and thrust.

He reels, and Dick presses him sorely,

And smites him as smiths do a forge ^
He reels like an axe-stricken cedar ;

He falls — yea, by God and St. George !
Then, oh 1 for the clamour and cheering

That rang round the circling ring.
As Dick, his blue feather gay blowing.

Knelt down at the foot of the King !

Then the King took the brightest of diamonds

That shone on his finger that day ]
He gave it to bonny blue feather.

And made him the Baron of Bray. '
Then the varlets bore off their Sir Walter,

The jewels beat out of his chains, j
His armour all battered and dusty,

With less of proud blood in his veins.

Then they caught his mad, froth-covered charger.

That had torn oflE" its housings of pearl j
They gathered up ribbons and feathers,

And downcast his banner they furl.
1 was still looking down on the bearers.

When Dick o' the Diamond sprang in.
And, without a good-morrow or greeting,

He kissed me from brow unto chin.

174

THE VAfJABONDS.

THE VAGABONDS.
J. T. Trowhrid(je, an American Journalist.

We are two travellers, Eoger and 1.

Kqger's my dog : come here, you scamp !
Jump for the gentlemen, — mind your eye 1

Over the table, — look out for the lamp ! —
The rogue is growing a little old •,

Five years we've tramped through wind and weather,
And slept outdoors when nights were cold.

And ate and drank — and starved together.

We've learned what comfort is, I tell you 1

A bed on the floor, a bit of rosin,
A lire to thaw our thumbs (poor fellow !

The paw he holds up there's been frozen,)
Plenty of catgut for my fiddle,

(This out-door business is bad for strings,)
Then a few nice buckwheats hot from the griddle,

And Eoger and I set up for kings !

No, thank ye, sir, — I never drink ;

Roger and I are exceedingly moral —
Aren't we Roger ? — see him wink I —

Well, something hot then, — we won't quarrel.
He's thirsty, too, — see him nod his head ?

What a pity, sir, that dogs can't talk !
He understands every word that's said, —

And he knows good milk from water-and-ciialk.

The truth is, sir, now I reflect,

I've been so sadly given to grog,
I wonder I've not lost the respect

(Here's to you, sir I) even of my dog.
But he sticks by, through thick and thin ;

And this old coat, with its empty pockets,
And rags that smell of tobacco and gin.

He'll follow while he has eyes in his sockets.

There isn't another creature living

Would do it, and prove, through every disaster,
So fond, so faithful, and so forgiving.

To such a miserable, thankless master I

Is tlier<

Atyc
A dear

The
If you

You
Such a

I was

TUB VAGAUOXDS.

175

No, sir ! see him wag his tail and grin!

By George ! it makes my old eyes water!
That is, there's something in this gin

That chokes a fellow. But no matter !

We'll have some music, if you're willing,

And Roger (hem ! what a plague a cough is, sir !)
Shall march a little. Start, you villain 1

Stand straight ! 'Bout face ! Salute your officer I
Put up that paw 1 Dress ! Take your rifle !

(Some dogs have arms, you see I) Now hold your
Cap while the gentlemen give a trifle.

To aid a poor old patriot soldier 1

March ! Halt ! Now show how the rebel shakos

When he stands up to hear his sentence.
Now tell us how many drams it takes

To honor a jolly new acquaintance.
Five yelps, — that's five; he's mighty knowing I

The night's before us, till the glasses !—
Quick, sir 1 I'm ill,— my brain is going!

Some brandy, — thank you, — there ! — it passes !

Why not reform ? That's easily said j

But I've gone through such wretched treatment,
Sometimes forgetting the taste of bread.

And scarce remembering what meat meant.
That my poor stomach's past reform ;

And there -[are times^whon, mad with thinking,
I'd sell out heaven for something warm

To prop^a horribleinward sinking.

Is there a way to forget to think ?

At your age, sir, home, fortune, ^^/riends, "
A dear girl's love,— but I took to drink ; —

The same old story ; you know how it ends.
If you could have seen these classic features, —

You needn't laugh, sir ; they were not then
Such a burning libel on God's creatures:

I was one of your handsome men 1

]f you had seen her, s,c fair and young.

Whose head was happy on this breast 1
If you could have heard the songs I sung

When the wine went round, you wouldn't have guessed

176

THE VAGABONDS.

That ever I, sir, should be straying

From door to door, with fiddle and dog,

Ragged and penniless, and playing
To you to night for a glass of grog !

She's married since, — a parson's wife :

'Twas better for her that we should part, —
Better the soberest, prosiest life

Than a blasted home and a broken heart.
I have seen her ? Once : I was weak and spent

On the dusty road, a carriage stopped :
But little she dreamed, as on she went.

Who kissed the coin that her fingers dropped !

You've set me talking, sir; I'm sorry;

It makes me wild to think of the change !
What do you care for a beggar's story ?

Is it amusing ? you find it strange ?
I had a mother so proud of me !

'Twas well she died before Do you know

If the happy spirits in heaven can see
. The ruin and wretchedness here below ?

Another glass, and strong, to deaden

This pain ; then Roger and I will start.
I wonder, has he such a lumpish, leaden.

Aching thing, in place of a heart ?
He is sad sometimes, and would weep, if he could,

No doubt, remembei'ing things that were, —
A virtuous kennel, with plenty of food.

And himself a sober, respectable cur.

I'm better now, that glass was warming.

You rascal 1 limber your lazy feet !
We must be fiddling and performing

For supper and bed, or starve in the street.
Not a very gay life to lead, you think ?

But soon we shall go where lodgings are free,
And the sleepers need neither victuals nor drink | —

The sooner, the better for Roger and n^e !

.' li

tfALZAH.

177

MALZAH.
Charles Heavysege. Author of "Saul '^ and other Poems.
The Jewish king now walks at large and sound.
Yet of our emissary Malzah hear we nothing :
Go now, sweet spirit, and, if need be, seek
This world all over for him : — find him out,
Be he within the bounds of earth and hell.
He is a most erratic spirit, so
May give thee trouble (as I give thee time)
To find him, for he may be now diminished,
And at the bottom of some silken flower.
Wherein, I know, he loves, when evening comes,
To creep, and lie all night, encanopied
Beneath the manifold and scented petals ;
Fancying, he says, he bids the world adieu,
And is again a slumberer in heaven :
Or, in some other vein, perchance thou' It find him
Within the walls or dens of some famed city.
Give thou a general search, in open day,
I' the town and country's ample field ; and next
Seek him ii. dusky cave, and in dim grot j
And in the shadow of the precipice.
Prone or supine extended motionless 5
Or, in the twilight of o'erhanging leaves,
Swung at the nodding arm of some vast beech.
By moonlight seek him on the mount, at noon
In the translucent waters salt or fresh j
Or near the dank-marged fountain, or clear well,
Watchmg the tadpole thrive on suck of venom ;
Or where the brook runs o'er the stones, and smooths
Their green locks with its current's crystal comb.
Seek him in rising vapors, and in clouds
Crimson or dun ; and often on the edge
Of the gray morning and of tawny eve :
Search in the rocky alcove and woody bower ;
And in the crow's nest look, and into every
Pilgrim-orowd-drawing Idol, wherein he
Is wont to sit in darkness and be worshipped.
If thou should' st find him not in these, search for him
By the lone melancholy tarns of bitterns ;
And in the embosomed dells, whereunto maidens
Resort to bathe within the tepid pool.
Look specially there, and, if thou seest peeping
Satyr or faun, give chase and call out <* Malzah t"
For he shall know thy voice and own his namei^

178

WILLIE THE MINERi

WILLIE THE MINEB.*

George Murray, B.A.j Oxon. Born in London, 1831 :
educated at King's College, London, and at the University
of Oxford. One of the Masters of the High School, Mc Gill
College, Montreal.

Ghastly and strange was the relic found
By some swart pitmen below the ground.

They were hard rough men, but each heart beat quick,
Each voice with LiOiTor was hoarse and thick,

For never perchance since the world began,
Had sight so solemn been seen by man I

The pitman foremost to see the sight

Had shrieked out wildly, and swooned with fright ;

His comrades heard, for the shrill scared cry
Rang through each gallery, low and high, •

So they clutched their picks, and they clustered round.
And gazed with awe at the thing they found,

For never perchance since the world began,
Had sight so solemn been seen by man !

It lay alone in a dark recess.

How long it had lain there, none might guess.

They held above it a gleaming lamp,

But the air of the cavern was chill and damp,

So they carried it up to the blaze of day.
And set the thing in the sun's bright ray.

'Twas the corpse of a miner in manhood's bloom.
An image dismal in glare or gloom.

Awful it seemed in its stillness there.

With its calm wide eyes, and its jet black hair,

* Founded on an incident related 'in " The Recreations of a Country
Paraon."

WILLLIB THE HIKER.

179

Country

Cold as some effigy carved in stone,

And clad in raiment *that matched their oWn,

But none of the miners, who looked, could trace
Friend, Son, or Brother, in that pale face.

What marvel ? a century's half had roU'd
Since that strong body grew stiff and cold,

In youth's blithe summer-time robb'd of breath
By vapors wing'd with electric death.

Many, who felt that their mate was slain.
Probed earth's deep heart for his corpse, in vain^

And when nought was found, after years had fled,
Few, few still wept for the stripling dead,

Save one true maiden, who kept the vows
Pledged oft to Willie, her promised spouse.

Now cold he lieth, for whom she pined,
A soulless body, deaf, dumb, and blind,

But still untainted, with flesh all Arm,
Untravell'd o'er by the charnel-worm.

'Twas as though some treacherous element
Had strangled a life, and then, ill-content,

Had, pitying sorely the poor dead clay,
Embalmed the body to balk decay.

Striving to keep, when the breath was o'er,
A semblance of that which had been before.

So it came to pass, that there lay in the sun.
Stared at by many, but claimed by none,

A. corpse, unsullied and life-like still,
Though its heart, years fifty since, was chill.

But ho I ye miners, call forth your old,
Let men and matrons the corpse behold.

180

WILLIE THE MINER.

Before the hour cometh, as come it must,
When the flesh shall crumble and fall to dust ;

Some dame or grey -beard may chance to know
This lad, who perished so long ago.

The summons sped, like a wind-blown flame,
From cot and cabin each inmate came.

Veteran miners, a white haired crew.

Limped, crawled, and tottered the dead to view,

(Some supporting companions pick,
Leaning themselves upon crutch or stick,)

With wrinkled groups of decrepit crones.
Wearily dragging their palsied bones ;

'Twas a quaint, sad sight to see, that day,
A crowd so withered, and gaunt, and grey.

And now they are standing, in restless lines,
Around the spot where the corpse reclines.

And each stoops downward in turn, and pries
Into its visage with purblind eyes 5

Mind and memory from some are gone.
Aghast and silent they all look on.

But lo 1 there cometh a dark-robed dame,
With careworn features, and age -bowed frame,

But bearing dim traces of beauty yet.
As light still lingers, when day hath set.

She nears the corpse, and the crowd give way,
For, " 'Tis her lover," some old men say,

Her lover, Willie, who, while his bride
Decked the white robe for her wedding, died,

t)ied at his Work in the coal-seam, smit
By fumes that poisoned the baleful pit t

WILLIE THE MINER.

181

One piercing shriek ! she hath seen the face,
And clings to the body with strict embrace.

'Tis he, to whose pleadings in by-gone years
She yielded her heart, while she wept glad tears.

The same brave Willie, that once she knew.
To whom she was ever, and still is, true —

Unchanged each feature, undimmed each tress.
He is clasped, as of old, in a close caress.

Many an eye in that throng was wet.
The pitmen say, they can ne'er forget

The wild deep sorrow, and yearning love
Of her who lay moaning that corpse above.

She smoothed his hair, and she stroked his cheek.
She half forgot that he could not speak,

And fondly whispered endearing words
In murmurs sweet as the song of birds.

"Willie, O Willie, my bonny lad,

" Was ever meeting so strange and sad ?

^' Four and fifty lone years have past
" Since i' the flesh I beheld thee last,

•

''Thou art comely still, as i' days of yore,
"And the girl love wells i' my heart once more.

'•■ I thank thee, Lord, that thy tender ruth
" Suffers my arms to enfold this youth,

" For I loved him much I am now on the brink

" 0' the cold, cold grave, and I didna think,

" When the lad so long i' the pit had lain,
" These lips would ever press his again I

" Willie ! strange thoughts i' my soul arise
•* WJiUe tl^us I care3S thee wi' loving eyes;

182

THE OLD fisherman's PRAYER.

" We meet, one lifeless, one living yet,
" As lovers ne'er i' this world have met,

<• We are both well nigh of one age — but thou
" Hast coal-black curls and a smooth fair brow,

" While I — thy chosen— beside thee lie,
"Grey haired and wrinkled and fain to die!"

So sobbed the woman : and all the crowd
Lifted their voices ana wept aloud.

Wept to behold her, as there she clung
One so aged to one so young.

THE OLD FISHERMAN'S PRAYER.

Jean Ingelow.

There was a poor old man
Who sat and listened to the raging sea,
And heard it thunder, lunging at the cliffs
As like to tear them down. He lay at night :
And '<Lord have mercy on the lads," said he,
" That sailed at noon, though they be none of mine ;
For when the gale gets up, and when the wind
Flings at the window, when it beats the roofj
And lulls and stops and rouses up again.
And cuts the crest clean off the plunging wave.
And scatters it like feathers up the field^
"Why then I think of my two lads : my lads
That would have worked and never let me want,
And. never let me take the parish pay.
No, none of mine ; my lads were drowned at sea —
My two, before the most of these were born.
I know how sharp that cuts, since my poor wife
Walked up and down, and still walked up and down.
And I walked after, and one could not hear
A word the other said, for wind and sea
That raged and beat and thundered in the night —
The awfuUest, the longest, lightest night
That ever parents had to spend. A moon
That shone like daylight on the breaking wave.

THE OLD FISUERMAN's PRAYER.

183

ra,

Ah, me ! and other men have lost their lads,
And other women wiped their poor dead mouths,
And got them home and dried them in the house,
And seen the driftwood lie along the coast.
That was a tidy boat but one day back, i

And seen next day the neighbours gather it
To lay it on their fires.

" Ay, I was strong
And able-bodied — loved my work : — but now
T. am a useless hull; 'tis time I sunk;
I am in all men's way; I trouble them;
I am a trouble to myself; but yet
I feel for mariners of stormy nights,
And feel for wives that watch ashore. Ay, ay,
If I had learning I would pray the Lord
To bring them in : but I'm no scholar, no ;
Book-learning is a world too hard for me :
But I make bold to say, ' O Lord, good Lord,
I am a broken-down poor man, a fool
To speak to Thee: but in the book 'tis writ.
As I hear say from others that can read.
How, when Thou camest, Thou didst love the sea,
And live with fisherfolk, whereby 'tis sure
Thou knowest all the peril they go through,
And all their trouble.

I have no boat

" As for me, good Lord,
I am too old, too old —

My lads are drowned ; I buried my poor wife ;
My little lassies died so long ago
That mostly I forget what they were like.
Thou knowest. Lord, they were such little ones ;
I know they went to Thee, but I forget
Their faces, though I missed them sore.

" O Lord,
I was a strong man ; I have drawn good food
And made good money out of Thy great sea :
But yet I cried for them at nights ; and now,
Although I be so old, I miss my lads.
And there be many folk this stormy night
Heavy with fear for theirs. Merciful Lord,
Comfort them : save their honest boys, their pride,
And let them hear next ebb the blessedest.
Best sound — the boat-keels grating on the sand.

184

THE OLD fisherman's PRAYER.

*' I cannot pray with finer words, I know

Nothing ; I have no learning, cannot learn —

Too old, too old. They say I want for nought,

I have the parish pay ; but I am dull

Of hearing, and the fire scarce warms me through,

God save me, I have been a sinful man.

And save the lives of them that still can work,

For they are good to me ; ay, good to me.

But Lord, 1 am a trouble ! and I sit

And I am lonesome, and the nights are few

That any think to come and draw a chair,

And sit in my poor place and talk awhile.

Why should they come, forsooth? Only the wind

Knocks at my door, O long and loud It knocks,

The only thing God made that has a mind

To enter in."

Yea, thus the old man spake.
These were the last words of his aged mouth —
But One did knock. One came to sup with him.
That humble, weak, old man ; knocked at his door
In the rough pauses of the laboring wind.
I tell you that One knockod while it was dark.
Save where their foaming passions had made white
These livid seething billows. What He said
In that poor place where He did walk awhile,
I cannot tell ; but this I am assured, '^

That when the neighbors came the morrow morn.
What time the wind had bated, and the sun
Shone on the old man's floor, they saw the smile
He passed away in, and they said, "He looks
As he had woke and seen the face of Christ,
And with that rapturous smile held out his arms
To come to him I"

THB WATER CRESS GIRL.

185

THE WATERCEESS GIRL.

Mrs. Semoell.

The Faringdon market is open at five,

To sell to a hovering, shivering hive

Of destitute children, and indigent poor,

The fresh water-cresses they cry at the door.

The bright, flaring lamp in the cress market shows

Their thin eager faces and old tattered clothes.

Ah ! look at them now, as they handia the green ;

Was e'er such a pitiful company seen?

With only one thought, how to earn for the day,

Enough to keep cold and starvation away.

But see — pushing through the confusion and din,

That mite of a child is now hurrying in :

She elbows her way to look at the cress.

And chooses her lot, be it many or less ;

Then squats on her heels in the slippery street,

To pick the cress over, and tie it up neat ;

Then off to the pump she courageously goes.

Ah me ! for these poor little half-frozen toes ;

The cold water streams on her fingers and feet,

And splashes below, on the stones of the street.

A sob and a shudder, that nobody heard,

A quiver of anguish, but never a word.

She dashes away a poor trickling tear,

*' 'Tis childish to cry, although nobody's near ;

And now they are pretty, and all of them look

As if but this moment they came from the brook."

She slings on her basket, the washing is done ;

She stamps on the pavement to make the blood run ;

Then raises her voice in the dim London street,

So plaintively trilling, so simple and sweet.

That angels might listen, and cherubim weep.

Whilst half the great city lies buried in sleep.

And now for long hours she's wandering on.

Repeating, repeating the very same song,

" Fresh water-cress-e-s ! sweet water cress-e-s !

Oh 1 pray, come and buy my sweet water cress-e-s I"

Oh ! ye who have plenty, look out and behold

This brave little girl of but eight years old !

And Nelly's poor mother is sick and alone.
No neighbour to visit her j no, she had noneu

186

THE WATERCRESS OIUL.

She could not rise up from her comfortless bed,

But this was the prayer she constantly said,

" Lord, give us this day our daily bread I

We have not a friend in the world but Thee,

And we are as poor as poor can be.

©h I Father in heaven take pity on me I

Oh I give to my poor little Nelly success.

That she may find custom to-day for her cress j

I do not ask more, and I cannot ask less.

And guard my poor lamb in these wilderness ways,

And bring her to Christ in her earliest days,

Forever, my Father, to live to Thy praise."

And thus she prayed on in her desolate home,

And counted the hours till Nelly should come.

A gentleman sat in his low window seat,
And often looked out in the dim, foggy street,
And then looked within at his bright- blazing fire,
And round on his room, and its costly attire j
At well-cushioned sofa, and soft, easy chair,
^At beautiful pictures, and ornaments fair;
And then his eyes fell on his plentiful board.
With many a luxury carefully stored ;
Then turned to the Bible that lay on his knee —
"And these precious promises too are for me ;
I rest in the love of my Saviour and Friend,
Which time will not alter, and death cannot end.
Oh ! what can I render, my Father, to Thee,
For all thy unmerited mercies to me ?"

When sweetly and clearly there fell on his ear,
The cry of a water-cress girl drawing near.
" Fresh water-cress-e-s ! sweet water-cress-e-s !
Four bunches a penny, sweet water-cress-e-s !"
How often he'd carelessly noticed that cry-
Draw near to his dwelling, and then pass it by;
But now, as he listened, the words seemed to bear
A message for him as they rose on the air.

Yes I
Four
Agaii
"Con

Theg
And s
And!
AsNa
"All I
"Sure

The ge

A hand

He looJ

And mi

"Here'

''And M

" I'll bi

"Butp

"Yes, s

But the]

So I ne\

For I an;

Myfathf

My motl

Then lift

"Solan

The gent

And gav<

Then did
And all t]
The disco
All friend
-And tune
As nightii

And still little Nelly kept singing her song,
And thought to herself as she trotted along-
" They're nearly all sold, 1 have only a few,
And I shaU sell them in a minute or two.

THE WATERCRESS GIRL.

187

Yes I soon I'll be having some buyers for these —
Four bunches a penny, sweet water-cress-e-s 1"
Again up on high she carolled her cry,
"Come, buy my sweet cresses, my sweet cresses buy I"

The gentleman stood by the low window seat.

And saw the poor child in the dull, foggy street.

And hastily tapped with his hand on the pane.

As Nelly was turning the end of the lane.

"All right," thought the child, as she nodded her head,

"Sure, I am the woman that earns mother' s^bread."

The gentleman came down himself to the door,

A handful of bread from his table he bore.

He looked at the poor little shivering thing,

And marvelled that she had the courage to sing.

"Here's bread, my poor child, for your breakfast," he said.

"And will you, kind sir, take some cresses instead?"

"I'll buy your nice cress for my breakfast," said he,

"But perished with cold, I am sure you must be."

"Yes, sir," replied Nelly, "I'm cold, it is truej

But then, I have plenty of work now to do,

So I never trouble to think of the cold.

For I am just turned of my eight years old.

My father is ill in the hospital, sir,

MymotherJ's in bed, and too weakly to stir."

Then lifting her basket, she cheerily said,

" So I am the woman that works for the bread."

The gentleman told her to call the next day.

And gave her a sixpence on going away.

Then did little Nelly's heart sing with delight.
And all things about her seemed dancing in light ;
The discords of London were turned into song.
All friendly to her as she trotted along ;
And tuneful the clamour that rose in Cheapside,
As nightingale's song in the sweet eventide.

188

LIZ.

From ^^ London Poems j^^ by Robert Buchanan^ one of the
most popular poets of the day.

All that is like a dream. It don't seem true!

Father was gone, and mother left, you see,

To work for little brother Ned and me ;
And up among the gloomy roofs we grew, —
Lock'd in full oft, lest we should wander out,

With nothing but a crust o' bread to eat,
While mother char'd for poor folk round about,

Or sold cheap odds ami ends from street to street.
Yet, Parson, there were pleasures fresh and fair,
To make the time pass happily up there !
A steamboat going past upon the tide,

A pigeon lighting on the roof close by,

The sparrows teaching little ones to fly,
The small, white moving clouds, that we espied,
And thought were living, in the bit of sky —
With sights like these right glad were Ned and I j
And then, we loved to hear the soft rain calling.
Pattering, pattering upon the tiles.
And it was fine to see the still snow falling,
Making the housetops white for miles on miles.
And catch it in our little hands in play.
And laugh to feel it melt and slip away !
But I wap six, and Ned was only three,
And thinner, weaker, wearier than me ;
And one cold day, in winter time, when mother
Had gone away into the snow, and we
Sat close for warmth, and cuddled one another,
He put his little head upon my knee,
And went to sleep, and would not stir a limb.
But looked quite strange and old ;
And when 1 shook him, kissed him, spoke to him,
He smiled, and grew so cold.
Then I was frightened, and cried out, and none
Could hear me ; while I sat and nursed his head,
Watching the whiten'd window, while the sun
Peep'd in upon his face, and made it red.
And I began to sob ; — till mother came,
Knelt down, and screamed, and named the good God's
And told me ho was dead. [name,

ut.

189

od's
e,

And when she put his night-gown on, and, weeping.

Placed him among the rags upon his bed,

I thought that brother Ned was only sleeping,

And took his little hand, and felt no fear.

But when the place grew gray and cold and drear,

And the round moon over the roofs came creeping,

And put a silver shade

All round the chilly bed where he was laid,

1 cried, and was afraid.

For I was sick of hunger, cold, and strife,

And took a sudden fancy in my head

To try the country, and to earn my bread

Out among the fields, where I had heard one's life

Was easier and brighter. So, that day,

I took my basket up and stole away.

Just after sunrise. As I went along.

Trembling and loath to leave the busy place,

I felt that I was doing something wrong,

And feared to look policemen in the face.

And all was dim : the streets were gray and wet

After a rainy night ; and all was still.

I held my shawl around me with a chill,

And dropt my eyes from every face I met,

Until the streets began to fade, the road

Grew fresh and clean and wide.

Fine houses where the gentlefolk abode,

And gardens full of flowers, on every side.

That made ine walk the quicker — on, on, on —

As if I were asleep with half-shut eyes 5

And all at once I saw, to my surprise.

The houses of the gentlefolk were gone,

And I was standing still.

Shading my face, upon a high green hill,

And the bright sun was blading,

And all the blue above me seem'd to melt

To burning, flashing gold, while I was gazing

On the great smoky cloud where I had dwelt.

I '11 ne'er forget that day. All was so bright

And strange. Upon the grass around my feet

The rain had hung a million drops of light ;

The air, too, was so clear and warm and sweet,

It seem'd a sin to breathe it. All around

Were hills and fields and trees that trembled through

190

tia.

A burning, blazing fire of gold and blue ;

And there was not a sound,

Save a bird, singing, singing in the skies.

And the soft wind that ran along the ground,

And blew full sweetly on my lips and eyes.

Then with my heavy hand upon my chest,

Because the bright air pain'd me, trembliiig, sighing,

I stole into a dewy field to rest ;

And oh I • the green, green grass where I was lying

Was fresh and living — and the bird sang loud

Out of a golden cloud —

And I was looking up at him and crying !

How swift the hours slipt on 1 and by and by

The sun grew red, big shadows fill'd the sky.

The air grew damp with dew,

And the dark night was coming down, I knew.

Well, I was more afraid than ever then,

And felt that I should die in such a place,

So back to London town I turn'd my face,

And crept into the great black streets again ;

And when I breathed the smoke, and heard the roar.

Why, I was better, for in London here

My heart was busy, and I felt no fear.

I never saw the country any more.

And I have stay'd in London, well or ill —

I would not stay out yonder if I could,

For one feels dead, and all looks pure and good —

I could not bear a life so bright and still.

All that I want is sleep.

Under the flags and stones, so deep, so deep 1

God won't be hard on one so mean, but He,

Perhaps, will let a tired girl slumber sound.

There in the deep cold darkness under ground ;

And I shall waken up in time, maybe,

Better and stronger, not afraid to see

The great, still Light that folds Him round and round (

See I there 's the sunset creeping through the pane.

How cool and moist it looks amid the rain !

I like to hear the slashing of the drops

On the housetops.

And the loud humming of the folk that go

Along the streets below !

I like the smoke and roar — I am so bad —

They

Ther(

Hem

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Buts]

And t

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Andr(

I thin]

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fier tiny
ITer tiny
And left
Before m
But waite
Swinging
\ae maps
I'he slates
^ray hose
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One corne
The speck;
Till he for^
Weary, and
And timid
"What do
Jpp peeping

IJputmyhfl

lAnd cheere

I'he small I

WILLIE fiAIRD.

They make a low one hard, and still her cares.

There 's Joe 1 I hear his foot upon the stairs !

He must be wet, poor lad !

He will be angry, like enough, to find

Another little life to clothe and keep.

But show him baby, Parson — speak him kind —

And tell him Doctor thinks I 'm going to sleep.

A hard, hard life is his 1 He need be strong

And roiigh, to earn his bread and get along.

I think he will be sorry when I go.

And leave the little one and him behind.

I hope he '11 see another to his mind.

To keep him straight and tidy. Poor old Joe !

191

WILLIE BAIPtD.

Robert Buchanan.

'Tis two and thirty summers since I came
To school the village lads of Inverburn.

well I mind the day his mother brought
Her tiny trembling tot with yellow hair.
Her tiny poor-clad tot, six summers old,
And left him seated lonely on a form
Before my desk. He neither wept nor gloom'd ;
But waited silently, with shoeless feet
Swinging about the floor j in wonder eyed
The maps upon the walls, the big blackboard,
The slates and books and copies, and my own
Gray hose and clumpy boots ; last, fixing gaze
Upon a monster spider's web that fiU'd
One corner of the white-washed ceiling, watch'd
The speckled traitor jump and jink about,

I Till he forgot my unfamiliar eyes.

Weary, and strange, and old. "Come here, my bairn !"
And timid as a lamb he seedled up.
" What do they call ye ?" " Willie," coo'd the wean.
Up peeping slyly, scraping with his feet.

II put my hand upon hia yellow hair,

lAnd cheered him kindly. Then I bade him lift
Irhe small black bell that stands behind the door,

192

WitiLtE fiAtRD.

And ring the shouting laddies from their play.
"Kun. Willie I" And he ran and eyed the bell,
Stoop' d over it, seem'd afraid that it would bite.
Then grasped it firm, and, as it jingled, gave
A timid cry — next laugh'd to hear the sound —
And ran full merrily to the door and rang,
And rang, and rang; while lights of music lit
His pallid cheek, till, shouting, panting hard.

In ran the big, rough laddies from their play.

• * * « « «

First, he was timid ; next, grew bashful ; next.

He warm'd, and told me stories of his home.

His father, mother, sisters, brothers, all ;

And how, when strong and big, he meant to buy

A gig to drive his father to the kirk ;

And how he long'd to be a dominie :

Such simple prattle as I plainly see

Yot.' smile at. But to little children, God

Has given wisdom and mysterious power

Which beat the mathematics. Qacerere

Verum in sylvis Academi, sir,

Is meet for men, who can afford to dwell

Forever in a garden, reading books

Of morals and the logic. Good and well I

Give me such tiny truths as only bloom

Like red-tipt gowans at the hallanstane,

Or kindle softly, flashing bright at times,

In puflBng cottage fires.

What link existed, human or divine.
Between the tiny tot, six summers old.
And yonder life of mine upon the hills.
Among the mists and storms ? 'Tis strange.
But when I look'd on Willie's face, it seem'd
That 1 had known it in some beauteous life
That I had left behind me in the north.

'tis strange I

I cannot frame in speech the thoughts that fiU'd
This gray old brow, the feelings dim and warm
That soothed the throb bings of this weary heart j
But when I placed my hand on Willie's head.
Warm sunshine tingled from the yellow hair.
Through trembling fingers to my blood within.
And when I looked in Willie's stainless eyes,
1 saw the empty ether floating gray

WILLIE BAIKD.

O'er shadowy mountains murmuring low with winds ;
And often, when, in his old-fashioned way,
He questioned me, I seem'd to hear a voice
From far away, that mingled with the cries
Haunting the regions where the round red sun

Is all alone <with God among the snow.

« « « « « « «

•Three days and nights the snow had mistily fall'n.
;It lay long miles along the country -side, —
White, awful, silent. In the keen, cold air,
There w^as a hush, a sleepless silentness,
And 'mid it all, upraising eyes, you felt
■ God's breath upon your face ; and in your blood,
Though you were cold to touch, was flaming fire,
iSuch as within the bowels of the earth
-Burnt at the bones of ice, and wreath'd them round
With grass ungrown.

One day in school I saw.
Through threaded window-panes, soft snowy flakes
Swim with unquiet motion, mistily, slowly,
At intervals ; but when the boys were gone,
And in ran Donald, with a dripping nose.
The air was clear and gray as grass. An hour
Sat Willie, Donald, and myself, around
The murmuring flre, and then, with tender hand,
I wrapt a comforter round Willie's throat,
Button' d his coat around him, close and warm.
And off he ran with Donald, happy-eyed
And merry, leaving fairy prints of feet
Behind him in the snow. I watch' d them fade
Round the white curve, and, turning with a sigh,
Came in to sort the room and smoke a pipe
Before the fire. Here, dreamingly and alone,
I sat and smok'd, and in the fire saw clear
The Norland mountains, white and cold with snow
That crumbled silently, and moved, and changed, —
When suddenly the air grew sick and dark,
And from the distance came a hollow sound,
A murmur like the moan of far-off seas.
I started to my feet, look'd out, and knew
The winter wind was whistling from the clouds
To lash the snow-clothed plain, and to myself
I prophesied a storm before the night.

I closed the door, and turn'd me to the fire.

193

li'

194

WILLIE BAIRD.

With something on my heart, — a load, a sense

Of an impending pain. Down the broad burn *

Came melting flakes that hiss'd upon the coal ; .

Under my eyelids blew the blinding smoke,

And for a time, I sat like one bewitch'd,

Still as a stone. The lonely room grew dark ;

The flickering fire threw phantoms of the snow

Along the floor, and on the walls around ;

The melancholy ticking of the clock

Was like the beating of my heart. But, hush !

Above the moaning of the wind, I heard

A sudden scraping at the door ; my heart

Stood still and listened ; and with that there rose

An awsome howl, shrill as a dying screech.

And scrape, scrape, scrape, the sound beyond the door !

I could not think ; I could not breathe ; a dark.

Awful foreboding gript me like a hand,

As opening the door, I gazed straight out,

Saw nothing, till I felt against my knees

Something that moved, and heard a moaning sound;

Then, panting, moaning, o'er the threshold leapt

Donald the dog, alone, and white with snow.

When I awaken' d to myself, I lay
In my own bed at home. I started up
As from an evil dream, and look'd around,
And to my side came one, a neighbour's wife,
Mother to two young lads I taught in school.
With hollow, hollow voice I questioned her,
And soon knew all : how a long night had pass'd,
Since, with a lifeless laddie in my arms,
I stumbled, horror-stricken, swooning wild
Into a ploughman's cottage ; at my side,
My coat between his teeth, a dog ; and how.
Senseless and cold, I fell. Thence, when the storm
Had pass'd away, they bore me to my home.
I listen' d dumbly, catching at the sense ;
p • vhen the woman mentioned Willie's name,
• x* .. A -^k i foar'd to phrase the thought that rose,
bfcd - tV»e question in my tearless eyes,

At'

.''

me — he was dead.

In n
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Far far ai
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In death gown white lay Willie fast asleep,
His blue eyes closed, his tiny fingers clench' d,
I turn'd in silence; and with my nails stuck deep

WILLIE BAIRD.

195

In my clinched palms ; but in my heart of hearts

I pray'd to God. In Willie's mother's face

There was a cold and silent bitterness —

I saw it plain, but saw it in a dream,

And cared not. So I went my way, as grim

As one who holds his breath to slay himself,

What follow'd that is vague as was the rest ;

A winter day, landscape hush'd in snow,

A weary wind, a horrid whiteness borne

On a man's shoulder, shapes in black, o'er all

The solemn clanging of an iron bell,

And lastly me and Donald standing both

Beside a tiny mound of fresh-heap' d earth;

And while around the snow begin to fall

Mistily, softly, thro' the icy air.

Looking at one another, dumb, and cold.

And Willie's dead!— that's all I comprehend —

Ay, bonnie Willie Baird has gone before :

The school, the tempest, and the earie pain,

Seem but a dream, — and I am weary like.

I begg'd old Donald hard — they gave him me —

And we have lived together in this house

Long years with no companions. There's no need

Of speech between us. Here we dumbly bide,

But know each other's sorrow, — and we both

Feel weary. When the nights are long and cold.

And snow is falling as it falleth now

And wintry winds are moaning, here I dream

Of Willie and the unfamiliar life

I left behind me on the Norland hills I

" Do doggies gang to heaven ? " Willie ask'd ;

And ah ! what Solomon of modern days

Can answer that ? Yet here at nights I sit

Eeading the Book, with Donald at my side f

And stooping, with the Book upon my knee,

I sometimes gaze in Donald's patiient eyes —

So sad, so human, though he cannot speak —

And think he knows that Willie is at peace,

Far far away beyond the Norland hills

Beyond the silence of the untrodden snow.

HUMOEOUS RECITATIONS.

THE BUFFOON AND THE COUNTRY FELLOW.

Phoedrus, a freedman of Augtistiis, the first Roman em-
pei'OTy and the earliest of Rom^n fabulists^ flourish^ in
the first half of the first century. Translated by Smart.

In every age, in each profession,
Men err the most by prepossession
But when the thing is clearly shown^
Is fairly urged, and fully known,
We soon applaud what we deride,
And penitence succeeds to pride.

A certain noble, on a day.
Having a mind to show away.
Invited by reward the mines
And play'rs and tumblers of the times,
And built a large commodious stage
For the choice spirits of the age j
But, above all, amongst the rest
There came a genius who profess' d
To have a curious trick in store
That never was perform'd before.
Through all the town this soon got air^
*^ And the whole house was like a fair ;

But soon his entry as he made.
Without a prompter or parade j
'Twas all expextance and suspense,
And silence gagg'd the audience.
He, stooping down and looking big.
So wondrous well took oflP a pig,
All swore 'twas serious and no joke.
For that, or underneath his cloak
He had conceal'd some grunting elf.
Or was a real hog himself.
A search was made — no pig was found —
With thund'ring claps the seats resound,
And pit, and box, and gall'ries roar

I>r. John
Trinity

Once on a
That had
A fine lar^
Enough t(
Yet so it 1
Of wantin

tttti t»ONb.

197

With — "0 rarel bravo!" and <' encore.*'

Old Roger Grouse, a country clown,

Who yet knew something of the town.

Beheld the mimic of his whim.

And on the morrow challenged him ;

Declaring to each beau and belle

That he this grunter would excel.

The morrow came— the crowd was greater —

But prejudice and rank ill-nature

Usurp'd the minds of men and wenches,

Who came to hiss, and break the benches.

The mimic took his usual station,

And squeak' d with general approbation ;

Again "encore! encore!" they cry —

*"Tis quite the thing, 'tis very high."

Old Grouse conceal' d, amidst this racket,

A real pig beneath his jacket —

Then forth he came, and with his nail

He pinch' d the urchin by the tail.

The tortured pig, from out his throat.

Produced the genuine native note.

All bellow' d out 'twas very sad !

Sure never stuff was half so bad.

"That like a pig 1" each cried in scoff:

"Pshaw 1 nonsense ! blockhead ! off! off! off!

The mimic was extoU'd, and Grouse

Was hissed, and catcall'd from the hou- e.

"Soft ye, a word before I go,"

•Quoth honest Hodge ; and stooping low,

Produced the pig, and thus aloud

Bespoke the stupid partial crowd :

" Behold, and learn from this poor creature,

How much you critics know of nature !"

THE POND.

Dj'. John Byrdm, born near Manchester, 1691.
Trinity College, Cambridge. Died 1763.

Once on a time, a certain man was found
That had a pond of water in his ground :
A tine large pond of water fresh and clear,
Enough to serve his turn for many a year.
Yet so it wag — a strange unhappy dread
Of wanting water seized the fellow's head :

Educated at

198

VHE post).

When he was dry, he was afraid to drink

Too much at once, for fear his pond should sink.

Perpetually tormented with this thought,

He never ventured on a hearty draught ;

Still dry, still fearing to exhaust his store.

When half refreshed, he frugally gave o'erj

Reviving of himself revived his fright,

" Better," quoth he, *' to be half choked than quite."

Upon his pond continually intent.

In cares and pains his anxious life he spent ;

Consuming all his time and strength away,

To make his pond rise higher every day ;

He worked and slaved, and — oh ! how slow it fills I

Poured in by pailfuls, and took out by gills.

In a wet season he would skip about.

Placing his buckets under every spout ;

From falling showers collecting fresh supply,

And grudging every cloud that passed by ;

Cursing the dryness of the times each hour.

Although it rained as fast as it could pour.

Then he would wade through every dirty spot,

Where any little moisture could be got ;

And when he had done draining of a bog.

Still kept himself as dirty as a hog :

And cried whene'er folks blamed him, "What d'ye mean ?

It costs a world of water to be clean :"

If some poor neighbour craved to slake his thirst,

"Whatl rob my pond I I'll see the rogue hanged first;

A burning shame, these vermin of the poor

Should creep unpunished thus about my door 1

As if I had not frogs and toads enow.

That s|j^k my pond, whatever I can do."

The sun still found him, as he rose or set,

Always in quest of matters that were wet :

Betime he rose to sweep the morning dew.

And rested late to catch the evening too ;

With soughs and troughs he laboured to enrich

The rising pond from every neighbouring ditch :

With soughs, and troughs, and pipes, and cuts, and sluices,

From growing plants he drained the very juices ;

Made every stick upon the hedges

Of good behaviour to deposit pledges ;

By some conveyance or another, still

Devised recruits from each declining hill :

He left, in short, for this beloved plunder.

No stone

Sometim

And— so

Then str

To calcu

How mu

From all

For as to

For then

He knew

That 'tw(

*■ First, f

Cost a pr

Althougl

Nor am J

But thin^

We spenc

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So finical

So many

Are intro

Not but ]

With wha

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What a Vi

This ever

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Scarce foi

Nay, how

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Stopped,

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THE POND.

199

Ko stone unturned, that could have water under.

Sometimes — when forced to quit his awkward toil,

And — sore against his will — to rest awhile :

Then straight he took his book and down he sat

To calculate th' expenses he was at;

How much he suffered, at a moderate guess,

From all those ways by which the pond grew less ;

For as to those by which it still grew bigger,

For them he reckoned — not a single figure ;

He knew a wise old saying, which maintained

That 'twas bad luck to count what one had gained.

'• First, for myself my daily charges here

Cost a prodigious quantity a year ;

Although, thank Heaven, I never boil my meat,

Nor am I such a sinner as to sweat ;

But things are come to such a pass, indeed

We spend ten times the water that we need ;

People are grown, with washing, cleansing, rinsing,

So finical and nice, past all convincing ;

So many proud fantastic modes, in short.

Are introduced, that my poor pond pays for't.

Not but I could be well enough content

With what upon my own account is spent ;

But those large articles, from whence I reap

No kind of profit, strike me on aheap ;

What a vast deal each moment^ at a sup.

This ever thirsty earth itself drinks up !

Such holes ! and gaps ! Alas ! my pond provides

Scarce for its own unconscionable sides :

Nay, how can one imagine it should thrive.

So many creatures as it keeps alive I

That creep from every nook and corner, marry I

Filching as much as ever they can carry :

Then all the birds that fly along the air

Light at my pond, and come in for a share :

Item, at every puff of wind that blows.

Away at once the surface of it goes :

The rest, in exhalations to the sun —

One month's fair weather — and lam undone.''

This life he led for many a year together ;
Grew old and grey in watching of the weather j
Meager as Death itself, till this same Death
Stopped, as the saying is, his vital breath ;
For, as the old fool was carrying to his field
A heavier burden than he well could wield,

200

TRB PtAOITE IN fott F'OREST.

He missed his footing, or somehow he fumbled

In tumbling of it in — but in he tumbled ;

Mighty desirous to get out again,

He screamed and scrambled, but 'twas all in vain :

The place was grown so very deep and wide,

Nor bottom of it could he feel, nor side ;

And so — i' the middle of his pond — he died.

What think ye now, from this imperfect sketch,
My friends, of such a miserable wretch ?
" Why, 'tis a wretch, we think, of your own making ^
No fool can be supposed in such a taking -,
Your own warm fancy." Nay, but warm or cool.
The world abounds with many such a fool :
The choicest ills, the greatest torments, sure
Are those, which numbers labour to endure.
" What for a pond ?" Why, call it an estate ;
You change the name, but realise the fate.

THE PLAGUE IN THE FOREST.

John Gumey Adams. Bora in the United States in 1767.
Educated at Harvard. President in 1824. Died 1848.

Time was when round the lion's den

A peepled city raised its head ;
'Twas not inhabited by men.

But by four-footed beasts instead.
The lynx, the leopard and the bear.
The tiger and the wolf, were there :

The hoof-defended steed ;
The bull, prepared with horns to gore j
The cat with claws, the tusky boar,

And all the canine breed.

In social compact thus combined,

Together dwelt the beasts of prey ;
Their murderous weapons all resigned,

And vowed each other not to sky.
Among them Reynard thrust his phiz j
Not hoof, nor horn, nor tusk was his,

For warfare all unfit ;
He whispered to the royal dunce.
And gained a settlement at once )

His weapon was his wit.

(i<

THG PLAGUE IS THE FOBEST.

One summer, by some fatal spell

(Phoebus was peevish for some scoff).
The plague upon that city fell,

And swept the beasts by thousands off.
The lion, as become his part,
Loved his own people from his heart :

And taking counsel sage,
His peerage summoned to advise,
And offer up a sacrifice,

To sooth Apollo's rage.

Quoth Lion : " We are sinners all |

And even it must be confessed,
If among sheep I chanced to fall,

I — I am guilty as the rest.
To me the sight of lamb is curst,
It kindles in my throat a thirst

I struggle to refrain :
Poor innocent ! his blood so sweet !
His flesh so delicate to eat !

I find resistance vain. »

" Now, to be candid I must own

The sheep are weak, and I am strong ;
But when we find ourselves alone,

The sheep have never done me wrong.
And since I purpose to reveal
All my offences, nor conceal

One trespass from your view,
My appetite is made so keen,
That, with the sheep, the time has been

I took the shepherd too.

" Then let us all our sins confess ;

And whosoe'er the blackest guilt.
To ease my people's deep distress,

Let his atoning blood be spilt.
My own confession now you hear ;
Should none of deeper dye appear,

Your sentence freely give :
And if on me should fall the lot,
Make me the victim on the spot,

And let my people live."

The council with applauses rung,
To hear the Codrus of the wood ;

201

202

Till PLA0T7E IN THE FOREST.

Though still some doubt suspended hung

If he would make his promise good.
Quoth Reynard : " Since the world was made,
Was ever love like thii displayed ?

Let us, like subjects true,
Swear, as before your feet we fall.
Sooner than you should die for all,
We all will die for you.

"But, please your majesty, I deem,

Submissive to your royal grace,
You hold in far too high esteem

That paltry, poltroon, sheepish race j
For oft, reflecting in the shade,
I ask myself why sheep were made

By all- creating power ?
And howsoe'er I tax my mind.
This the sole reason I can find —

For lions to devour.

"As for eating, now and then,

As well the shepherd as the sheep,
How can that braggart breed of men

Expect with you the peace to keep ?
'Tis time their blustering boast to stem.
That all the world was made for them,

And prove Creation's plan ;
Teach them, by evidence profuse.
That man was made for lions' use,

Not lions made for man."

And now the noble peers begin.

And, cheered with such examples bright,
Disclosing each his secret sin,

Some midnight murder brought to light.
Koynard was counsel for them all —
No crime the assembly could appal.

But he could botch with paint ;
Hark ! as his honeyed accents roll,
Each tiger is a gentle soul.

Each bloodhound is a saint.

When each has told his tale in turn,
The long-eared beast of burden came,

And meekly said, "My bowels yearn
To make confession of my shame ;

If
m

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t

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Thomas

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Down

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There

A sailor's APOLOOT for bow LB<}£(.

203

But 1 remember, on a time,

I passed, not thinking of a crime,

A hay-stack on my way :
His lure some tempting devil spread,
I stretched across the fence my head,

And cropped — a lock of hay."

" Oh, monster ! villain !" Reynard cried

" No longer seek the victim, sire ;
Nor why your subjects thus have died,

To expiate Apollo's ire."
The council with one voice decreed j
All joined to execrate the deed.

" What? steal another's grass!"
The blackest crime their lives oould show
Was washed as white as virgin snow :

The victim was — the Ass.

A. SAILOR'S APOLOGY FOR BOW LEGS.

Thomas Hood, horn in London 1798. Died Zrd May 1845.

. There's some is born with their straight legs by nature
And some is born with bow-legs from the lir.^t.
And some that should have growed a good deal straighter,

Buv they were badly nursed,
And set, you see, like Bacchus, with th^ir pegs

Astride of casks and kegs :
I've got myself a sort of bow to larboard

And starboard.
And this is what it was that warped my legs.— -

'Twas ail along of Poll, as I may say.
That fowled my cable when I ought to slip j

But on the tenth of May,

When I gets under weigh,
Down there in Hartfordshire, to join my ship,

I sees the mail

Get under sail,
The only one there was to make the trip.

Well — I gives chase.

But as she run

Two knots to one,
There warn't no use in keeping on the race I

204

A SAILOR S APOLOGY FOR BOW LEGS.

Well — casting round about, what next to try on,

And how to spin,
I spies an ensign with a Bloody Lion,
And bears away to leeward for the inn,

Beats round the gable,
And fetches up before the coach-house stable :
Well — there they stand, four kickers in a row.

And so
I just makes free to cut a brown 'un's cable.
But riding isn't in a seaman's nature —
So I whips out a toughish end of yarn.
And gets a kind of sort of a land-waiter

To splice me, heel to heel

Under the she-mare's keel,
And off I goes, and leaves the inn a starn.

My eyes ! how she did pitch !
And wouldn't keep her own to go in no line.
Though I kept bowsing, bowsing at her bow-line,
But always making lee- way to the ditch.
And yawed her head about all sorts of ways.

The mischief sink the craft !
And wasn't she tremendous slack in stays I
We couldn't no how, keep the inn abaft !

Well, — I suppose
We hadn't run a knot — or much beyond —
(What will you have on it?) — but off she goes.
Up to her bends in a fresh-water pond 1

There I am ! — all a-back 1

So I looks forward for her bridle- gears,

To heave her head round on the t'other tack ;

But when I starts

The leather parts.
And goes away right over by the ears !

What could a fellow do,
Whose legs, like mine, you know, were in the bilbows
But trim myself upright for bringing-to.
And square his yard-arms, and brace up his ellows.

In rig all snug and clever.
Just while his craft was taking in her water ?
I didn't like my berth, though, howsomedever.
Because the yarn, you see, kept getting tauter, —
Says I — I wish this job was rather shorter 1

THE FALL.

The chase had gained a mile
A head, and still the she-mare stood a-drinking :

Now, all the while,
Her body didn't take of course to shrinking.
Says I, she's letting out her reefs, I 'm thinking —

And so she swelled, and swelled,

And yet the tackle held,
Till both my legs began to bend like winkin.

My eyes ! but she took in enough to founder !
And there's my timbers straining every bit,

Keady to split.
And her tarnation hull a-growing rounder !

Well, there — off Hartford Ness,
We lay both lashed and water-logged together,

And can't contrive a signal of distress ;
Thinks I, we must ride out this here foul weather,
Though sick of riding out — and nothing less ;
When, looking round, I sees a man a-stam : —
Hollo ! says I, come underneath her quarter I —
And hands him out my knife to cut the yarn.
iSo I gets off, and lands upon the road,
And leaves the she-mare to her own consarn,

A- standing by the water.
If I get on another, I'll be bio wed ! —
And that's the way, you see, my legs got bowed !

205

THE FALL.

Thomas Hood.

Who does not know that dreadful gulf, where Niagara falls,
Where eagle unto eagle screams, to vulture, vulture calls ;
Where down beneath. Despair and Death in liquid darkness

grope
And upward, on the foam there shines a rainbow without

Hope ;
While, hung with clouds of Fear and Doubt, the unreturn-

ing wave
Suddenly gives an awful plunge, like life into the grave ;
And many a hapless mortal there had dived to bale or bhss ;
One— only one— hath ever lived to rise from that abyss 1

206

FAITHLESS SALLY BROWX.

Oh, Heav'n I it turns me now to ice, with chill of fear extreme,
To think of my frail bark adrift on that tumultuous stream !
I urged that coffin, my canoe, against the current's might
On — on — still on — direct for doom, the river rushed in force
And fearfully the stream of time raced with it in its course
My eyes I closed — I dared not look the way towards the goal
But still I viewed the horrid close, and dreamt it in my soul
Plainly, as through transparent lids, I saw the fleeting shore,
And lofty trees, like winged things, flit by for evermore ;
Plainly— but with no prophet sense— I heard the sullen sound,
The torrent's voice— and felt the mist, like death- sweat ga-
thering round

agony ! O life 1 My heme ! and those that made it sweet :
Ere I could pray, the torrent lay beneath my very feet.
With frighful whirl, more swift than thought, I passed the

dizzy edge.
Bound after bound, with hideous bruise, I dashed from ledge

to ledge.
From crag to crag— in speechless pain— from midnight deep

to deep ;

1 did not die— but anguish stunned my senses into sleep.
How long entranced, or whither dived,]no clue I have to find:
At last the gradual light of life came dawning o'er my mind;
And through my brain there thrilled a cry — a cry as shrill as

birds'
Of vulture's or of eagle kind, but this was set to words: —
" I 'ts Edgar Huntley in his cap and night gown 1 declares !
He's been a walking in his sleep, and pitched all down the

stairs! "

FAITHLESS SALLY BROWN.
Thomas Hood.

Young Ben he was a nice young man

A carpenter by trade ;
And he fell in love with Sally Brown,

That was a lady's maid.

But as they fetched a walk one day ;

They met a press-gang crew ;
And Sally she did faint away.

Whilst Ben he was brought to.

FAITHLESS SALLY BROWN.

The Boatswain swore with wicked words,

Enough to shock a saint,
That though she did seem in a fit,

'Twas nothing but a feint.

<'Come girl, " said he, ''hold up your head.

He'll be as good as me ;
For when your swain is in our boat

A boatswain he will be. "

So when they'-d made their game of her,

And taken off her elf,
She roused, and found she only was

A- coming to herself.

" And is he gone, and is he gone? "
She cried and wept outright :

" Then I will to the water side.
And see him out of sight. "

A waterman came up to her,

'* Now, young woman, " said he.

If you weep on so, you will make
Eye- water in the sea. "

'* Alas 1 they 've taken my beau, Ben,

207

To sail with old Benbow

And her woe began to run afresh.
As if she'd said. Gee woe I

Says he, They 've only taken him
To the tender-ship you see ;

''The tender- ship cried Sally Brown,
" What a hardship that must be ! "

"Oh! would I were a mermaid now.

For then I'd follow him ;
But Oh I — I'm not a fish-woman,

And so I cannot swim. "

" Alas ! I was not born beneath,
The virgin and the scales,

So I must curse my cruel stars,
And walk about in Wales. "

208

EVENING.

Now Ben had sail'd to many a place
That's underneath the world ;

But in two years the ship came home.
And all her sails were furl'd.'

But when he call'd on Sally Brown

To see how she got on,
He found she'd got another Ben,

Whose cLristian-name was John.

" Oh, Sally Brown, Oh, Sally Brown,
How could you serve me so,

I've met with many a breeze before.
But ne^'^ev "^v// h a blow 1 "

Then reading • ' is .acco box.

He heaved a heavy sigh.
And then be^f n to eye riis pipe.

And then a.o p.;o h. > /e.

And then he tried to sing "All's well, '
But could not, though he tried ;

His head was turned, and so he chew'd
His pig-tail till he died.

His death which happen' d in his be**th.

At forty-odd betel :
They went and told the sexton, and

The sexton toU'd the bell.

EVENING— BY A TAILOE.
Oliver Wendell Holmes.

An American physician, poet, and humorist, Born 1809 ;
still living.

Day hath put on his jacket, and around
His burning bosom buttoned it with stars.
Here will I lay me on the velvet grass,
That is like padding to earth's meagre ribs,
And hold communion with the things about me.
Ah me ! how lovely is the golden braid,
That binds the skirt of night's descending robe !
The thin leaves, quivering on their silken threads,

EVENING.

209

bo make a music like to rustling satin,

As the light breezes smooth their downy nap.

Ha 1 what is this that rises to my touch.
So like a cushion? Can it be a cabbage ?
It is, it is that deeply injured flower
Which boys do flout us with; — but yet I love thee.
Thou giant rose, wrapped in a green surtout.
Doubtless in Eden thou didst blush as bright
As these, thy puny brethren ; and thy breath
Sweetened the fragrance of her spicy air ;
But now thou seemest like a bankrupt beau,
Stripped of his gaudy hues and essences,
And growing portly in his sober garments.

Is that a swan that rides upon the water ?

no, it is that other gentle bird,
Which is the patron of our noble calling.

1 well remember, in my early years.

When these young hands first closed upon a g.ose ;

I have a scar upon my thimble finger.

Which chronicles the hour of young ambition.

My father was a tailor, and his father,

And my sire's grandsire, all of them were tailors j

They had an ancient goose, — it was an heir-loom

From some remoter tailor of our race.

It happened I did see it on a time

When none was near, and I did deal with it,

And it did burn me, — oh, most fearfully !

It is a joy to straighten out ona's limbs.
And leap elastic from the level counter.
Leaving the petty grievances of earth,
The breaking thread, the dir^ of clashing shears.
And all the needles that do wound the spirit,
For such a pensive hour of soothing silence.
Kind Nature, shuffling in her loose undress,
Lays bare her shady bosom ; — I can feel
With all around me |--I can hail the flowers
That sprig earth's mantle, — and yon quiet bird,
That rides the stream, is to me as a brother.
The vulgar know not all the hidden pockets.
Where Nature stows away her loveliness.
But this unnatural posture of the legs
Cramps my extended calves, and I must go
Where I can coil them in their wonted fashion.

210

THE deacon's masterpiece.

THE DEACON'S MAOTERPIECE.

OB, THE WONDERFUL " OXB-IIOSS SHAY." A LOGICAL STORY.

Oliver Wendell Holmes.

Have you heard of the wonderful one-hoas shay,

Tliat was built in such a logical way.

It ran a hundred years to a day.

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

I'll tell you what happened without delay,

Scaring the parson into fits,

Frightening people out of their wits —

Have you ever heard of that, I say ?

Seventeen hundred and fifty-five.
Georgius ISecundus was then alive —
Snuffy old drone from the German hive
That was the year when Lisbon t6wn
Saw the earth open and gulp her down,
And Braddock's army done so brown.
Left without a scalp to its crown.
It was on the terrible Earthquake day
That the Deacon finished the one-hoss shay.

Now, in building of chaises, I tell you what.
There is always somewhere a weakest spot —
In hub, tire, 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.
Above or below, or within or without-—
And that's the reason, beyond a doubt,
A chaise breaks down, tut 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 beat the taown
'n' the keounty 'n' all the kentry raoun';
It should be so built that it couldn' break daown :
" Fur," said the Deacon, " 't's mighty plain
That the weakes' place mus' stan' the strain ;
'n' the way t' fix it, uz I maintain,

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

ItHS DEAOON's MASTERPIECE!. 211

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 :

He sent for lancewood to make the thills ;

The crossbars were ash, from the straightest trees j

The panels of white- wood, that cuts like cheese,

But lasts like iron for things like these ;

The hubs of logs from tlie " Settler's ellum " —

Last of its timber — they couldn't sell 'em,

Never an axe had seen their chips.

And the wedges flew from between their lips.

Their blunt ends frizzled like celery- tips ;

Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw,

Spring, tire, axle, and linchpin too.

Steel of the finest, bright and blue ;

Thoroughbrace bison-skin, thick and wide j

Boot, top, dasher, from tough old hide

Found in the pit when the tanner died.

That was the way he "put her through,"

"There 1" said the Deacon, "naow she'll dew! "

Do 1 1 tell you, I rather guess

She was a wonder, and nothing less.

Colts grew horses, beards turned grey.

Deacon and deaconess dropped away,

Children and grandchildren — where were they ?

But there stood the stout old onehoss shay

As fresh as on Lisbon Earthquake-day !

EiTHTBEN HUNDRED — it Came and found

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.

Little of all we value here

Wakes on the mom of its hundreth year

Without both feeling and looking queer.

In fact, there'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.)

212

fHB OEAOON^S MAStEiRPIfiCS;.

^3^,

First op NovEMBER—the Earthquake-day.

There are traces of age in the one hoss shaj

A general flavour 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 jiist 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 woi^n out I

First of November, 'Fifty five I

This 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 1 " said the parson — oft* went they.

The parson was working his Sunday's text —
Had got to fifthly, and stopped perplexed
At what the — Moses— was coming next.
All at once the horse stood still,
Close by the meet' n' -house 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.

A SEA DIALOGUE.

218

A SEA DIALOGUE.
0. Wendell Holmes.

Cabin Passenger.

Man at Wheel

Passenger. Friend you seem thoughtful. I not wonder much

That he who sails the ocean should be sad.

I am myself reflective, — When I think

Of all this wallowing beast, the sea, has sucked

Between his sharp, thin lips, the wedgy waves ;

What heaps of diamonds, rubies, emeralds, pearls ;

What piles of shekels, talents, ducats, crowns,

What bales of Tyrian mantles, Indian shawls,

Of laces that have blanked the weavers' eyes,

Of silken tissues, wrought by worm and man,

The half-starved workman, and the well-fed worm :

What marbles, bronzes, pictures, parchments, books j

What manylobuled, thought- engendering brain j

Lie with the gaping sea-shells in his maw, —

I, too, am silent 5 for all language seems

A mockery, and the speech of man is vain.

O mariner, we look upon the waves

And they rebuke our babbling. " Peace, " they say, —

'' Mortal, be still ! " My noisy tongue is hushed,

And with my trembling finger on my lips

My soul exclaims in extacy —

Man at Wheel. Belay !

Passenger. Ah, yes ! "Delay, " — it calls, '' nor haste to break

The '"-harm of stillness with an idle word 1 "

mai-iner, I love thee, for thy thought
Strides even with my own, nay, flies before.
Thou art a brother to the wind and wave ;
Have they not music for thine ear as mine,
When the wild tempest makes thy ship his lyre,
Smitfiig a cavernous basso from the shrouds
And climbing up his gamut through the stays,
Through buntlines, bowlines, ratlines, till it thrills
An alto keener than the* locust sings.

And all the great iEolian orchestry
Storms out its mad sonata in the gale ?
Is not the scene a wondrous and —
Man at wheel. Avast !

Passenger. Ah, yes, a vast and wondrous scene!

1 see thy soul is open as the day

That holds the sunshine in its azure bowl

214

THE DUOEINO STOOL.

To all the solt mn glories of the deep !

Tell me, O mariner^ dost thou never feel

The grandeur of thine office, — to control

The keel that cuts the ocean like a knife,

And leaves a wake behind it like a seam

In the great shining garment of the world ?

Man at wheel. Belay y'r jaw, y'swab ! y'hoss-marinel

(To the captain.)

Ay, ay, Sir! Steddy, Sir ! Sou' wes' b' sou' !

THE DUCKING-STOOL.

An extract from one of the ^' Local Legends, " by Mr. JMx, a
surgeon of Bristol, who published them originally in the
Bristol Times.

Then what is the matter with young Mr. Blake ?

As he walks through the streets

Every friend that he meets

He accosts with a sigh, and a sorrowful shake

Of the hand, and his heart throbs as if it would break.

" Once on a time, " as the story-books say.

Young Mr. Blake was as blithe and as gay.

And as full of his lark,

As any young spark
You'd meet in your walk through a long summer day.
What is the matter ? ( The truth I must tell.
Though the sex, that's the females, fall on me pellmell.)
Young Mr. Blake had a house full of strife,
And the cause of the rows was the tongue of his wife 1
Barbara Blake was both pretty and young j
She had only one fault, but it lay in her tongue !
Her eyes they were blue, and her curls were of gold j:
A stranger would never have thought her a scold.
Her figure was sylph like, d la Taglioni,
But rather inclining to fleshy than bony;
Her air was la cr^e, and her manners " engaging, "
Excepting at times of irruption and raging.

And then it was strange

To witness the change
Of the household barometer : quickly 'twould range
From warm unto cold, and from fine unto stormy,
Enough, my most weather wise friend, to alarm ye.

In <'

THE DUO KINO-STOOL.

I've heard all these noises : the creak of a wheel ;
That made with a saw and a file of good steel ;
The sound which a pencil makes scratching a slate ;
The squeak of a hinge on an old five-barred gate ;
A bell, when your head aches, most violently ringing ;
The scream of Miss ****, when her " ma " says she's singing j
A dc^Vey's most musical bray of delight ;
Cat« I ling of cats on the tiles at midnight ;
But never, in short,
Were heard sounds of such sort.
As those which young Barbara Blake could produce.
When once, and 'twas often, her tongue was let loose ;
And her wrath she would nurse,
And pour out the curse
Upon him whom she'd taken for " better or worse ; "
Whilst strangers would think
Mrs. Blake was the pink
Of politeness, and kindness, and conjugal love,
And as loving and fond as a real turtle dove.
Young Mr. Blake one evening sat.
His feet on the fender, beating rat-tat ;
Each " ""nd in his pocket, up to the wrist j
On \ 'sage a serio comical twist.
•Ve shall presently find
He had made up his mind
No more to be henpof^ked — no more to submit
To his wife, and do only what she thought was fit.
The thorn in his side was beginning to rankle ;
He repented that he
H.vd espoused Mrs. B.
i'or her nice little foot, and her neatly-turned ankle.
But what was done could not be undone j in despair
He determined to try the effect of " The Chair. "
In " seventeen hundred and eighteen "

Mountjoy was Bristol's mayor j
Then, on the Weir, might have been seen

The city ducking-chair.
Above the waters of the Frome

Tiie awful apparatus
Frowned like a monitor of gloom,
Just by the castle gatehouse :
A high pole, and a transverse beam.

Which turned ten times a minute
Upon its pivot, o'er the stream,
Turned with its chair ! Hark I there's a scream !

216

THE DECLARATION.

Poor Barbara Blake is in it I
Her husband in the crowd below
Is crying out, '' Ay ! there you go;
I wish you'd had it months ago ;

Now, mistress, I'm your master !
Just give her time, my boys, to ' blow ' j "

They do ; her breath is almost spent, .
Her frame with cold is shivering,

And now, to Blake's astonishment.
With voice all meek and quivering,

She promises, that if unhung

She'll ever after *' hold her tongue,"

From that month when the year is young,
E'en until dim December.

So to " the house " was she returned —

It was a quiet house, I've learned,

E'er since they chaired the member
(In a parenthesis I truly
Agree with Paul, that 'twas unruly).

And 'tis declared that Mr. B.

Ne'er made one slight objection

To her return, or sent a pe-

Tition showing forth that he
Disputed the election ;
And ever after Mistress Blake
Sailed only in her husband's wake.

THE DECLARATION.

N. P. Willis. Seepage 130.

'Twas late, and the gay company was gone,
And light lay soft on the deserted room
From alabaster vases, and a scent
Of orange-leaves and sweet verbena came
Through the unshuttered window on the air ;
And the rich pictures, with their dark old tints,
Hung like twilight landscape, and all things
Seemed hushed into a slumber. Isabel,
The dark-eyed, spiritual Isabel,
Was leaning on her harp, and I had stayed
To whisper what I could not when the crowd
Hung on her look like worshippers. I knelt,

PHAETHOK: OB, TBB AMATEUR COACHMAN.

)

21T

And with the fervour of a lip unused
To the cold breath of reason, told my love.
There was no answer, and I took the hand
That rested on the strings, and pressed a kiss
Upon it unforbidden j and again
Besought her that this silent evidence
That I was not indifferent to her heart.
Might have the seal of one sweet syllable.
I kissed the small white fingers as I spoke,
And she withdrew them gently, and upraised
Her forehead from its resting-place, and looked
Earnestly on me. She had been asleep !

PHAETHONi OR, THE AMATEUR COACHMAN.

/. O. Saxe. A popular American humourist still living.

Dan Phaeton — so the histories run —

Was a jolly young chap, and a son of the Sun ;

Or rather of Phoebus ; but as to his mother,

(genealogists make a deuce of a pother.

Some going for one, and some for another !

For myself, I must say, as a careful explorer.

This roaring young blade was the son of Aurora I

Now old Father Phoebus, ere railways begun

To elevate funds and depreciate fun.

Drove a very fast coach by the name of " the Sun^j"

Running, they say,

Trips every day
(On Sundays and all, in a heathenish way).
And lighted up with famous array
Of lanterns that shone with a brilliant display.
And dashing along like a gentleman's shay
With never a fare and oo thing to pay.

Now Phaethon begged of his doting old father

To grant him a favour, and that the rather,

Since some one had hinted, the youth to annoy,

That he wasn't by any means Phoobus's boy.

Intending, the rascally son of a gun,

To darken the brow of the son of the Sun.

"By the terrible Styx," said the angry sire,

While his eyes flashed volumes of fury and fire,

'' To prove your reviler an infamous liar,

I swear I will grant you whate'er you desire."

218

PHBATON; OB, THE AMATEUR COACHMAN.

" Then by my head,"

The youngster said,
^' I'll mount the ooach when the horses are fed I
For there's nothing I'd choose as I'm alive,
Like a seat on the box, and a dashing drive."

"Nay, Phaethon, don't!

I beg you won't;
Just stop a moment and think upon't.
You're quite too young." continued the sage,
" To tend a coach at your tender age.

Besides, you see,

'Twill really be
Your first appearance on any stage.

Desist, my child,

The cattle are wild,
And when their courage is thoroughly riled,
Depend upon it, the coach '11 be sp'iled,
They're not the fellows to draw it mild.

Desist, I say,

You'll rue the day.
So mind me and don't be foolish, Pha 1"
But the youth was prou^.

And swore aloud j.

It was just the thing to astonish a crowd.
He'd have the horses — he wouldn't be cowed.
In vain the boy was cautioned at large :
He called for the chargers, unheeding the charge:
And vowed that any young chap of force
Could manage a dozen coursers of course 1
Now Phoebus felt exceedingly sorry
He had given his word in such a hurry.
But having sworn by the Styx, no doubt,
He was in for it now, and couldn't back out !
So calling Phaethon up in a trice.
He gave the youth a bit of advice -'-

" Parce stimulis, utere loris "
(A stage direction, of which the core is,
Don't use the whip — they're ticklish things,
But whatever you do, hold on to the strings 1)

** Medio tutissimus ibis,"
As the judge remarked to a rowdy Scotchman,
Who was going along between two watchmen,
" iSo mind your eye and spare your goad.
Be shy of the stones and keep in the road I"

THE QUAUSB's meeting.

Now Phaethon, perched in the coachman's place,
Drove off the steeds at a furious pace,
Fast as coursers running a race.
Or bounding along in a steeple-chase ;
Of whip and shout there was no lack,
, " Crack 1 whack 1

Whack 1 crack 1"
Resounded along the horse's back !
Frightened beneath the stinging lash
Cutting their flanks in many a gash, .
Un — on they sped, as swift as a flash,
Through thick and thin away they dash
(Such rapid driving is always rash)
When all at once, with a dreadful crash,
The whole establishment went to smash,

And Phaethon he.

As all agree.
Off the coach was suddenly hurled
Into a puddle and out of the world !

Moral.

Don't rashly take to dangerous courses,
Nor set it down in your table of forces.
That any one man equals any four horses.

219

THE QUAKER'S MEETING.

Samuel Lover.

Fee p.

141.

A traveller wended the wilds among,
With a purse of gold and a silver tonp:ue ;
His hat it was broad and all drab were his clothes,
For he hated high colours — except on his nose ;
And he met with a lady, the story goes,
lleigho I yea thee and nay thee.

The damsel she cast him- a beamy blink,
And the traveller nothing was loih, 1 think.
Her merry black eye beamed her bonnet beneath.
And the Quaker he grinned — for he'd very good teeth-—
And he asked, << Art thee going to ride on tiie heath ? "
pieigho 1 yea thee and nay thee.

'^MMi

220

THS QUAKER'S MBETINO.

"I hope you'll protect me, kind sir, " said the maid,
'* As to ride this heath over I'm sadly afraid ;
For robbers, they say, here in numbers abound,
And I wouldn't ' for any thing ' I should bo found,
For — between you and me—I have five hundred pound. "
Heigho I yea thee and nay thee.

"If tht^t is thee own, dear, " the Quaker he said,
" I ne'er saw a maiden I sooner would wed ;
And I have another five hundred just now,
In the padding that's under my saddle-bow.
And I'll settle it all upon thee, I vowl "

Heigho I yea thee and nay thee.

The maiden she smiled, and her rein she drew,
" Your offer I'll take — though I'll not take you. "
A pistol she held at the Quaker's head —
" Now give me your gold^-or I'll give you my lead —
Tis under the saddle I think you said. "

Heigho I yea thee and nay thee.

The damsel she ripped up the saddle- bow.
And the Quaker was never a Quaker till now ;
And he saw, by the fair one he wished for a bride.
His purse borne away with a swaggering stride, ,
And the eye that shamm'd tender, now only defied.
Heigho I yea thee and nay thee.

"The spirit doth move me, friend Broadbrim, " quoth she,
" To take all this filthy temptation from thee.
For Mammon deceiveth — and beauty is fleeting.
Accept from thy maaid'n a right loving greeting,
For much doth she profit by this Quaker's meeting. "
Heigho ! yea thee and nay thee.

" And hark 1 jolly Quaker, so rosy and sly,
Have righteousness, more than a wench, in thine eye.
Don't go again peeping girls' bonnets beneath,
Remember the one that you met on the heath |
Her name's Jimmy Barlow — I tell to your teeth 1 "
Heigho 1 yea thee and nay thee.

Friend James, " quoth the Quaker, " pray listen to me,
For thou canst confer a great favour, d'ye see ;
The gold thou hast taken is not mine, my friend,
But my master's — and truly on thee I depend
yo make it appear I my trust did defend. "
HeighQ ! yea thee and nay thee.

"So
Ton
So Ji
And
"No

"II
And
"Th
Myf

Jim '.
Hes
That
And
They

'^ IHriTH MirSIOiLL SOCIETY.*'

52l

<' So fire a few shots through my clothes, here and.ihere,
To make it appear 'twas a desp'rate affair. "
So Jim he popp'd first through the skirt of his coat,
And then through his collar— quite close to his throat ;
" Now one through my broadbrim " quoth Ephraim, "I
vote. "

Heigho ! yea thee and nay thee.

" I have but a brace, " said bold Jim, " and they're spent,
And 1 won't load again for a make-believe rent. "
"Then," said Ephraim, producing Ms pistols, "just give
My five hundred pounds back, or as sure as you live
I'll make of your body a riddle or sieve. "
Heigho I yea thee and nay thee.

Jim Barlow was diddled — ^and, though he was game.
He saw Ephraim' s pistol so deadly in aim.
That he gave up the gold, and he took to his scrapers,
And when the whole story got into the papers.
They said* that " the thieves were no match for the Quakers. "
Heigho 1 yea thee and nay thee.

"WITH MUSICAL SOCIETY.

Jkr. Henry S. Leigh, a well-known contributor of sparkling
vers de society to the magazines.

I LOOKED for lodgings long ago.

Away from London's fogs and fusses ;
Some rustic Paradise, you know.

Within a walk of trains or busses.
I made my choice, and settled down

In quite a lovely situation.
About a dozen miles from town.

And very near a railway station.

Within this pastoral retreat

No creditor, no care intruded ;
My happiness was quite complete,

(The "comforts of a home" included.)
I found the landlord most polite ;

His wife— if possible — politer.
Their two accomplished aaughters quite

Electrified the present writer.

^^ <tRE ORIttd.

A nicer girl than Fanny Lisle

To sing a die-away duet with —
Say something in the Verdi style —

Upon my life, I never met with.
And yet I wavered in my choice,

For I believe I'm right in saying
That nothing equalled Fanny's voice,

Unless it was Maria's playing.

If music be the food of love,

That was the house for Cupid's diet ;
For those two gushing girls, by Jove !

Were never for one instant quiet.
I own that Fanny's voice was sweet; .

I own Maria's touch was pearly;
But music's not at all a treat

For those that get it late and early.

The charms that soothe a savage breast

Have got a vice versa fashion
Of putting folks who have the best

Of tempers in an awful passion.
And when it reached a certain stage,

I must confess I couldn't stand it ;
I positively scowled with rage.

And frowned like any Surrey bandit.

I paid my rent on quarter-day ;

Packed up my traps in quite a hurry,
And quick as lightning fl6d away

To other lodgings down in Surrey.
I'm warned at last, and not in vain ;

For one resolve that I have made is
Never to trust myself again

With any musical young ladies I

THE CRITIC.

Epes Sargent An American humourist.

OxoE on a time the nightingale, whose singing
Had with her praises set the forest ringing,
Consented at a concert to appear.
Of course, her friends all flocked to hear,

h.x, i

TflB dBITld.

And with them many a critic, wide awake
To pick a flaw, or carp at a mistake.
She sang as only nightingales can sing ;

And when she'd ended,
There was a general cry of " Bravo ! splendid ! "

While she, poor thing.
Abashed and fluttering, to her nest retreated,
Quite terrified to be so warmly greeted.
The turkeys gobbled their delight ; the geese,

Who had been known to hiss at many a trial,

Gave this one no denial :
It seemed as if the applause would never cease.

±23

But 'mong the critics on the ground.

An ass was present, pompous and profound.

Who said, " My friends, I'll not dispute the honour

That you would do our little prima donna 5

Although her upper notes are very shrill,

And she defies all method in her trill.

She has some talent, and, upon the whole.

With study, may some cleverness attain.

Then, her friends tell me, she's a virtuous soul 5

But— but— "

" But " — growled the lion, " by my mane,

I never knew an ass, who did not strain

To qualify a good thing with a but I "

"Nay, " said the goose, approaching with a strut,

" Don't interrupt him, sir ; pray let it pass ;

The ass is honest, if he is an ass ! "

" I was about, " said Long Ear, " to remark,

That there is something lacking in her whistle ;

Something magnetic,

To waken chords and feelings sympathetic.
And kindle in the breast a spark -
Like — like, for instance, a good juicy thistle. " •

The assembly tittered, but the fox, with gravity,

Said, at the lion winking,
" Our learned friend, with his accustomed suavity.

Has given his opinion without shrinking ;
But^ to do justice to the nightingale, ^

He should inform us, as no doubt he will,
What sort of music 'tis, that does not fail

His sensibilities to rous« and thrill. "

i^24 TfiB PlBD PIPBR 01* riAVELt^.

" Why, " Said the critic, with a look potential,
And pricking up his ears, delighted much

At Reynard's tone and manner deferential, —
" Why, sir, there's nothing can so deeply touch

My feelings, and so carry me aWay
As a fine, mellow, ear-inspiring bray. "

" I thought so, " said the fox, without a pause :
" As far as yOu're concerned, your judgment's true 5

You do not like the nightingale, because
The nightingale is not an ass like you ! "

THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN.
Robert Browning, horn 1812. Still living.

Hamelin town's iii Srunswick,
By famous Hanover city ;

The river Weser, deep and wide,

Washes its wall on the southern side ;

A pleasanter spot you never spied ;
But, when begins my ditty.

Almost five hundred years ago,

To see the townsfolk suffer so

From vermin was a pity.
Rats I

They fought the dogs, and killed the cats.

And bit the babies in the cradles,
And ate the cheeses out of the vats.

And licked the soup from the cook's own ladles,
Split open the kegs of salted sprats,
Made nests inside men's Sunday hats,
And even spoiled the women's chats,

By drowning their speaking

With shrieking and squeaking
In fifty different sharps and flats.

At last the people in a body

To the Town Hall came flocking :
" Tis clear." .cried they, " our Mayor's a noddy j

And as for our corporation— shocking
To think we buy gowns lined with ermine
For dolts that can't or won't determine

^fite PIED PIPBR OF HAllELlN.

What's best to rid us of our vermin !
You hope, because you're old and obese,
To find in the furry civic robe ease ?
Rouse up sirs 1 Give your brains a racking
To find the remedy we're lacking,
Or sure as fate, we'll send you packing!"
At this the Mayor and Corporation
Quaked with a mighty consternation.

An hour they sate in council,
At length the Mayor broke silence :

" For a guilder I'd my ermine gown sell j
I wish I were a mile hence 1

It's easy to bid one rack one's brain —

I'm sure my poor head aches again,

I've scratched it so ; and all in vain.

O for a trap, a trap, a trap I"
Just as he said this, what should hap
At the chamber door but a gentle tap ?

" Bless us,' cried the Mayor, " what's that?

Only a scraping of shoes on the mat ?

Anything like the sound of a rat

Makes my heart go pit-a-pat I"

225

" Come inl" the mayor cried, looking bigger j

And in did come the strangest figure.

His queer long coat from heel to head

Was half of yellow and half of red ;

And he himself was tall and thin.

With sharp blue eyes, each like a pin,

And light loose hair yet swarthy skin.

No tuft on cheek or beard on chin.

But lips where smiles went out and in —

There was no guessing his kith and kin.

And nobody could enough admire

The tall man and his quaint attire :

Quoth one : <i It's as my great grandsire,

Starting up at the Trump of Doom's tone.

Had walked this way from his painted tombstone ?"

He advanced to the council -table :

And " Please your honours," said he, "I'm able,

By means of a secret charm to draw

All creatures living beneath the sun,

226

fEB PIED PIPBB OF HAMELlK.

That creep, or swim, or fly, or run.

After me so as you never saw !

And I chiefly use my charm.

On creatures that do people harm,

'J^he mole, and toad, and newt, and viper ;

And people call me the Pied Piper."
(And here they noticed round his neck
A scarf of red and yellow stripe.
To match with his coat of the self-same check ;
And at the scarf's end hung a pipe ;
And his fingers, they noticed, were ever straying
As if impatient to be playing
Upon this pipe, as low it dangled,
Over his vesture so old-fangled.)

"Yet," said he, "poor piper as I am,

In Tartary I freed the Cham,

Last June, from his huge swarms of gnats ;

I eased in Asia the Nizam

(.)f a monstrous brood of vampyre br ts :

And, as for what your brain bewilders.

If I can rid your town of rats.

Will you give me a thousand guilders ?'l

" One? fifty thousand !"— was the exclamation
Of the astonished Mayor and Corporation.

Into the street the Piper stept,

Smiling first a little smile.
As if he knew what magic slept

In his quiet pipe the while j
Then, like a musical adept.
To blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled.
And green and blue his sharp eyes twinkled
Like a candle flame where salt is sprinkled ;
And ere three shrill notes the pipe uttered,
You heard as if an army muttered :
And the muttering grew to a grumbling;
And the grumbling grew to a mighty l^lmbling ;
And out of the houses the rats came tumbling.
Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats,
Brown rats, black rats, grey rats, tawny rats,
Grave old plodders, gay young friskers,

Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins.
Cocking tails and pricking whiskers,

Families by tens and dozens.
Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives —

tfiB PIBD PIPER OF fiAMELlii.

t*oliowed the Piper for their lives,

From street to street he piped advancing/

And step for step they followed dancing

Until they came to the River Weser,

Wherein all plunged and perished

— Save one, who, stout as Julius CsBsar,

jSwam across ana lived to carry

(As he the manuscript he cherished)

To Hat-land home his conmientary.

Which was : "At the first shrill notes of the pipei^

I heard a sound as of scraping tripe,

And putting apples, wondrous ripe,

Into a cider-presses' gripe :

And a moving away of pickle-tub-boards.

And a leaving ajar of conserve cupboards.

And a drawing the corks of train-oil-flasks.

And a breaking the hoops of butter-casks ^

And it seemed as if a voic«

(Sweeter far than by harp or by psaltery

Is breathed) called out, ' O rats, rejoice !

The world is grown to one vast drysaltery !

To munch on, crunch on, take your nuncheon

Breakfast, supper, dinner, luncheon?'

And just as a bulky sugar puncheon.

All ready staved, like a great sun shone

Glorious scarce an inch before me.

Just as methought it said, Come, bore me !

— I found the Weser rolling o'er me."

i22t

THE PIED PIPER (^concluded.)

You should have heard the Hamelin people
Hinging the bells till they rocked the steeple.
" Go," cried the Mayor, " and get long poles I
Poke out the nests and block up the holes !
Consult with carpenters and builders.
And leave in our town not even a trace
Of the rats !"— when suddenly up the face
Of the Piper perked in the market place.
With a, " First, if you please, my thousand guilders !"

A thousand guilders I The Mayor looked blue ;
So did the Corporation too,
To pay this sum to a wandering fellow
With a gipsy coat of red and yellow I

Me PtSD PIPilR OF HAMBLtN.

'< Beside/' quoth the Mayor with a knowing wink,

'' Our business was done at the river's brink -,

We saw with our eyes the vermin sink,

And what's dead can't come to life, I think.

So, friend we're not the folks to shrink

From the duty of giving you something to drink,

And a matter of money to put in your poke ;

But, as for the guilders, what we spoke

Of them, as you very well know, was in joke.

Beside, our losses have made us thrifty :

A thousand guilders ! Come, take fifty 1''

The Piper's face fell, and he cried,
" No trifling I I can't wait, beside I
I've promised to visit by dinner-time
Bagdat, and accept the prime
Of the Head Cook's pottage, all he's rich in.
For having left, in the Caliph's kitchen.
Of a nest of scorpions no survivor —
With him I proved no bargain-driver ;
With you, don't think I'll bate a stiver !
And folks who put me in a passion
May find me pipe to another fashion."

"How?" cried the Mayor, "d'ye think I'll brook

Being worse treated than a Cook ?

Insulted by a lazy ribald

With idle pipe and vesture piebald ?

You threaten us, fellow ? Do your worst,

Blow your pipe there till you burst."

Once more he stept into the street ;

And to his lips again

Laid his long pipe of smooth straight cane ;

And ere he blew three notes (such sweet
Soft notes as yet musicians cunning

Never gave the enraptured air)
There was a rustling, that seemed like a bustling
Of merry crowds justling, at pitching and hustling;
Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering.
Little hnnds clapping, and little tongues chattering,
And, like fowls in a farm-yard when barley is scattering,
Out came the children running,
All the little boys and girls,

THE PIBP PIPER OP HAMELIN.

229

With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls,

And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls,

frippmg and skipping, ran merrily after

The wonderful music with shouting and laughter.

The Mayor was dumb, and the Council stood

As if they were changed into blocks of wood,

Unable to move a step, or cry

To the children merrily skipping by —

And could only follow with the eye

That joyous crowd at the Piper's back.

But how the Mayor was on the rack,

And the wretched Council's bosoms beat,

As the Piper, turned from the High Street

To where the Weser rolled its waters

Right in the way of their sons and daughters !

However he turned from south to west.

And to Koppelberg Hill his steps addressed,

And after him the children pressed ;

Great was the joy in every breast.

" He never can cross that mighty top !
He's forced to let the piping drop,
And we shall see our children stop I"

When, lo, as they reached the mountain's side,

A wondrous portal opened wide,

As if a cavern was suddenly hollowed ;

And the Piper advanced and the children followed j

And when all were in tb the very last,

The door in the mountain side shut fast.
Did I say all ? No I one was lame,

And could not dance the whole of the way ;

And in after years if you would blame

His sadness, he was used to say, —

''It's dull in our town since our play-mates left ;

I can't forget that Pm bereft

1 the pleasant sights they see,

AMiicii the Piper also promised me j

For ho led us, he said to a joyous land *

Join g the town and just at hand.

Where waters gushed and fruit-trees grew.

And flowers put forth a fairer hue.

And everything was strange and new ;

The sparrows \ re brighter than peacocks here,

And their dogs outrs .1 our fallow deer,

And honey bees had lost their stings j

230

THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIK.

And horses were bom with eagles' wings ;

And just as I became assured

My lame foot would be speedily cured,

The music stopped and I stood still,

And found myself outside the hill,

Left alone against my will,

To go now, limping as before,

And never hear of that country more !"

Alas, alas for Hamelin !
There came into many a burgher's pate
A text which says that Heaven's Gate
Opes to the Eich at as easy rate
As the needle's eye takes a camel in !
The Mayor sent East, West, North and South,
To offer the Piper by word or mouth.

Wherever it was men' s lot to find him.
Silver and gold to his heart's content.
If he'd only return the way he went,
And bring the children behind him.
But soon they saw 'twas a lost endeavour,
For Piper and dancers were gone for ever.
And the better in memory to fix
The place of the children's last retreat,
They called it the Pied Piper's Street —
Where any one playing on pipe or tabor
Was sure for the future to lose his labour.
Nor suffered they hostelry or tavern

To shock with mirth a street so solemn :
But opposite the place of the cavern
They wrote the story on a column,
And on the great church window painted
The same to make the world acquainted
How their children were stolen away ;
And there it stands to this very day.
And I must not omit to say
That in Transylvania there's a tribe
Of alien people that ascribe
The outlandish ways and dress
On which their neighbours lay such stress.
To their fathers and mothers having risen
Out of some subterranean prison
Into which they were trepanned
Long time ago in a mighty band
Out of Hamelin town in Brunswick land,
Put how, or why, they don't understand,

THE sailor's consolation.

231

THE SAILOR'S CONSOLATION.

William Pitt, Master Attendant at Jamaica Dockyard, died

1840.

One night came on a hurricjane,
The sea was mountains rolling
When Barney Buntline slewed his guid,
And said to Billy Bowline ;
"A strong nor' wester's blowing, Bill ;
Hark ! don't ye hear it roar now ?
Lord help 'em, how I pities them
Unhappy folks on shore now 1

" Fool-hardy chaps as live in towns.
What danger they are all in.
And now lie quaking in their beds,
For fear the roof should fall in :
Poor creatures 1 how they envies us,
And wishes, I've a notion,
For our good luck, in such a storm
To be upon the ocean !

" And as for them that's out all day
On business from their houses.
And late at night i-eturning home.
To cheer their babos and spouses ;
While you and I, Bill, on the deck
Are comfortably lying.
My eyes ! What tiles and chimney-pots
About their heads are flying.

"Both you and I have ofttimes heard

How men are killed and undone,

By overturns from carriages,

By thieves and fires in London.

We know what risks these landsmen

From noblemen to tailors !

Then Bill, let us thank Providence

That you and 1 are sailors."

run

232

THE OWL AND THE BELL,

THE OWL AND THE BELL.

George Macdonald, author of " Within and Without," "J.

Hidden Life, " dc.

" Bing, Bim, Bang, Borne t "

Sang the Bell to himself in his house at home,

Up in the tower, away and unseen,

In a twilight of ivy, cool and green j

With his Bing, Bam, Bang, Borne !

Singing bass to himself in his house at home.

Said the Owl to himself, as he sat below
On a window-ledge like a ball of snow,
" Pest on that fellow, sitting up there 1
Always calling the people to prayer I
With his Bing, Bim, Bang, Borne !
Mighty big in his house at home !

" I will move, " said the Owl, " but it suits me well ;
And one may get used to it, who can tell ?
So he slept in the day with all his might.
And rose and flapped out in the hush of night
When the Bell was asleep in his tower at home,
Dreaming over his Bing, Bang, Borne !

For the Owl was born so poor and genteel,
He was forced from the first to pick and steal ;
He scorned to work for honest bread —
« Better have never been hatched ! " he said
So he slept all day ; for he dared not roam
Till night had silenced the Bing, Bang, Borne !

When his six little darlings had chipped the egg.
He must steal the more : 'twas a shame to beg.
And they ate the more that they did not sleep well :
''It's their gizzard's," said Ma; said Pa, " It's the Bell !
For they quiver like leaves in a wind-blown tome,
When the Bell bellows out his Bing, Bang, Borne ! "

But the Bell began to throb with the fear
Of bringing the house about his one ear ;
And his people were patching all day long,
And propping the walls to make them strong.
So a fortnight he sat, and felt like a nome,
For he dared not shout hia Bing, Bang, Borne !

THE OWL AND THE DELL. 233

Said the Owl to himself, and hissed as he said,

"I do believe the old fool is dead."

Now, — now, I vow, I shall never pounce twice ;

And stealing shall be all sugar and spice.

But I'll see the corpse, ere he's laid in the loam.

And shout in his ear, Bingj Bim, Bang^ Borne !

<' Hoo I hoo ! " he cried, as he entered the steeple,
« They've hanged him at last, the righteous people !
His swollen tongue lolls out of his head —
Hoo ! hoo ! at last the old brute is dead.
There let him hang, the shapeless Ignome !
Choked, with his tnroat full of Bing, Bang, Borne I

So he danced about him, singing Too-whoo t

And flapped the poor Bell, and said, " Is that you? "

Where is your voice with its wonderful tone.

Banging poor owls, and making them groan ?

A fig for you now, in your great haU-dome 1

Toowhoo is better than " Bing, Bang, Borne / "

So brave was the Owl, the downy and dapper,

That he flew inside and sat on the cla'^per ;

And he shouted Too-whoo ! till the echo awoke,

Like the sound of a ghostly clapper-stroke :

♦' Ah, ha I " quoth the Owl, "I am quite at home —

I will take your place with my *' Bing, Bang, Borne! "

The Owl was uplifted with pride and self wonder j

He hissed, and then called the echo thunder ;

And he sat the monarch of feathered fowl

Till — Bang ! went the Bell — and down went the Owl,

Like an avalanche of feathers and foam.

Loosed by the booming Bing, Bang, Borne !

He sat where he fell, as if nought was the matter,
Though one of his eyebrows was certainly flatter. *
Said the eldest owlet, '* Pa, you were wrong ;
He's at it again with his vuJgar song. "
'< Be still, " said the Owl ; " you're^ guilty'of pride :
I brought him to life by perching inside. "

" But why, my dear ? " said his pillowy wife ;

"You know he was always the plague of your life. "

'< I perhaps have given him a lesson of good for evil j

Perhaps the old ruffian will now be civil. "

The Owl looked righteous, and raised his comb j

But the Bell bawled on his Bing, Bang, Borne t

DIALOGUES AND DRAMATIC SCENES.

FROM ''MILES GLORIOSUS;" OE, "THE BRAGGART

CAPTAIN."

Plautus, the earliest and most popular of classical Roman

comedians : B.C. 227.

Pyrgopolinices, the braggart captain. Artoirogus^, a parasite.

Pyrg. Take ye care that the lustre of my shield is more
bright than the rays of the sun are wont to be at the time
when the sky is clear ; that, when occasion comes, the battle
being joined, amid the fierce ranks right opposite, it may
dazzle the eyesight of the enemy. But I wish to console
this sabre of mine, that it may not lament or be downcast
in spirits, because I have thus long been wearing it keeping
holiday, which so longs right dreadfully to make havoc of
the enemy. But where is Artotrogus ?

Arto. Here he is ; he standi close by the hero, valiant
and successful, and of princely form. Mars could not dare
to style himself a warrior so great, nor compare his prowess
with yours.

I)frg. Him you mean whom I spared on the G irgoni-
darian plains, where Bumbomachides Clytanestoridysar-
chides, the grandson of Neptune, was the chief commander?

Arto. I remember him ; him, I suppose you mean, with
the golden armour, whose legions you pufted away with
your breath, just as the wind blows away leaves, or the
'reed-thatched roof.

Pyrg. That, on my troth, was really nothing at all.

Arto. Faith, that really was nothing at all in comparison
with other things I could mention — [aside\ — which you
never did. If any person ever beheld a more perjured
fellow than this, or one more full of vain boasting, faith,
let him have me for himself, I'll resign myself for his slave.

Pyrg. Where are you ?

Arto. Lo I here am I. I' troth, in what a fashion it was
you broke the fore leg of even an elephant in India with
your fist.

MILES »LOBIOSUS : OR, THE BRAOOART CAPTAIN.

235

Pyrg. How? — the fore-leg?

Arto. I meant to say the thigh.

Pyrg. I struck the blow without an effort.

Arto. Troth, if, indeed, you had put forth your strength,
your arm would have passed right through the hide, the
entrails, and the frontispiece of the elephant.

Pyrg. I don't care for these thipgs just now.

Arto^ V faith, 'tis really not worth the while for you to
tell me of it, who know right well your prowess. [Aside.'\
'Tis my appetite creates all these plagues. I must hear
him right out with my ears, that my teeth mayn't have
time to grow, and whatever lie he shall tell, to it I must
agree.

Pyrg. What was it I was saying ?

Arto. Oh, I know what you were going to say just now.
I' faith, ' twas bravely done ; I remember its being done.

Pyrg. What was that?

Arto. Whatever it was you were going to say.

Pyrg. How cleverly you do suit your mind to my own
mind.

Arto. 'Tis fit that I should know your inclinations studi-
ously, so that whatever you wish should first* occur to me.

Pyrg. What do you remember ?

Arto. I do remember this. In Cilicia, there were a
hundred and fifty men, a hundred in Cryphiolathronia,
thirty at Sardis, sixty men of Macedon, whom you
slaughtered altogether in one day.

Pyrg. What is the sum total of these men ?

Arto. Seven thousand.

Pyrg. It must be as much: you keep the reckoning well.

Arto. Yet I have none of them written dowr ; still so 1
remember it was.

Pyrg. By my troth, you have a right good memory.

Arto. [Aside.'\ 'Tis the flesh-pots give it a fillip.

Pyrg. So long as you shall do such as you have done
hitherto, you shall always have something to eab: I will
always make you a partaker at my table.

Arto. Besides, in Cappadociaj you would have killed five
hundred men altogether at one blow, had not your sabre
been blunt.

Pyrg. I let them live because I was quite sick of fighting.

Arto. Why should I tell you what all mortals know, that
you, Pyrgopolinices, live alone upon the earth with valour,
beauty, and achievement most unsurpassed ?

236

EVERY MAN IN HIS HUMOUR.

Pyrg. It seems that it is time for us to go to the Forum,
that I may oount out their pay to those soldiers whom I
have enlisted of late. For King Seleucus entreated me
with most earnest suit that I would raise and enlist recruits
for him. To that business have I resolved to devote my
attention this day.

Arto. Come, let's be going then.

Pyrg. Guards ! follow me.

SCENE FEOM "EVERY MAN IN HIS HUMOUR."

Ben Johnson, a contemporary of Shakspeare, bom 1573

died 1637.

Captain Bobadil, a braggart soldier of fortune.
U. Knowell. friend of Downright, who has threatened to cud-
gel Matthew.
Ma tthew and Stephen, silly admirers of Bobadil.

Bob. I will tell you, sir, by the way of private and under
seal, I am a gentleman, and live here obscure and to myself;
but were I known to her majesty and the lords, observe
me, I would undertake, upon this poor head and life, for
the public benefit of the state, not only to spare the entire
lives of her subjects in general, but to save the one half —
nay, three parts of her yearly charge in holding war, and
against what enemy soever. And how would I do it, think
you.

£. Know. Nay, I know not, nor can I conceive.
Bob. Why, thus, sir. I would select nineteen more to
myself throughout the land; gentlemen they should be,
of good spirit, strong and able constitution. I would choose
them by an instinct, a character that I have ; and I would
teach these nineteen the special rules, as your punto, your
reverso, your stoccato, your imbraccato, your passado, your
montjinto, till they could all play very near, or altogether,
as well as myself. This done, say the enemy were forty
thousand strong, we twenty would come into the field the
tenth of March or thereabouts, and we would challenge
twenty of the enemy ; they could not in their honour refuse
us. Well, we would kill them; challenge twenty more,
kill them; twenty more, kill them; twenty more, kill
them too. And thus we would kill every man his twenty
a day, that 's twenty score ; twenty score, that 's two

kVfiRT MAN IN HIS HUMOUR.

23f

and
think

more,
kill
wenty
s two

hundred ; two hundred a day, five days a thousand, forty
thousand ; forty times five, five times forty, two hundred
days kills them all up by computation. And this will I
venture my poor gentlemanlike carcase to perform, pro-
vided there be no treason practised upon us, by fair and
discreet manhood — that is, civilly by the sword.

E. Know. Why, are you so sure of your hand, captain, at all
times ?

Bob. Tut I never miss thrust, upon my reputation with you.

E. Know. I would not stand in Downright's state, then,
an you meet him, for the wealth of any one street in London.

Bob. Why, sir, you mistake me j if he were here now, by
this welkin I would not draw my weapon on him. Let
this gentleman do his mind : but I will bastinado him, by
the bright sun, wherever I mieet him I

Mat. Faith, and I'll have a fling at him at my distance.

iJ. Know. Ods so ; look where he is I Yonder he goes.

[BoWNRiOHT crosses the stage.

Down. What peevish luck have I ! I cannot meet with
these bragging rascals.

Bob. It is not he, is it ?

E Know. Yes, faith, it is he.

Mat. I'll be hanged, then, if that were he.

E. Know. Sir, keep your hanging good for some greater
matter, for I assure you that was he.

atep. Upon my reputation it was he.

Bob. Had I thought it had been he, he must not have
gone BO ; but I can hardly be induced to believe it was he yet.

E. Know. That I think, sir.

Reenter Downright.

But see, he is come again,

Down. Oh, Pharaoh's foot, have I found you? Come,
draw to your tools; draw, gipsy, or I'll thrash you.

Bob. Gentleman of valour, I do believe in thee, hear me —

Down. Draw your weapon, then.

Bob. Tall man, I never thought on it till now. Body of
me I I had a warrant of the peace served on me even now,
as I came along, by a water-bearer. This gentleman saw
it, Master Matthew.

Down. 'Sdeath I You will not draw, then ?

[Disarms and beats him. Matthew runs away.

Bob. Hold 1 hold I under thy favour, forbear I

Down. Prate again, as you like this ! You'll control the

VHB NlOHtlNOAtB AKD LtTE;

point, you 1 Your consort is gone ; had he stayed, he had
shared with you, sir. lExit.

Bob. Well, gentlemen, bear witness. I was bound to the
peace, by this good day.

E. Know. No, faith, it's an ill day, captain—never reckon
it other. But, say you were bound to the peace, the law
allows you to defend yourself; that will prove but a poor
excuse.

Bob. I cannot tell, sir : I desire good construction in fair
sort. I never sustained the like disgrace. Sure I was struck
with a planet thence, for I had no power to touch my weapon.

E. Know. Ay, like enough ; I have heard of many that
have been be i,en under a planet \ go, get you to a surgeon.
'Slid 1 an the?e be your tricks, your passados, and your
montantos, I'll none of them.

THE NIGHTINGALE, AND LUTE.
By John Ford, Dramatist. Born 1586, died 1639.

A young Nobleman of Syracuse has been making the grand tour in
Italy and Greece. He relates an adventure which occurred to him in his
travels.

Menaphon. Passing from Italy to Greece, the tales

Which poets of an elder time of feigned

To glorify their Tempo, bred in me

Desire of visiting that Paradise.

To Thessaly I came ; and living private

Without acquaintance of more sweet companions

Than the old inmates to my love, my thoughts,

I day by day frequented silent groves

And solitary walks. One morning early

This accident encountered me : I heard

The sweetest and most ravishing contention

That Art and Nature ever were at strife in.

Amethus. I cannot yet conceive what you mfer

By Art and Nature.

Men. I shall soon resolve you.

A sound of music touched mine ears, or rather

Indeed, entranced my soul ; As I stole nearer.

Invited by the melody, I saw

This youth, this fair-faced youth, upon his lute

With strains of strange variety and harmony

TBE mOHTINOALEi AND LUTE.

230

Proclaiming as it seemed so bold a challenge
To the clear choristers of the woods, the birds,
That as they flocked about him, all stood silent
Wondering at what they heard j I wondered too
Ameth. And so do I ; good, on.

Men. A Nightingale

Nature's best skilled musician undertakes
The challenge, and for every several strain
The well-shaped youth could touch, she sung her own j
He could not run division with more art
Upon his quaking instrument, than she
The Nightingale, did with her various notes
Reply to ; for a voice, and for a sound
Amethus, ' tis much easier to believe
That such they were, than hope to hear again.

Am. How did the rivals part ?

Men. You term them rightly.
For they were rivals and their mistress — harmony.
Some time thus spent, the young man grew
Into a pretty anger, that a bird
Whom art had never taught clefs, moods and notes
Would vie with him for mastery, whose study
Had busied many hours to perfect practise —
To end the controversy in a rapture,
Upon his instrument he plays so swiftly
So many voluntaries and so quick,
That there was curiosity and cunning,
Concord in discord, lines of differing method
Meeting in one full centre of delight.

Am. Wow for the bird.

Men. The bird, ordained to be
Music's first martyr, strove to imitate
These several sounds : which when her warbling throat
Failed in, for grief, down dropped she on his lute
And brake her heart ! It was the quaintest sadnoss
To see the conqueror upon her hearse.
To weep a funeral elogy of tears.
That trust me, my Amethus, I could chide
Mine own unmanly weakness, that made me
A fellow-mourner with him.

Am. I believe thee.

Men. He looked upon the trophies of his art,
Then sighed, then wiped his eyes, then sighed and cried
Alas ! poor creature ! I will soon revenge
This cruelty upon the author of it !

TliE REORUItINd OFPldfifi.

Thenceforth this lute, guiltv of innocent blood
Shall never more betray a harmless peace
To an untimely end ; and in that sorrow
As he was pashing it against a tree
I suddenly stept in.

THE RECRUITING OFFICER.

George Farquhar, born at Londonderry, 1678 | Jirsi an actor,
then a soldier. Died in 1707.

Scene — The Market Place.

Drum beats the Grenadier^ s March. Enter Sergeant Kits,
followed by Thomas Appletree, Costar Pearmain, and
the mob.

Kite. [Making a Speech.'} If any gentlemen, soldiers, or
others, have a mind to serve His Majesty and pull down
the French king; if any 'prentices have severe masters,
any children have undutiful parents ', if any servants have
too little wages, or any husband a bad wife, let them re-
pair to the noble Sergeant Kite, attte sign of the "Raven,"
in this good town of Shrewsburry, and they shall receive
present relief and entertainment. [Drum.} Gentlemen, I
don't beat my drums here to ensnare or inveigle any man ;
for you must know, gentlemen, that I am a man of honor ;
besides I don't beat up for common soldiers ; no, 1 'list
only grenadiers — grenadiers, gentlemen. Pray gentlemen,
observe this cap— this is the cap of honour ; it dubs a man
a gentleman in the drawing of a trigger; and he that has
the good fortune to' be born six foot high was born to be
a great man. Sir, will you give me leave to try this cap
upon your head ?

Costar. Is there no harm in't ? Won't the cap 'list me ?

Kite. No, no ; no more than 1 can. Come, let me see
how it becomes you.

Cost. Are you sure there is no conjuration in it ? — no
gunpowder- plot upon me ?

Kite. No, no, friend ; don't fear, man.

Cost. My mind misgives me plaguily. No coaxing, no
bothering me, faith I

Kite. I coax ! I wheedle ! I'm above it, sir ; I have
served twenty campaigns ; but, sir, you talK well, and I

THE RECRUITINO OFFICER.

241

must own you are a man, every inch of you ; a pretty,
young, sprightly fellow ! — ^but 1 scorn to wheedle any man I
Come, honest lad, will you take share of a pot ?

Cost. Nay, for that matter, I'll spend my penny with
the best he that wears a head ) that is, begging your par-
don, sir, in a fair way.

Kite. Give me your hand, then ; and now, gentlemen, I
have no more to say but this — here's a purse of gold, and
there is a tub of humming ale at my quarters. 'Tis the
king's money, and the king's drink ) he's a generous king
and loves his subjects. 1 hope, gentleman, you won't
refuse the king's health? Hey, boys ! thus we soldiers live-;
drink, sing, dance, play ; we live, as one should say — we
live — 'tis impossible to tell how we live — we are all princes ;
why, why you are a king, you are an emperor, and I'm a
prince } now, ain't we?

Tho. No, sergeant; I'll be no emperor.

Kite. No !

Tho. I'll be a justice of peace,

Kite. A justice of peace, man !

7 ho. Ay, wauns will I ; for since this pressing act, they
are greater than any emperor under the sun.

Kite. Done ; you are a justice of the peace, and you are
a king, and I'm a duke, and a rum duke, an't I ?

Cost. I'll be a queen.

Kite. A queen !

Cost. Ay, of England ; that's greater than any king of
them all.

Kite. Bravely said, faith ! Huzza for the queen. But,
hark ye, you Mr. Justice, and you Mr. Queen, did you ever
see the king's picture ?

Both. No, no, no.

Kite. I wonder at that; I have two of them set in gold,
and as like His Majesty ;— bless the mark 1 see here, they
are set in gold.

Takes two broad pieces out of his pocket; presents one
to each.

Tho. The wonderful works of nature! [looking at i<.]
What's this written about? here's a posy, I believe. Ca-
ro-lus ! what's that, sergeant ?

Kite. Oh, Carolus? why, Carolus is Latin for King
George ; that's all.

Cost. 'Tis a fine thing to be a scoUard. Ser^ )ant, will
you part with this ? I'll buy it on you, if ybu come within
the compass of a crown.

242

THE REORUITINO OFFICER.

Kite. A crown! never talk of buying; 'tis ihe same
thing among friends, you know. I'll present them to ye
both : you shall give me as good a thing. Put them up,
and remember your old friend when I'm over the hills and
far away.

Enter Plume the Eecruiting Officer.

Plume. Come on, my men of mirth, away with it ; I'll
make onfi among you. Who are these hearty lads ?

Kite. Off with your hats ; 'ounds ! off with your hats •
this is the captain ; the captain.

Tho. We have seen captains afore now, mun.

Cost. Ay, and lieutenant-captains too. 'SfleshI I'll
keep on my nab.

Tho. And I'se scarcely doff mine for any captain in
England. My vether's a freeholder.

Plume. Who are those jolly lads, sergeant ?

Kite. A couple of honest, brave fellows, that are wiljing
to serve their king : I have entertained them just now as
volunteers, under your honour's command.

Plume. And good entertainment they shall have : vol-
unteers are the^nen I want ; those are the men fit to make
soldiers, captains, generals.

Cost. Waunds, Tummas, what's this? are you 'listed?
Flesh ! not I ; are you, Costar ?
Waunds, not I.
What 1 not 'listed ? ha, ha, ha 1 a very good jest,

Tho.
Cost.
Kite.
i'faith.
Cost.
Tho.
Kite.

Come, Tummas, we'll go home.
Ay, ay, come.

Home! for shame, gentlemen ; behave yourselves
better before your captain. Dear Thomas ! honest Costar !

Tho. No, no, we'll be gone.

Kite. Nay, then, I command you to stay ; I place you
both sentinels in this place for two hours, to watch the
motion of St. Mary's clock you, and you the motion of St
Chad's; and he that dares stir from his post till he be
relieved, shall have my sword through him the next
minute.

Plume. What's the matter, sergeant? I'm afraid you
are too rough with these gentlemen.

Kite. I'm too mild, pir; they disobey command, sir;
and one of them should be shot for an example to the
other. They deny their being 'listed.

Tho. Nay, sergeant, we don' t downright deny it neither ?

TnE RECRUITING OFFICER.

243

that we dare not do, for fear of being shot ; but we humbly
conceive in a civil way, and begging your worship's pardon,
that we may go home.

Plume. That's easily known. Have either of you re-
ceived any of the King's money ?

Cost. Not a brass farthing, sir.

Kite. They have each of them received one-and-twenty
shillings, and 'tis now in their pockets.

Cost. Waunds ! if I have a penny in my pocket but a
bent sixpence, I'll be content to be 'listed, and shot in the
bargain.

Tho. And 1 1 look ye here, sir.

Cost. Nothing but the king's picture, that the sergeant
gave me just now.

Kite. See there, a guinea; one-and-twenty shillings ;
t'other has the fellow on't.

Flume. The case is plain, gentlemen, the goods are
found upon you. Those pieces of gold are worth one-and-
twenty shillings each.

Cost. So il seems that Carolus is oneand-twonty shil-
lings in Latin?

Tho. 'Tis the same thing in Greek, for we are 'listed.

Cost. Flesh 1 but we an' t, Tummas, I desire to be car-
ried before the mayor, captain.

[Captain and sergeant whisper the while.

Plume. 'Twill never do, Kite ; your tricks will ruin me
at last. I won't loose the fellows though, if I can help it
— Well, gentlemen, there must be some trick in this ; my
sergeant offers to take his oath that you are fairly 'listed.

Tho. Why, captain we know that you soldiers have more
liberty of conscience than other folks ; but for me or
neighbuor Costar here to take such an oath, 'twould be
downright perjuration.

Plume. Look ye, rascal, you villian 1 if I find that you
have imposed on these two honest fellows, I'll trample you
to death, you dog ! Come, how was it ?

Tho. Nay, then we'll speak. Your sergeant as you say,
is a rogue; an't like your worship, begging your worship's
pardon ; and

Cost. Nay, Tummas, let me speak ; you know I can
read. And so, sir, he gave us those two pieces of money
for pictures of the king, by way of a present.

Plume. How? by the way of a present? the rascal I I'll
teach him to abuse honest fellows like you. Scoundrel,
rogue, villian !

244

THE RECRUITING OFFICER.

[Beats off the Sergeant, and follows.

Both. Oh, brave noble captain 1 huzza ! A brave captain,
faith !

Cost. Now, Tummas, Carolus is Latin for a beating. This
is the bravest captain I ever saw. Waunds ! I've a month's
mind to go with him.

Enter Plume.

Plume. A dog, to abuse two such honest fellows as you.
Look ye, gentlemen, 1 love a pretty fellow ; 1 come among
you as an officer to 'list soldiers, not as a kidnapper to steal
slaves.

Cost. Mind that, Tummas.

Plume I desire no man to go with me, but as I went my-
self. I went a volunteer, as you or you may do now ; for a
little time carried a musket, and now I command a com-
pany.

Tko. Mind that, Costar, a sweet gentleman.

Plume. 'Tis true, gentlemen, I might take an advantage
of you; the king's money was in your pockets — my ser-
geant was ready to take his oath you were 'listed ; but I
scorn to do a base thing; you are both of you at your lib-
erty.

Cost. Thank you, noble captain. Ecud, I can't find in
my heart to leave him, he talks so finely.

Tho. Ay, Costar, would he always hold in this mind.

Plume. Come, my lads, one thing more I'll tell you:
you're both young tight fellows, and the army is the place
to make you men for ever : every man has his lot, and you
have yours. What think you of a purse of French gold
out of a monsieur's pocket, after you have dashed out his
brains with the butt end of your firelock, eh?

Cost. Waunds I I'll have it. Captain, give me a shilling;
I'll follow you to the end of the world.

The. Nay, dear Costar ! do'na; be advised.

Plume. Here, my hero ; here are two guineas for thee, as
earnest of what I'll do further for thee.

Tho. Do'na take it; do'na, dear Costar.

[Cries, and pulls back his arm.

Cost. I wull, I wull. Waunds 1 my mind gives me that I
shall be a captain myself: I take your money, sir, and now
I am a gentleman.

Plume. Give me thy hand ; and now you and I will travel
the world o'er, and command it wherever we tread. Bring
your friend with you, if you can. [Aside.

es
bf"

CoMfeDY OF THE GOOb XAfURED MAJf.

^45

Cost. Well, Tummas, must we part ?

Tho. No, Costar, I cannot leave thee. Come, captain,
I'll e'en go along with you too ; and if you have two hon-
ester, simpler lads in your company than we two have
been, I'll say no more.

Plume. Here, my lad. [Gives him money. '\ Now, your
name ?

Tho. Tummas Appletree.

Plume. And yours ?

Cost. Costar Pearmain.

Plume. Well said, Costar. Born where ?

Iho. Both in Herefordshire.

Plume. Very well. Courage, my lads. Kite, take care
of them.

Enter Kite.

Kite. An' t you a couple of pretty fellows, now? Here
you have complained to the captain; lam to be turned
out, and one of you will be sergeant. Which of you is to
have my halberd ?

Both. I.

Kite. So you shall ! March, you scoundrels 1 [Beats
them off. 2

fV;'

FROM THE COMEDY OF THE GOOD NATUEED MAN.

Oliver Goldsmith horn at Pallas, in Longiford, Ireland, No-
vember 10, 112S. Educated at Trinitj/ College, Dtiblin. Died
in the Temple, London, April 4th 1774.

HONrYWOOD AND BaILIFF.

Baillj^ Look-ye, sir, I have arrested as good men as
you in my time ; no disparagement of you, neither. Men
that would go forty guineas on a game of cribbage. I chal-
lenge the town to show a man in more genteeler practice
than myself.

Honeywood. Without all question, Mr. . I forget your

name, sir.

Bailif. How can you forget what you never knew? He I
he 1 he'l

Honeywood. May I beg leave to ask your name ?

Bailiff. Yes, you may.

Honeywood. Then, pray, sir, what is your name ?

Bailiff. That I didn't promise to tell you. He I he ! he !

fW^~

246

COMEDY Otf tHE GOOD NATURED MA.V.

A joke breaks no bones, as we say among us that practise
the law.

Honey wood. You may have reason for keeping it a
secret, perhaps.

Bailiff. The law does nothing without reason. I'm
ashamed to tell my name to no man, sir. If you can show
cause, as why, upon a certain capus, that I should prove

my name . But, come, Timothy Twitch is my name.

And, now you know my name, what have you to say to that ?

Honeywood. I^othing in the world, good Mr. Twitch, but
that I have a favour to ask, that's all.

Bailiff. Ay, favours are more easily asked than granted,
as we say among us that practise the law. I have taken an
oath against granting favours. Would you have me perjure
myself?

Honeywood. Bnt my request will come recommended in
so strong a manner, as, I believe, you'll have no scruple.
{Pulling out his purse.) The thing is only this: I believe
1 shall be able to discharge this trifle in two or three days
at farthest : but as I would not have the affair known for
the world, I have thought of keeping you, and your good
friend here, about me till the debt is discharged ; for which
I shall be properly grateful.

Bailiff. Oh I that's another maxum, and altogether
within my oath. For certain, if an honest man is to get
anything by a thing, there's no reason why all things should
not be done in civility.

Honeywood. Doubtless all trades must live, Mr. Twitch)
and yours is a necessary one. (Gives him money.)

Bailiff. Oh! your honour; I hope your honour takes
nothing amiss as I does, as I docs nothing but my duty in
so doing. I'm sure no man can say I ever give a gentle-
man, ill usage. If I saw that a gentleman, was a gentleman,
I have taken money not to see him for ten woeks together.

Honeyioood. Tenderness is a virtue, Mr. 'J v itch.

Bailiff. Ay, sir, it's a perfect treasure. 1 love to see a
gentleman with a tender heart. I don't know, but I think I
have a tender hep>rt myself. If all that I have lost by my
heart was put together, it would make a — but no matter
for that.

Honeywood. Don't account it lost, Mr. Twitch. The
ingratitude of the world can never deprive us of the con-
scious happiness of having acted with humanity ourselves.

Bailiff. Humanity, sir, is a jewel. It's better than gold.
I love liumanity. People mny say that we, in our way,

lia
m(
a

for

POA

her

con

Smc

COMEDY OF THE GOOD NAT0RED MAN.

247

liave no humanity; but I'll show you my humanity this
moment. There's my follower h( e, little Flanigan, with
a wife and four children : a guinea or two would be more to
him than twice as much to another. Now, as I can't show
him any humanity myself, I must beg leave you'll do it
for me.

Honeywood. I assure you, Mr. Twitch, yours is a most
powerful recommendation. {Giving money to the Follower.)

Bailiff. Sir, you're a gentleman. I see you know what
to do with your money. But to business : we are to be
here as your friends, I suppose. But yet in case company
come? Tiittle Flanigan here, to be sure, has a good face ;
^ood face; but then, he is a little seedy, as we say
ong us that practise the law. Not well in clothes.
Smoke the pocket-holes. '

Honey woo J Well, that shall be remedied without delay.

Enter Servant.

Servant. Sir, Miss Richland i^ below.

Honeywood. How unlucky I Detain her a moment. We
must i iijuo;e my good i'riend, little Mr. Flanigan s appear-
ance fin t. I lere, let Mr. Flanigan have a suit of my clothes
— quick — the brown and silver. Do you hear ?

Servant. That your honour gave away to the begging
gentleman that makes verses, because it was as good as new.

Honeywood. The white and gold, then.

Servant. That, your honour, I made bold to sell, because
it was good for nothing.

Honeywood. Well, the first that comes to hand, then :
the blue and gold. I believe Mr. Flanigan will look best
in blue. ( Fxit Flanigan).

Bailiff^. Rabbit me, but little Flafiigan will look well in
anytliing. Ah, if your honour knew that bit of flesh as
well as i do, you'd be perfectly in love with him. There's
not a prettier scout in the four counties after a shy-cock
than he. Scents like a hound ; sticks like a weasel. He
was master of the ceremonies to the black Queen of Mo-
rocco, when I took him to follow me. (Re-enter Flanigan.)
Heh, I think he looks so well, that I don't care if I have a
suit from the same place for myself.

Honeywood. Well, well, I hoar the lady coming. Dear Mr.
Twitch, I beg you'll give your friend directions not to speak.
As for yourself, I know you will say nothing without being
directed.

Bailiff. Never you fear me, I'll show the lady that I

m^n

.ii«..j»<

248

COMEDY OP THE GOOD NATURED MAN.

have something to say for myself as well as another. One
man has one way of talking, and another man has another j
that's all the difference between them.

Enter Miss Kichland and her Maid.

Miss Rich. You'll be surprised, sir, with this visit. But
you know I'm yet to thank you for choosing my little
library.

Honeywood. Thanks, madam, are unnecessary, as it was
I that was obliged by your commands. Chairs here. Two
of my very good friends, Mr. Twitch and Mr. Flanigan.
Pray, gentlemen, sit without ceremony.

Miss Rich, Who can these odd-looking men be ? I fear
it is as I was informed. It must be so. (aside).

Bailiff. (After a pause.) Pretty weather, very pretty
weather, for the year, madam.

Follower. Very good circuit weather in the country.

Boneywood. You officers are generally favourites among
the ladies. My friends, madam, have been upon very dis-
agreeable duty, I assure you. The fair should, in some
measure, recompense the toils of the brave.

Miss Rich. Our officers do indeed deserve every favour.
The gentlemen are in the marine service, I presume, sir?

Honeywood. Why, Madam, they do occasionally serve
in the Fleet, madam : a dangerous service.

Miss Rich. I'm told so. And I own it has often surprised
me that, while we have had so many instances of bravery
there, we have had so few of wit at home to praise it.

Honeywood. I grant, madam, that our poets have not
written as our soldiers have fought ; but they have done all
they could, and Mawke or Amherst could do no more.

Miss Rich. I'm quite displeased when I see a tine sub-
ject spoiled by a dull writer.

Honeywood. We should not be so severe against dull
writers, madam. It is ten to one, but the dullest writer
exceeds the most rigid French critic who presumes to des-
pise him.

Follower. Hang the French, the parle-vous, and all that
belong to them 1

Miss Rich. Sir !

Honeywood. Ha! ha I hal honest Mr. Flanigan. A true
English officer, madam; he's not contented with beating
the French, but he will scold them too.

Miss Rich. Yet, Mr. Honeywood, this does not convince
me but that severity in criticism is necessary. It was our

first

the
B

eers
M
Fi

— th

COMEDY OP tHE GOOD NATURED MAK.

240

first adopting the severity of French taste that has brought
them in turn to taste us.

Bailiff. Taste us, madam ! they devour us. Give Mons-
eers but a taste, and they come in for a bellyful.

Miss Rich. Very extraordinary, this.

Follower. But very true. What makes the bread rising?
— the parle-vous that devour us. What makes mutton five-
pence a pound? — the parle-vous that eat it up. What
makes the beer threepence-halfpenny a pot

Honeywood. Ah ! the vulgar rogues ! All will be out.
(aside). Right, gentlemen, very right, upon my word, and
quite to the purpose. They draw a parallel, madam,
between the mental taste and that of our senses. We are
injured as much by French severity in the one, as by French
rapacity in the other. That's their meaning..

Miss Rich. Though I don't see the force of the parallel,
yet I'll own that we should sometimes pardon books, as we
do our friends, that have now and then agreeable absur-
dities to recommend them.

Bailiff. That's all my eye. The king only can pardon,
as the law says ; for set in case

Honeywood I'm quite of your opinion, sir. I see the
whole drift of your argument. Yes, certainly, our presum-
ing to pardon any work is arrogating the power that belongs
to another. If all have power to condemn, what writer
can be free ?

Bailiff. By his habus corpus. His habus corpus can set
him free at any time. For set in case

Honeyioood. I'm obliged to you, sir, for the hint. If,
madam, as my friend observes, our laws are so careful of a
gentleman's person, sure we ought to be equally careful
of his dearer part, his fame.

Follower. Ay, but if so be a man's nabbed, you know

Honeywood. Mr. Flanigan, if you spoke for ever, you
could not improve the last observation. For my own part,
I think it conclusive.

Bailiff. As for the matter of that, mayhap

Honeywood. Nay, sir, give me leave in this instance to
be positive. For where is the necessity of censuring works
without genius, which must shortly sink of themselves ?
what is it, but aiming an unnecessary blow against a victim
already under the hands of justice ?

Bailiff. Justice ! Oh, by the elevens, if you talk about
justice, I think I am at home there; for, in a course of
law— —

■ i

250

COMEDY OP tHE GOOD NATtRED UA.it.

Honeywood. My dear Mr. Twitch, I discern what you'd
be at perfectly, and I believe the lady must be sensible of
the art with which it is introduced. I suppose you perceive
the meaning,, madam, of his course of law ?

Miss Rich. I protest, sir, I do not. I perceive only that
you answer one gentleman before he has finished, and the
other before he has well begun.

Bailiff. Madam, you are a gentlewoman, and I will make
the matter out. This here question is about severity, and
justice, and pardon, and the like ot they. Now, to explain
the thing

Honeywood. Hang your explanations, {aside)

Enter Servant.

Servant. Mr. Leontine, sir, below, desires to speak with
you upon earnest business.

Honeywood. That's lucky, (aside.) Dear madam, you'll
excuse me and my good friends here for a few minutes.
There are books, madam, to amuse you. Come, gentlemen,
you know I make no ceremony with such friends. After
you, sir. Excuse me. Well, if I must j but I know your
natural politeness.

Bailiff. Before and behind, you know.

Follower. Ay, a,y, before and behind — before and behind !

(Exeunt Honeywood, Bailiff, aiid Follower.)

Miss Rich. What can all this mean, Garnet ?

Garnet. Mean, madam ? why, what should it mean, but
what Mr. Lofty sent you here to see ? These people he calls
officers are officers sure enough : sheriff's officers— bailiffs,
madam.

Miss Rich. Ay, it is certainly so. Well, though his per-
plexities are far from giving me pleasure yet I own there's
something very ridiculous in them, and a just punishment
for his dissimulation.

Garnet. And so they are. But I wonder, madam, that
the lawyer you just employed to pay his debt and set him
free, has not done it by this time. He ought at lea<t to
have been here before now. But lawyers are always more
ready to get a man into troubles than out of them.

Comedy of she stoops to conquer.

251

SCENES FROM THE COMEDY OF " SHE STOOPS TO

CONQUER. "

liffs,

GOLDSMITH.

I. Chamber in an old-fashioned House.
Mrs. Hardcastle and Mr. Hardoastle.

Mrs. Hard. I vow, Mr. Hardcastle, you're very particular.
Is there a creature in the whole country but ourselves, that
does not take a trip to town now and then, to rub off the
rust a little ? There's the two Miss Hoggs, and our neigh-
bour Mrs. Grigsby, go to take a month's polishing every
winter.

Hard. Ay, and bring back vanity and affectation to last
them the whole year. I wonder why London cannot keep
its own fools at home ! In my time, the follies of the town
crept slowly among us, but now they travel faster than a
stage-coach : its fopperies come down not only as inside
passengers, but in the very basket.

Mrs. Hard. Ay, your times were fine times indeed ; you
have been telling us of them for many a long year. Here
we live in an old rumbling mansion, that looks for all the
world like an inn, but that we never see company. Our
best visitors are old Mrs. Oddfish, the curate's wife, and.
little Cripplegate, the lame dancing-master ; and all our
entertainment your old stories of Prince Kugene and the
Duke of Marlborough. 1 hate such old-fashioned trum-
pery.

Hard. And I love it. I love every thing that's old :
old friends, old times, old manners, old books, old wine ;
and, I believe, Dorothy, (taking her hand) you'll own I have
been pretty fond of an old wife.

Mrs. Hard. Mr. Hardcastle, you're for ever at your Do-
rothys and your old wifes. You may be a Darby, but I'll
be no Joan, I promise you I'm not so old as you'd make
me, by one good year. Add twenty to twenty, and make
mone f of that.

Hard. Let me see ; twenty added to twenty makes just
fifty and seven.

Mrs. Hard. It's false, Mr Hardcastle : I was but twenty
when Vony was born, that 1 had by Mr. Lumpkin, my first
husband | and he's not come to years of discretion yet.

J?A

^. m

252

CiOMEDt OP SHE StOOPS tO OOl^Qttfift.

Sard. Nor ever will, I dare answer for him. Ay, you
have taught him finely.

Mrs. Hard. No matter. Tony Lumpkin has a good for-
tune. My son is not to live by his learning. I don't think
a boy wants much learning to spend fifteen hundred a
year.

Hard. Learning, quotha ! A mere composition of tricks
and mischief.

Mrs. Hard. Humour, my dear : nothing but humour.
Come, Mr. Hardcastle, you must allow the boy a little
humour.

Hard. I'd sooner allow him an horse-pond. If burning
the footmen's shoes, frightening the maids, and worrying
the kittens be humour, he has it. It was but yesterday he
fastened my wig to the back of my chair, and when I went
to make a bow I popt my bald head in Mrs. Grizzle's face.

Mrs. Hard. And am I to blame ? The poor boy was al-
ways too sickly to do any good. A school would be his
death. When he comes to be a little stronger, who knows
what a year or two's Latin may do for him ?

Latin for him,
and the stable

A cat and a fiddle. No, no, the

are the only schools he'll ever

Hard.
alehouse
go to.

Mrs. Hard. Well, we must not snub the boy now, for I
believe we shan't have him long among us. Any body that
looks in his face may see he's consumptive.

Mard. Ay, if growing too fat be one of the symptoms.

Mrs. Hard. He coughs sometimes.

Hard. Yes, when his liquor goes the wrong way.

Mrs. Hard. I'm actually afraid of his lungs.

Hard. And truly so am I ; for he sometimes whoops like
a speaking trumpet — (Tony halloes) — O, there he goes — a
very consumptive figure, truly.

Enter Tony.

Mrs. Hard. Tony, where are you going, my charmer?
Won't you give papa and I a little of your company, lovee ?

Tony. I'm in haste, mother, I cannot stay.

Mrs. Hard. You shan't venture out this raw evening,
my dear : you look most shockingly.

Tony. I can't stay, I tell you. The Three Pigeons ex-
pects me down every moment. There'some fun going for-
ward.

Hard. Ay ; the alehouse, the old place : I thought io.

Mrs. Hard. A low, paltry set of fellows.

excil

that!
pewj

nighl
Toi

COMEDY OF SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER.

253

Tony, Not so low neither. There's Dick Muggins the
exciseman, Jack Wlang the horse doctor, little Aminadab
that grinds the music box, and Tom Twist that spins the
pewter platter.

if*"*. Hard. — Pray, -my dear, disappoint them for one
night, at least.

Tony. As for disappointing them I should not so much
Oiind ; but I can't abide to disappoint myself.

Mrs. Hard. You shan't go.

Tony. I will, I tell you.

Mrs. Hard. I say you shan't.

Tony. We'll see which is strongest, you or I.
[hauling her out.^

Hard, solus. Ay, there goes a pair that only spoil each
other. But is not the whole age in a combination to drive
sense and discretion out of doors ?

II. Scene, an old-fashioned House.

Enter Hardcastlb, followed by three or four awkward Ser-
vants.

Hard. Well, I hope you are perfect in the table exercise
I have been teaching you these three days. You all know
your posts and your places, and can shew that you have
been used to good company, without ever stirring from
home.

Omnes. Ay, ay.

Hard. When company comes, you are not to pop out
and stare, and then run in again, like frighted rabbits in a
warren.

Omnes. No, no.

Bard. You, Diggory, whom I have taken from the barn,
are to make a show at the side- table; and you, Eoger,
whom I have advanced from the plough, are to place your-
self behind my chair. But you're not to stand so, with
your hands in your pockets. Take your hands from your
pockets, Roger ; and from your head, you blockhead you.
See how Diggory carries his hands. They're a little too
stiff, indeed, but that's no great matter.

Dig. Ay, mind how I hold them. I learned to hold my
hands this way, when I was upon drill for the militia. And
so being upon drill

Hard. You must not be so talkative, Diggory. You
must be all attention to the guests. You must hear us talk,
and not think Of talking | you must see us drink, and not

Iff m"

254

COMKDY OF SHE STOOHS TO CONQUER.

think of drinking J you must see us eat, and not think of
eating.

Dig. By the laws, your worship, that's perfectly unpos-
sible. Whenever Diggory sees yeating going forward, he's
always wishing for a mouthful himself.

Hard. Blockhead ! I^ not a stomach- full in the kitchen
as good as a stomach-full in the parlour ? Stay your appe-
tite with that reflection.

Dig. I thank your worship, I'll make shift to stay my
appetite with a slice of cold beef in the pantry.

Hard. Diggory, you are too talkative. Then if I hap-
pen to say a good thing, or tell a good story at table, you
must not all burst out a-laughing, as if you made part of
the company.

Dig. Then your worship must not tell the story of the old
grouse in the gun room : 1 can't help laughing at that —
he ! he ! he ! — for the soul of me. We have laughed at that
these twenty years — ha ! ha I ha !

Hard. Ha I ha 1 ha ! The story is a good one. Well,
honest Diggory, you may laugh at that — but still remember
to be attentive. Suppose one of the company should call
for a glass of wine, how will you behave t A glass of wine,
sir, if you please. {To Diggory) — Eh, why don't you move

Dig. Your worship, I never have courage till I see the
eatables and drinkables brought upo' the table, and then
I'm as bauld as a lion.

Hard. What, will nobody move ?

First Serv. I'm not to leave this place.

tSecond Serv. I'm sure it's no place of mine.

Third Serv. Nor mine, for sartain.

Dig. Wauns, and I'm sure it canna be mine.

Hard. You numbskulls 1 and so while, like your betters,
you are quarrelling for places, the guests must be starved.

O you dunces 1 I find I must begin all over again But

don't I hear a coach drive into the yard ? To your posts,
you blockheads. I'll go inrthe meantime and give my old
friend's son a hearty reception at the gate.

lExii Hardcastle.

Dig. By the elevens, my place has gone quite out of my
head.

JRog. I know that my place is to bfe everywhere.

First Serv. Where is mine ?

Second Serv. My place is to be nowhere at all ; and so
ize go about my business. [Exeunt servants, running about
«* ^frighfedf different ways.

yaMttf^v^i-'J.;

COMEDY OF 8HB STOOPS TO CONQUER.

255

Enter Servant loith Candles, shewing in Marlow and Hast-
ings, who have been directed to Mr. Hardcastle^s house
as to an inn, by a trick of Tony Lumpkin^ s.

Serv. Welcome, gentlemen, very welcome ! This way.

Hast. After the disappointments of the day, welcome
once m'^re Charles, to the comforts of a clean room, and a
good fi Upon my word, a very well- looking house j an-
tique bu creditable.

Mar. The usual fate of a large mansion. Having first
ruined the master by good housekeeping, it at last comes
to levy contributions as an inn.

Hast. As you say, we passengers are to be taxed to pay
all these fineries. I have often seen a good sideboard, or
a marble chimney-piece, though not actually put in the
bill, inflame a reckoning confoundedly.

Mar. Travellers, George, must pay in all places. The
only diflference is, that in good inns you pay dearly for
luxuries ; in bad inns you are fleeced and .starved.

Hast. You have lived pretty much among them. In
truth I have been often surprised, that you, who have seen
BO much of the world, with your natural good sense, and
your many opportunities, could never yet acquire a requi-
site share of assurance.

Mar. The Englishman's malady. But tell me, George,
where could I have learned that assurance you talk of?
My life has been chiefly spent in a college or an inn, in
seclusion from that lovely part of the creation that chiefly
teach men confidence. 1 don't know that I was ever
familiarly acquainted with a single modest woman— except
my mother.

Hast. In the company of ladies I never saw such an
idiot, such a trembler ; you look for all the world as if you
wanted an opportunity of stealing out of the room.

Mar. Why, man, that's because I do want to steal out
of the room. Faith, I have often formed a resolution to
break the ice, and rattle away at any rate. But I don't
know how, a single glance from a pair of fine eyes has totally
overset my resolution. An impudent fellow may counter-
feit modesty : But I'll be hanged if a modest man can ever
counterfeit impudence.

Hast. If you could but say half the fine things to them,
that I have heard you lavish upon the bar maid of an inn —

Mar. Why, George, I can' t say fine things to them :
they freeze, they petrify me. They may talk of a comet,

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256

COMEDY OF SHE STOOPS TO CONQURR.

or a burning mountain, or some such bagatelle. But to me,
a modest woman, drest out in all her finery, is the most
tremendous object of the whole creation.

Hast. Ha ! ha 1 ha I At this rate, man, how can you ever
expect to marry?

Mar. Never, unless as among kings and princes, my
bride were to be courted by proxy. If, indeed, like an
eastern bridegroom, one were to be introduced to a wife
he never saw before, it might be endured. But to go
through all the terrors of a formal courtship, together with
the episode of aunts, grandmothers and cousins, and at
last to blunt out the broad staring question of Madam, will
you marry me? No, no, that's a strain much above me, I
assure you.

Hast. I pity you. But how do you intend behaving to
the lady you are come down to visit at the request of your
father ?

Mar. As I behave to all other ladies. Bow very low.
Answer yes or no to all her demands. But for the rest, 1
don't think I shall venture to look in her face till I see my
father's again.

Enter Hardcastle.

Hard. Gentlemen, once more you are heartily welcome.
Which is Mr. Marlow ? Sir, you are heartily welcome. It's
not my way, you see, to receive my friends with my back
to the fire. I like to give them a hearty reception in th^
oil style at my gate. I like to see their horses and trunks
taken care of.

Mar. (Aside.) He has got our names from the servants
already. (To him.) We approve your caution and hospi
tality, Sir. (To Hastings.) I have been thinking, George,
of changing our travelling dresses in the morning. I am
grown confoundedly ashamed of mine.

Hard. I beg, Mr. Marlow, you'll use no ceremony in
this house.

Hast. I fancy George, you're right: the first blow is
half the battle. I intend opening the campaign with the
white and gold.

Hard. Mr. Marlow — Mr. Hastings—gentlemen — pray be
under no restraint in this house. This is Liberty-hall, gen-
tlemen. You may do just as you/i^lease here.

Mar. Yet, George, if we open the campaign too fiercely
at first, we may want ammunition before it is over. I think
to reserve the embroidery to ijocure a retreat.

COMEDY. OF SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER.

257

ou ever

very

Hard. Your talking of a retreat, Mr. Marlow, puts mo
in mind of the Duke of Marlborough, when we went to be-
siege Denain. He first summoned the garrison.

Har. Don't you think the ventre cCor waistcoat will do
with the plain brown ?

Hard. He first summoned the garrison, which might
consist of about five thousand men

Hast. I think not: brown and yellow mix but
poorly.

Hard. I say, gentlemen, as I was tolling you, he sum-
moned the garrison, which might consist of about five thou-
sand men

Har. The girls like finery.

Hard. Which might consist of about five thousand men,
well apiiointed, with stores, ammunition and other imple-
ments of war. Now, says the Duke of Marlborough to
George Brooks, that stood next to him— you must have
heard of George Brooks— I'll pawn my dukedom, says he,
but I'll take that garrison without spilling a drop of blood.
So

Har. What, my good friend, if you gave us a glass o\'
punch in the moan time, it would help us to carry ou the
siege with vigour.

Hard. Punch, Sirl (Aside.) This is the most unac-
countable kind of modesty I ever met with.

Har. Yes, Sir, punch. A glass of warm punch, after
our journey will be comfortable. This is Liberty-hall, you
know.

Hard. Here's a cup. Sir.

Har. (Aside.) So this fellow, in his Liberty-hall, will
only let us have just what he pleases.

Hard. (Taking the cup.) I hope you'll find it to your
mind. I have prepared it with my own hands, and I be-
lieve you'll own the ingredients are tolerable. Will you be
so good as to pledge mo, Sir ? Here, Mr. Marlow, here is
to our better acquaintance. (Drinks.)

Har. (Aside.) A very impudent fello / this! but he's a
character, and I'll humour him a little. Sir, my service to
you. (Brinks.)

Hast. (A.Hde.) I see this fellow wants tO give us his
company, and forgets that he's an innkeeper, before he has
l^arnod to be a gentleman.

Har. From the excellence of your cup, my old friend, I
suppose you have a good deal of business in this part of

268

COMEDY OF SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER.

the country. Warm work, dow and then, at elections, I
suppose.

Hard. No, Sir, I have long given that work over. Since
our betters have hit upon the expedient of electing each
other, there is no business ''for us that sell ale."

Hast. So, then, you have no turn for politics, I find.

Hard. Not in the least. There was a time, indeed, I
fretted myself about the mistakes of government, like
other people: but finding myself every day trrow more
angry, and the government growing no better, [ left it to
mend itself. Since that, I no more trouble my head about
Heyder Ally, or Ally Cawn, than about Ally Croaker. Sir,
my service to you.

Hast So that with eating above stairs and drinking
below, with receiving your friends within, and amusing
them without, yOc\ lead a good pleasant bustling life of it.

Hard. I do stir about a good deal, that's certain. Half
the differences of the parish are adjusted in this very par-
lour.

Har. {After drinking.) And you have an argument in
vour cup^ old gentleman, better than any in Westminster-
hall.

Hard. Ay, young gentleman, that, and a little philo-
sophy.

Har. (Aside.) Well, this is the first time I ever heard of
an innkeeper's philosophy.

Aasi. So then, like an experienced general, you attack
them on every quarter. If you find their reason manage-
able, you attack it with your philosophy ; if you find they
have no reason, you attack them with this. Here's your
health, my philosopher. (Drinks.)

Hard. Good, vevy good, thank you : ha ! ha ! Your
generalship puts me in mind of Prince Eugene, when he
fought the Turks at the battle of Belgrade. You shall hoar.

Har. Instead of the battle of Belgrade, I believe it's
almost time to talk about supper. What lias your philo-
sophy got in the house for supper ?

Hard. For supper, Sir! (Aside.) Was ever such a request
to a man in his own house !

Har. Yes, Sir, supper, Sir; I begin to feel an appetite.
I shall make sharp work to night in the larder, I pro-
mise you.

Hard. (Aside.";^ Such a brazen dog sure never my eyes
beheld (To him.) Why really. Sir, as for supper, I can't
well tell. My Dorothy, and the cook- maid, settle these

COMEDY OF SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER.

259

ions, I

Since
ig each

ind.
deed, I
it, like
IV more
3ft it to
d about
31'. Sir,

Irinking
amusing
fe of it.
n. Half
^ery par-

iment in
:minster-

ble philo.

heard of

)U attack
manage-
ind they
e's your

1 Your
when he
all hear,
ievo it's
r philo-

request

ippetite.
[, 1 pro-

|niy eyes

I can't

[q these

things between them. I leave these kind of things entire-
ly io them.
Hav. You do, do you ?

Hard. Entirely. By-the-by, I believe they are in actual
consultation upon what's for supper this moment in the
kitchen.

Har. Then I beg they'll admit me as one of their privy
council. It's away I've got. When I travel, I always choose
to regulate my own supper. Let the cook be called. No
offence, I hope. Sir.

Hard. O no. Sir, none in the least ; yet I don't know
how: our Bridget, the cook-maid, is not very communi-
cative upon these occasions. Should we send for her she
might scold us all out of the house.

Hast. Let's see your list of the larder then. I ask it as
a favour. I always match my appetite to my bill of fare.

Har. ( To Hardcastle, who looks at them loiih surprise )
Sir, he's very right, and it's my way too.

Hard. Sir, you have a right to command here. Here,
Roger, bring us the bill of fare for to night's supper. I be-
lieve it's drawn out. Your manner, Mr. Hastings, puts me
in mind of my uncle. Colonel Wallop. It was a saying of
his, that no man was sure of his supper till he had eaten it.

Hast. (Aside.) All upon the high rope! His uncle a
colonel! wo shall soon hear of his mother beihg a justice of
the peace. But let's hear the bill of fare.

Har. (Perusing.) What's here. For the first course ; for
the second course ; for the desert. The deuce ! Sir, do you
think we have brought down the whole Joiners' company,
or the corporation of Bedford, to eat up such a suf)per?
Two or three little things, clean and comfortable, will do.

Hast. But let's hear it.

Har. (Reading.) For the first course at the top, a pig,
and pruin sauce.

Hast. Hang your pig, I say.

Har. And hang your pruin sauce, say I.

Hard. And yet, gentlemen, to men that are hungry, pig
with pruin sauce is very good eating.

Har. At the bottom a calf's tongue and brains.

Hast. Let your brains be knocked out, my good sir, I
don't like them.

Har. Or you may clap them on a plate by themselves.

Hard. (Aside.) Their impudence confounds me. ( To them)
Gentlemen, you are my guests, make what alterations you
please. Is there anything else yoa wish to retrench or
alter, gentlemen?

260

COMEDY OP THE EIVALS.

Ear. Item. A pork pie, a boiled rabbit and sausages, a
Florentine, a shaking pudding, and a dish of titt^— taff—
taffety cream.

Hast. Confound your made dishes I I shall be as much
at a loss in this house as at a green and yellow dinner at the
French ambassador's table. I'm for plain eating.

Hard. I'm sorry, gentlemen, that I have nothing you
like, but if there be anything you have a particular fancy
to

Har. Why, really. Sir, your bill of fare is so exquisite,
that any one part of it is full as good as another. Send us
what you please. So much for supper. And now to see that
our beds are air'd, and properly taken care of.

Hard. I in treat you'll leave all that to me. You shall
not stir a step.

Har. Leave that to you ! I protest, Sir, you must excuse
me, I always look to these things myself.

Hard. I must insist, Sir, you'll make yourself easy on
that head.

Har. You see I'm resolved on it. {Aside) A very
troublesome fellow this, as I ever met with.

Hard. Well, Sir, I'm resolved at least to attend you.
(Aside) This may be modern modesty, but 1 never saw
anything look so like old-fashioned impudence.

SCENE FEOM THE COMEDY OF <'THE RIVALS."

Richard Briiisley Sheridan, Orator, Dramatist and Statesman.
Born in Dublin 1751. Died 1816.

Bob Acres, a young country squire and David his servant.

Acres. Indeed, David — do you think I become it so ?

Dav. You are quite another creature, believe me, master,
nn' we've luck we shall see thee in all the print -shops in
Bath!

Acres. Dress does make a difference, David.

Dav. 'Tis all in all. I think. — Difference ! why, an' you
were to go now to Clod-hall, I am Certain the old lady
wouldn' t know you : master Butler wouldn't believe his
own eyes, and Mrs. Pickle would cry, Oh 1 presarve me !
our dairymaid would come giggling to the door, and I
warrant would blush like my waistcoat. — I'll hold a gallon,
there an't a dog m the house but would bark, and I quesi-
tion whether Phillis would wag a hair of her tail !

COMEDr OF THE RIVALS.

261

Acres. Ay, David, there's nothing like polishing.

Vav. So I says of your honour's boots ; but the boy never
heeds me I

Acres. But, David, has Mr. De-la-grace been here? I
must rub up my dancing, and chasing, and bowing.

Dav. I'll call again, sir.

Acres. Do — and see if there are any letters for me at
the post-office.

Acres. [Practising a dancing-step.] Sink, slide — coupee —
Confound the first inventors of cotillons ! say I — they are
as bad as algebra to us country gentlemen— I can walk a
minuet easy enough when I am forced ! — and I have been
accounted a good stick in a country dance. Odds jigs and
tabors I I never valued your .cross-over to couple — figure
in — right and left — and I'd foot it^with e'er a captain in
the county ! — but these outlandish heathen allemandes
and cotillons are quite beyond me ! — 1 shall never prosper
at 'em, that's 'sure — mine are true-born English legs —
they don't understand their French lingo ! — their pas this,
and pas th'At, and pas t'other! my feet don't like to be
called paws ! no, 'tis certain I have most Antigallican toes !

Enter Sir Lucius O'Trigger.

Sir Luc. Mr. Acres, I am delighted to embrace you.

Ac7'es. My dear Sir Lucius, I kiss your hands.

Sir Luc. Pray, my friend, what has brought you so sud-
denly to Bath ?

Acres. I have followed Cupid's Jack-a-lantern, and find
myself in a quagmire at last. — In short I have been very
ill used, Sir Lucius. — I don't choose to mention names,
but look on me as on a very ill-used gentleman.

Sir Luc. Pray what is the case ? — I ask no names.

Acres. Mark me, Sir Lucius, I fall as deep as need be
in love with a young lady — her friends take my part--
1 follow her to Bath — send word of my arrival ; and receive
answer, that the lady is to be otherwise disposed of. —
This, Sir Lucius, I call being ill-used.

Sir Luc. Very ill, upon my conscience. — Pray, can you
divine the cause of it ?

Acres. Why, there's the matter; she has another lover,
one Bev^erley, who, I am told, is now in Bath. — Odds slan-
ders and lies I be must be at the bottom of it.

Sir Luc. A rival in the case, is there ? — and you think
he has supplanted you unfairly ?

262

COMEDY OF THE RIVALS.

Acres. Unfairly 1 to be sure he has. Il6 never could
have done it fairly.

Sir Luc. Then sure you know what is to be done !

Acres. Not I, upon my word !

Sir Luc. We wear no swords here, but you understand
me.

Acres. What! fight him I

Sir Luc. Ay, to be sure what can I mean else ?

Acres. But he has given me no provocation.

Sir Luc. Now, I think he has given you the greatest
provocation in the world. Can a man commit a more
heinous offence agahist another than to fail in love with
the same woman ? Oh, by my word it is the mo:>t un-
pardonable breach of friendship.

Acres. Breach of friendship ! ay, ay ; but I have no ac-
quaintance with this man. I never saw him in my life.

Sir Luc. That's no argument at all — he has the less right
then to take such a liberty.

Acres. That's true — I grow full of anger, Sir Lucius ! — I
fire apace ! Odds hilts and blades ! I find a man may have
a deal of valour in him, and not know it! But couldn't I
contrive to have a little right of my side ?

Sir Luc. What signifies right, when your honour is con-
cerned ? Do you think Achilles, or my little Alexander
the Great, ever inquired where the right lay ? No, they
drew their broad-swords, and left the lazy sons of peace to
settle the justice of it.

Acres. Your words are a grenadiers march to my heart :
I believe courage must be catching ! I certainly do feel a
kind of valour rising as it were — a kind of courage as I
may say. — Odds, flints, pans, and triggers ! I'll challenge
him directly.

Sir Iaic. Ah, my little friend, if I had Blunderbuss Hall
here, I could show you a range of ancestry, in the O'Trig-
ger line, that would furnish the new room 5 every one of
whom had killed his man ! — For though the mansion-house
and dirty acres have slipped through my fingers, I thank
heaven our honour and the family pictures are as fresh as
ever.

Aci'es.. O, Sir Lucius ! I have had ancestors too ! — eve^-y
man of 'em colonel or captain in the militia! — Odds balls
and barrels ! say no more — I'm braced for it. The thunder
of your words has soured the milk of human kindness in
my breast; . .Zounds ! as the man in the play says, I could
do such deeds I

sh
b(

COMEDY OF THE RIVALS.

263

Sir Luc. Oome, come, there must be no passion at all
in this case— these things should always be done civilly.

Acres. I must be in a passion, Sir Lucius— -I must be in
a rage.---Dear Sir Locius, let me be in a rage, if you
love me. Come, here's pen and paper. [*St7s doicn toiorite.^
I would the inic were red! — Indite, I say indite! — How
shall I begin ? Odds bullets and blades 1 I' 11 write a good
bold hand, however.

Sir Luc. Pray compose yourself.

Acres- Come — now, shall I begin with an oath ? Do, 8ir
Lucius, let me begin with a

Sir Lnc. Pho ! pho ! do the thing decently, and like
Christian. Begin now — Sir

Acres. That's too civil by half.

Sir Luc. To prevent the confusion thai might arise

Acres. Well

Sir Taic. From our both addressing the same lady

Acres. Ay, there's the reason — sam,oAady — well

Sir Luc. I shall expect the honour of your company

Acres. Zounds ! I'm not asking him to dinner.

Sir Luc. Pray be easy.

Acres. Well then, honour of your company——

Sir Lnc. To settle our pretensions

Acres. Well.

Sir Luc. Let me see, ay, King's-Mead-Fiold will do — i
King^ s- Mead- Fieldsx

Acres. So that's done — Well, I'll fold it up presently ;
my own crest — a hand and dagger shall be the seal.

Sir Iaic. You see now tliis little ex[)lanation will put a
stop at once to all confusion or
might arise bolween you.

Acres. Ay, we fight to prevent any misunderstanding.

Sir Iaic. Now, I" 11 leave you to lix your own time. — Tak^i
my advice, and you'll decide it this evening if you can ;
then let the worst come of it, 'twill be oil' your mind to-
morrow.

Acres. Very true. •

Sir. Luc. So I shall see nothing more of you, unless it be
bo by letter, till the evening. — I would do myself the
honour to carry your message ; but, to tell you a secret, I
believe I shall have just such another affair on my own
hands. Th^re is a gay captain here, who put a jost on me
lately, at the expense of my country, and I only want to
fall in with the gentleman to call him out.

Acres. By my valour, I should like to see you fight first I

misunderstanding that

y' llM

264

COMEDY OP THE RIVAtS.

Odds life ! I should like to see you kill him, if it was
only to get a little lesson.

Sir Luc. I shall be very proud of instructing. — Well for
the present — but remember now, when you meet your an-
tagonist, do everything in a mild and agreeable manner, —
Let your courage be as keen, but at the same time as pol-
ished, as your sword. [Exit.

Re-enter David.

Dav. Sir. 1 would do no such thing— ne'er a Sir Lucius
O'Trigger in the kingdom should make me light, when I
wa'n't so minded. Oons ! what will the old lady say, when
she hears o't?

Acres. Ah ! David, if you had heard Sir Lucius I — Odds
sparks and flames ! he would have roused your valour.

Dav. Not he, indeed. I hate such bloodthirsty cormor-
rants. Look'ee, master, if you'd wanted a bout at boxing,
quarter-stalf, or short-staff, I should never be the man to
bid you cry off: but for your curst sharps and snaps, I never
knew any good come of 'em.

Acres. But my honour, David, my honour ! I must be
very careful of my honour.

Dav. Ay ! and I would be very careful of it ; and I think
in return my honour couldn't do less than to be very care-
ful of me.

Acres. Odds blades ! David, no gentleman will ever risk
the loss of his honour !

Dav. I say then, it would be but civil in honour never to
risk the loss of a gentleman. — Look'ee, master, this lionour
seems to me to be a marvellous false friend : ay, truly, a
very courtier like servant. — Put the case, I was a gentle-
man (which, no one can say of me;) well — my honour
makes me quavrel with another gentleman of my acquain-
tance. — So — we fight. (Pleasant enough that !) Boh ! — I
kill him — (the more's my luck !) now, pray who gets the
profit of it? — Why, my honoui*. But put the case that he
Jvills me ! — by the mass ! I go to the worms, and my honour
whips over to my enemy.

Acres. No, David — in that case! — Odds crowns and
laurels I your honour follows you to the grave.

Dav. Now, that's just the place where I could make a
shift to do without it.

Acres. Zounds ! David, you are a coward ! — It doesn't bo-
come my valour to listen to you. — What, shall I disgrace

ger.

COMEDY OF THE RIVALS.

266

was

and
lake a

bgrace

my ancestors? — Think of that, David — think what it would
be to disgrace my ancestors !

Dao. Under favour, the surest way of not disgracing
them, is to keep as long as you can out of their company.
Look'ee now, master, to go to them in such haste — with an
ounce of lead in your brains — I should think might as well
be let alone. Our ancestors are very good kind of folks ;
but they are the last people I should choose to have a visit-
ing acquaintance with.

Acres. But David, now, you don't think there is such
very, very, very great danger, hey? — Odds life! people
often fight without any mischief done !

Dav. By the mass, I think 'tis ten to one against you!—
Oons! here to meet some lion -headed fellow, I warrant,
with his double-barrelled swords, and cut-and-thrust pis-
tols ! — Bless us 1 it makes me tremble to think o't ! — Those
be such desperate bloody-minded weapons 1 Well, I never
could abide 'em — from a child I never could fancy 'em ! —
I suppose there a'nt been so merciless a beast in the world
as your loaded i)istol !

Acres. Zounds ! I won't be afraid 1 — Odds fire and fury 1
you shan't make me afraid. — Here is the challenge, and I
have sent for my dear friend Jack Absolute to carry it ibr
me.

Dav. Ay, i 'the name of mischief, let him be the messen-
ger. — For my part, 1 wouldn't lend a hand to it for the best
horse in your stable. By the mass ! it don't look like ano-
ther letter ! It is, as I may say, a designing and malicious*
looking letter ; and 1 warrant smells of gunpowder like a
.soldier's pouch ! — Oons ! I wouldn't swear it mayn't go off!

Acres. Out, you poltroon ! you ha'nt the valour of a grass-
hopper.

DiW. Well, I say no more — 'twill be sad news, to be sure,
at Clod-Hall I but 1 ha' done. — How Phillis will howl when
she hears of it ! — Ay, poor dog, she little thinks what shoot-
ing her master's going after 1 And I warrant old Crop, who
has carried your honour, field and road, these ten years, will
curse the hour he was born. [ Whimpering.

Acres. It won't do, David — I am determined to fight — so
get along you coward, while I 'm in the mind.

Enter Captain Absolute.

Ahs. What's the matter. Bob?

Acres. A vile, sheep-hearted blockhead ! If I hadn't tho
valour of St. George and the dragon to boot

^In^

266

COMEDY OF THE RIVALS.

Ahs. But what did you want with me, Bob ?

Acres. Oh ! — ^There [ Gives him fJie challenge.

Abs. To Ensign Beverley. Well, what's this?

Acres. A challenge !

Ahs. Indeed ! Why, you won't fight him ; will you, Bob ?

Acres. Indeed, but 1 will, Jack. Sir Lucius has wrought
me to it. He has left me full of rage— and I'll fight this
evening, that so much good passion mayn't be wasted.

Ahs. But what have I to do with this?

Acres. Why, as I think you know something of this fellow,
I want you to find him out for me, and give him this mor-
tal defiance.

Ahs. Well, give it to me, and trust me he gets it.

Acres. Thank you, my dear friend, my dear Jack ; but it
is giving you a great deal of trouble.

Ahs. Not in the least — I beg you won't mention it. — No
trouble in the world, I assure you.

Acres. You are very kind. — What it is to have a friend I
—You couldn't be my second, could you. Jack ?

Ahs. Why no, Bob — not in this aflair — it would not be
quite so proper.

Acres. Well, then, I must get my friend Sir Lucius. I
shall have your good wishes, however, Jack ?

Ahs. Whenever he meets you, believe me. Well, my
little hero, success attend you. iGoing.

Acres. — Stay — stay, Jack. — If Beverley should ask you
what kind of a man your friend Acres is, do tell him I am a
deuce of a fellow— will you. Jack ?

Ahs. To be sure I shall. I'll say you are a determined
dog— hey, Bob 1

Acres. Ay, do, do — and if that frightens him, perhaps he
mayn't come. So tell him I generally kill a man a week j
will you, Jack ?

Abs. I will, I will ; ril say you are called in the country
Fighting Bob.

Acres. Kiglit — right — 'tis all to prevent mischief; for 1
don't want to take his life if I clear my honour.

Abs. No 1 — that's very kind of you.

Acres Why, you don't wish me to kill him — do you. Jack?

Ahs. No upon my word, I do not. But a deuce of a fellow,
hey? [Going.

Acres. True, true — but stay — stay. Jack — you may ndd,
that you never sa',"^ me in such a rage before— a most de-
vouring rage !

Ahs. I will, I will.

COMEDY OF THE RIVALS.

267

illenge.

L, Bob ?
rought
lit this

fellow,
is mor-

but it
it.—No
friond !

not be

cius. I

/"ell, my
[Going.
isk you
1 1 am a

jrmined

Imps he
I week ;

country

; for 1

k .Jack?

, fellow,
I [ Goinff.
^ay add,

lost do-

Acres. Remember, Jack — a determined dog !

Abs. Ay, ay, Fighting Bob ! [Exeunt severally.

Scene II. — King's- Mead Fields.

Enter — Siu Lucils and Acres, with pistols.

Acres. By my valour I then. Sir Lucius, forty yards is a
good distance. Odds levels and aims ! I say it is a good
distance.

Sir Luc. Is it for muskets or small field-pieces ? Upon
my conscience. Mr. Acres, you must leave those things to
me. — Stay now — I'll show you. — [Measures paces.'] There
now, that itis a very pretty distance — a pretty gentleman's
distance.

Acres, Zounds! we might as well fight in a eentry-box 1
I tell you, Sir Lucius, the farther he is off, the cooler I shall
take my aim.

Sir Luc. Faith ! then I suppose you would aim at him
best of all if he was out of sight-

Acres. No, Sir Lucius ; but I should think forty or eight-
and-thirty yards

Sir Luc. Pho 1 pho ! nonsense ! three or four feet between
the mouths of your pistol is as good as a mile.

Acres. Odds bullets, no! — by my valour! there is no
merit in killing him so near: do, my dear Sir Lucius, let
me bring him down at a long shot:-— a long shot, Sir Lu-
cius, if you love me !

Sir Luc. Well, the gentleman's friend and I must settle
that. — But tell me now, Mr. Acres, in case of an accident,
is there any little will or commission I could execute for
you?

Acres. I am much obliged to you, iSir Lucius — but I don't
understand >

Sir Luc. Why, you may think there's no being shot at
without a little risk — and if an unlucky bullet should carry
a quietus with it — I say it will be no time then to be both-
ering you about family matters.

Acres. A quietus !

Sir Jmc. For instance, now — if that should be the case
—would you choose to be pickled and sent home? — or
would it be the same to you to lie here in the Abbey? —
I'm told there is very snug lying in the Abbey.

Acres. Pickled ! — Snug lying in the Abbey ! — Odds tre
mors ! Sir Lucius, don't talk so !

!i','

268

COMEDY OP THE RIVaLiS.

Sir Luc. I suppose, TMr. Acres, you never were engaged
in an affair of this kind before.

Acres. No, Sir Lucius, never before.

Sir Luc. Ah 1 that's a pity I — there's nothing like being
used to a tiling. — Pray now, how would you receive the
gentleman's shot?

Acres. Odds files ! — I've practised that — there, Sir Lucius
— there. — [Puts himself in an attitude.] A side-front, hey ?
I'll make myself small enough : I'll stand edgeways.

Sir Luc. Now — you're quite out — for if you stand so
when I take my aim [ Levelling at him.

Acres* Zounds ! Sir Lucius — are you sure it is not cocked ?

Sir Luc. Never fear.

Aa'es. But — but — you don't know — it may go off of its
own head I

Sir Luc. Pho ! be easy.—Well, now if I hit you in the
body, my bullet has a double chancy — for if it misses a
vital part of your right side — 'twill be very hard if it don't
succeed on the left I

Acres. A vital part I

Sir Luc. But, there — fix yourself ao— [Placing him} — let
him see the broad side of your full front — there — now a
ball or two may pass clean through your body, and never
do any harm at all.

Acres. Clean through me ! — a ball or two clean through
me!

Sir Luc. Ay — may they — and it is much the genteelest
attitude into the bargain.

Acres. Look'eel Sir Lucius — I'd just as lieve be shot in
an awkward posture as a genteel one; so, by my valour!
I will stand edgeways.

Sir Luc. [Looking at his ivatch.] Sure they don't mean
to disappoint us — Hah I — no, faith — I think I see them
coming.

Acres. Hey 1 — what 1 — coming 1

Sir Luc. Ay. — Who are those yonder getting over the
stile?

Acres. There are two of them indeed ! — well — let them
come— hey, Sir Lucius 1 — we— we — we — we — won't run.

Sir Luc. Run !

Acres. No — I say — we won't run, by my valour I

Sir Luc. What the deuce's the matter with you?

Acr^. Nothing — nothing — my dear friend— my dear Sir
Lucius — but I — I — I don't feel quite so bold, somehow, as
I did.

mgaged

:e being
jive the

r Lucius
Qt, hey ?

tand so
7 at him.
cocked ?

»ff of its

1 in the

tnisses a

it don' t

ww] — let
5 — now a
id never

through

snteelest

shot in
valour!

t mean
le them

Iver the

let them
Irun.

tear Sir
Ihow, as

COMEDY OF THE RIVALS.

269

Sir Luc. O fy !— consider your honour.

Acres. Ay — true — my honour. Do, Sir Lucius, edge in a
word or two every now and then about my honour. .

Sir Luc. Well, here they're coming. {Looking.

Acres. Sir Lucius — if I wa'n't with you, I should almost
think I was afraid. — If my valour should leave me ! — Val-
our will come and go.

Sir Luc. Then pray keep it fast, while you have it.

Acres. Sir Lucius — I doubt it is going — yes — my valour
is certainly going! — it is sneaking off I — I feel it oozing out
as it were at the palms of my hands !

Sir Luc. Your honour — your honour. — Here they are.

Acres. mercy ! — now — that I was safe at Clod-Hall I or
could be shot before I was aware !

Enter Faulkland and Captain Absolute.

Sir Luc. Gentlemen, your most obedient. — Hah ! — what,
Captain Absolute I — So, I suppose, sir, you are come here,
just like myself— to do a kind office, first for your friend
— then to proceed to business on your own account.

Acres. What, Jack ! — my dear Jack ! — my dear friend !

Abs. Hark'ee, Bob, Beverley's at hand.

Sir Luc. Well, Mr. Acres — I don't blame your saluting
the gentleman civilly. — [To Faulkland.] So, Mr. Beverly,
if you'll choose your weapons, the captain and I will
measure the ground. ,

Faulk. My weapons, sir !

Acres. Odds life 1 Sir Lucius, I'm not going to fight Mr.
Faulkland ; these are my particular friends.

Sir Luc. What, sir, did you not come here to fight Mr.
Acres ?

Faulk. Not I, upon my word, sir.

Sir Luc. Well, now, that's mighty provoking ! But I
hope, Mr. Faulkland, as there are three of us come on
purpose for the game, you won' b be so cantankerous as to
spoil the i^arty by sitting out. •

Abs. O pray, Faulkland, fight to oblige Sir Lucius.

Faulk. Say, if Mr. Acres is so bent on the matter

Acres. No, no, Mr. Faulkland; — I'll bear my disappoint-
ment like a Christian. — JiOok'ee, Sir Lucius, there's no oc-
casion at all for me to fight ; and if it is the same to you,
Td as lieve let it alone.

Sir Luc. Observe me, Mr. Acres — I must not be trifled
with. You have certainly challenged somebody — and you

270

OOMEDT OF THE RIVALS.

came here to fight him. No\jf> if that gentleman is willing
to represent him — 1 can't see for my life, why it isn't just
the same thing.

Acres. Why no — Sir Lucius — I tell you, 'tis one Beverley
I've challenged — a fellow, you see, that dare not show his
face ! — If he were here, I'd make him give up his preten-
sions directly !

Abs. Hold, Bob — let me set you right — there is no such
man as Beverley in the case. — The person who assumed
that name is before you; and his pretensions are the same
in both characters, he is ready to support them in what-
ever way you please.

Sir Luc. Well, this is lucky. — Now you have an opportu-
nity

Acres. What, quarrel with my dear friend Jack Absolute?
— not if he were fifty Beverleys ! Zounds ! Sir Lucius, you
would not have me so unnatural.

Sir Luc. Upon my conscience, Mr. Acres, your valour has
oozed away with a vengeance 1

Acres. Not in the least ! Odds backs and abettors ! I'll
be your second with all my heart — and if you should get a
quietus, you may command me entu-ely. I'll get you snug
lying in the Abbey here ; or pickle vou and send you over
to Blunderbuss- hall, or anything of the kind, with the
greatest pleasure.

Sir Luc. Phol pho ! you are little better than a coward.

Acres. Mind, gentlemen, he calls me a coward; coward
was the word, by my valour !

Sir Luc. Well, sir?

Acres. Look'ee, Sir Lucius, 'tisn't that I mind the word
coward — coward may be said in joke. — But if you hud
called me a poltroon, odds daggers and balls

Sir Luc. Well, sir ?

Acres. I should have thought you a very ill-bred man.

Sir Luc. Pho 1 you are beneath my notice.

Abs. Nay, Sir Lucius, you can't have a better second
ttian my friend Acres. — lie is a most determine! dog-
called in the country. Fighting Bob.— Ho generally kills a
man a week — don't you. Bob V

Acres. Ay— at home I

OOMEDY OF THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.

271

SCENE FROM THE COMEDY OF THE "SCHOOL
FOR SCANDAL."

Sheridan.

Crabtree, Sir Benjamin Backbite, Lady Sneerwell

Mrs. Candour and Joseph Sukface #

Cmh' Lady Sneerwell, I kiss your hand— r-Mrs. Candour,
I don't believe you are acquainted with my nephew, Sir
Benjamin Backbite ? Ah ! ma'am, he has a pretty wit, and
is a pretty poet, too; is'nt he, Lady Sneerwell?

8ir B. O fie, uncle !

Crah. Nay, it's true ; I back him at a rebus or a charade
against the best rhymer in the kingdom. — Has your lady-
ship heard the epigram he wrote lask week on Lady Friz-
zle's feather catching fire ?— Do, Benjamin, repeat it, or the
cliarade you made last night extempore at Mrs. Drowzie's
conversazione, Come now ; — your first, is the name of a
fish, your second a great naval commander, and —

Sir B. Uncle, now — pr'thee —

Grab. Indeed ma'am, t'would surprise you to hear how
ready ne is at these things.

Lady S. I wonder. Sir Benjamin, you never publish
anything.

Sir B. To say truth, ma'am, 'tis very vulgar to print;
and as my little productions are mostly satires and lam-
poons on particular people, I find they circulate more by
giving copies in confidence to the friends of the parties.
However. I have some love elegies which, when favoured
with this lady's smiles, I mean to give the public.

Crab. Ma'am, they'll immortalise you I — you will be
handed down to posterity, like Petrarch's Laura, or Wal-
ler's Sacharissa.

Sir B. Yes, madam, I think you will like them, when
you shall see them on a beautiful quarto page, whore a
neat rivulet of text shall murmur through a meadow of
margin. — They will be the most elegant things of their
kind! But, nephew, lot the ladies hear the epigram you
wrote last week.

Lady S. Nay, positively wo will hoar it.

Joseph S. Yes, yes, the epigram, by all moans.

Sir B. plague on't, uncle ! 'tis mere nonsense.

Crab. No no ; very clever for an extempore !

Sir B. But, ladies, you should be acquainted with the
circumstance. You must know, that one day last week, as

272

COMEDY OF THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.

Lady Betty Curricle was taking the dust in Hyde Park, in
a sort of duodecimo phaeton, she desired me to write some
verses on her ponies ; upon which I took out my pocket-
book, and in one moment produced the following :

Sure never were seen two such beautiful ponies ;
Other horaes are clowns, but these maccaronics :
To give them this title I'm sure is not wrong,
Their legs are so slim, and their tails are so long.

Crab. There, ladies, done in the smack of a whip, and
on horseback too.

Joseph G. A very Phoebus^ mounted — indeed, Sir Ben-
jamin.

Sir B. O dear, sir ! trifles— trifles.

Enter Maria and Lady Teazle.

Mrs C. I must have a copy.

Lady S. Lady Teazle, I hope we shall see Sir Peter ?

Lady T. I believe he'll wait on your ladyship presently.

Mrs C. (Advancing.) Now, I'll die, but you are all so scan-
dalous, I'll forswear your society.

Lady T. What's the matter, Mrs. Candour?

Mrs C. They'll not allow our friend Miss Vermillion to
be handsome.

Lady S. Oh, surely, she is a pretty woman.

Grab. I am very glad you think so, ma'am.

Mrs. C. She has a charming fresh colour.

Lady S. Yes, when it is fresh put on.

Mrs C. O fie ! I'll swear her colour is natural : I have
seen it come and go.

Lady T. I dare swear you have, ma'am : it goes off* at
night, and comes again in the morning.

Mrs C. Ha ! ha ! ha ! how I hate to hear you talk so 1 But
surely now, her sister isj or was, very handsome.

Crab. Who? Mrs. Evergreen? O ! she's six and fifty if
she's an hour!

Mrs. C. Now positively you wrong her ; fifty-two or fifty-
three is the utmost — and 1 don't think she looks more.

Sir B. Ah 1 there's no judging by her looks, unless one
could see her face.

Lady S. Well, well, if Mrs. Evergreen does take some
pains to repair the ravages of time, you must allow she
effects it with great ingenuity j and surely that's better
than the careless manner in which the widow Ochre caulks
her wrinkles.

COMEDY OF tHE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.

273

'ark, in
te some
pocket-

hip, and
Sir Ben-

Peter?
presently,
ill so scan-

million to

al : I have

[goes off at

iilk so ! But

I and fifty if

two or fifty-
Is more,
[unless ono

take some

allow she

lat's better

3hre caulks

Sir B. Nay, now, Lady Sneerwell, you are severe upon
the widow. Come, come, 'tis not that she paints so ill — .
but when she has finished her face, she joins it on so badly
to her neck, that she looks like a mended statue, in which
the connoisseur may see at once that the head is modern,
though the trunk is antique.

Crab. Ha 1 ha ! ha ! Well said, nephew !

Mrs. C. Ha! ha! ha! Well, you make me laugh ; but I
vow I hate you for it. What do you think of Miss Simper ?

Sir B. Why, she has very pretty teeth.

Lady T. Yes, and on that account, when she is neither
speaking or laughing (which very seldom happens,) she
never absolutely shuts her mouth, but leaves it always ajar,
as it were, — thus.

Mrs. C. How can you be so ill natured ?

Lady T. Nay, I allow even that's better than the pains
Mrs. Prim takes to conceal her losses in front. She draws
her mouth till it positively resembles the aperture of a
poor's box, and all her words appear to slid* out edge-wise,
as it were, — thus — How do you do madam ? ifes madam.

Lady S. Very well, Lady Teazle ; I see you can be a
little severe.

Lady T. In defence a friend it is but justice. But here
comes Sir Peter to spoil our pleasantry.

Enter Sir Peter Teazle.

Sir P. Ladies, your most obedient. (Aside.) Mercy on
me ! here is the whole set ! a character dead at every word,
I suppose.

Mrs C. I am rejoiced you are come, Sir Peter. They
have been so censorious — they'll allow good qualities to
nobody.

Sir P. That must be very distressing to you, indeed,
Mrs. Candour.

Mrs. C. Not even good nature to our friend Mrs. Pursy.

Lady S. What, the stout dowager who was at Mrs. Qua-
drille's, last night ?

Mrs. C. Nay, but her bulk is her misfortune ; and when
she takes such pains to get rid of it, you ought not to reflect
on her.

Lady S. That's very true, indeed.

Lady T. Yes, I know she almost lives on acids and small
whey ; laces herself by pullies : and often in the hottest
noon in summer, you may see lier on a little squat poney,

274

COMEDY OF SCHOOL FOR SCAKDAL.

with her hair plaited up behind like a drummers', and puflf-
ing round the Ring on a full trot.

Mrs. C. I thank you, Lady Teazle, for defending her.

Sir P. Yes, a good defence truly I

Mrs. C. But, Sir Benjamin is as censorious as Miss Sallow.

Crab. Yes, and she is a curious being to pretend to be
censorious — an awkward gawky, without any one good point
about her.

Mrs. C. Positively, you shall not be so severe. Miss
Sallow is a near relation of mine by marriage, and as for
her person, great allowance is to be made ; for, let me tell
you, a woman labours under many disadvantages who tries
to pass for a girl at six and thirty.

Lady S. Though surely she is handsome still — and for
the weakness in her eyes, considering how much she reads
by candlelight, it is not to be wondered at.

Mrs. C. True, and then as to her manner ; upon my word,
I think is is particularly graceful, considering she never
had the least education : for you know her mother was a
Welsh milliner, and her father a sugar-baker at Bristol.

Sir B. Ah 1 you are both of you too good-natured !

Sir P. CAside.) Yes, very good-natured! This their own
relation, mercy on me !

Sir B. And, Mrs. Candour is of so moral a t .rn.

Mrs. C. Well, I will never join ridiculing a friend ; and
so 1 constantly tell my cousin Ogle ; and you all know what
pretensions she has to be critical on beauty.

Crab. Oh, to be sure ! she has herself the oddest coun-
nance that ever was seen ; 'tis a collection of features from
all the different countries of the globe.

Sir B. So she has, indeed — an Irish front —

Srcb. Caledonian locks —

Sir B. Dutch nose —

Qrab. Austrian lips —

Sir B. Complexion of a Spaniard —

Crab. Ajid teeth d la Chinois —

Sir B. In short, her face resembles a table dliCie at Spa
— where no two guests are of a nation —

Crab. Or a congress at the close of a general war —
wherein all the members, even to her eyes, appear to have
a different interest, and her nose and chin are the only
parties likely to join issue.

Mrs C. Ha ! ha ! ha I

Sir P. (Aside.) Mercy on my life ! — a person they dine
with twice a week.

COMEDY OP THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.

275

ipuflf-

her.

Sallow.
i to be
d point

!. Miss
1 as for
me tell
ho tries

-and for
tie reads

nyword,
LB never
ler was a
istol.
edl
iieir own

snd-, and
ow what

lest coun-
Lves from

He at Spa

ral war-
to have
the only

they dine

Mrs. C- Nay, but I vow you shall not carry the laugh off
so — for, give me leave to say, that Mrs. Ogle —

Sir P. (to Mrs Candour.) Madam, madam, I beg your
pardon — there's no stopping these good gentlemen's
tongues. But when I tell you, Mrs. Candour, that the lady
they are abusing is a particular friend of mine. I hope
you'll not take her part.,

Jjudy T. Ha I ha 1 ha 1 Well said. Sir Peter I but you are
a cruel creature, — too phlegmatic yourself for a jist, and
too peevish to allow wit in others.

Sir P. Ah 1 madam, true wit is more nearly allied to
good-nature than your ladyship is aware of..

Ladtf T. True, Sir l*eter : I believe they are so near akin
that they can never be united.

Sir. B. Or rather, suppose them man and wife, because
one so seldom sees them together.

Lady T. But Sir Peter is such an enemy to scandal, 1
believe he would have it put down by parliament.

8tV P. Madam, if they were to consider the sporting with
reputation of as much importance as poaching on manors, .
and pass an act for the preservation of fame, as well as
game, I believe many would thank them for the bill.

Lady T. O ! Sir Peter | would you deprive us of our pri-
vileges ?

Sir P. Ay, madam; and then no person should be per-
mitted to kill characters and run down reputation, but qua-
lified old maids and disappointed widows.

Lady T. Go, you monster !

Mrs. C. But, surely, you would not be quite so severe
on those who only report what they hear?

Sir P. Yes, madam, I would have law merchant for them
too; and in all cases of slander currency, whenever the
drawer of the lie was not to be found, the injured parties
should have a right to come on any of the indorsers.

Crab. Well, for my part, I believe there never was a
scandalous tale without some foundation.

Sir P. I'll get away unperceived. (Apart.)

Lady T. Sir Peter, you are not going to leave us ?

Sir P. Your ladyship must excuse me ; I'm called away
by particular business. But I leave my character behind
me. Exit Sir Peter.

Sir B. Well — certainly, Lady Teazle, that lord of yours
is a strange being : I could tell you some stories of him that
would make you laugh heartily, if he were not your
husband.

276

OOMBDT OF THE CRITIC.

Lady T. 0, pray don't mind that;— why don't you? —
come, do let' shear them. {Joins the rest of the company going
into the next room.)

Joseph S. Maria, I see you have no satisfaction in this
society.

Maria. How is it possible I should? — If to raise malicious
smiles at the infirmities or misfortunes of those who have
never injured us, be the province of wit or humour, Heaven
grant me a double portion of dulness !

Joseph S. Yet they appear more ill-natured than they
are, — they have no malice at heart.

Maria. Then is their conduct still more contemptible ;
for, in my opinion, nothing could excuse the intemperance
of their tongues, but a natural and uncontrollable bitter-
ness of mind.

SCENE FROM THE COMEDY OF "THE CRITIC."

Sheridan.

PUFF, DANGLB AND SNEER.

Puff. My dear Dangle, how is it with you?

Dang. Mr. JSnoer, give me leave to introduce Mr. PufF to
you.

Puff. Mr. Sneer is this ? Sir, he is a gentleman whom I
have long panted for the honor of knowing — a gentleman
whose critical talents and transcendent judgment —

Sneer. Dear sir —

Dang. Nay, don't be modest, Sneer : my friend Puff
only talks to you in the style of his profession.

Sneer. His profession !

Puff. Yes, sir ; I make no secret of the trade I foUow—
among friends and brother authors. Dangle knows I love
to be frank on the subject, and to advertise myself viva
voce. I am, sir, a practitioner in panegyric | or, to speak
more plainly, a professor of the art of puffing, at your ser-
vice, or anybody else's.

Sneer. Sir, you are very obliging ! I believe, Mr. Puff, I
have often admired your talents in the daily prints.

Puff. Yes, sir ; I flatter myself I do as much business in
that way as any six of the fraternity in town. Very hard
work all the summer. Friend Dangle! never worked
harder !

Sneer, But I should think, Mr. Puff, that authors would
in general be able to do this sort of work for themselves.

COMEDY OP THE CRITIC.

277

OU?—

I going

in this

ilicious
lo have
leaven

Ml they

iptible 5
perance
J bitter-

LTIC."

r. Puff to

whom I
entleman

end Puff

follow—

Lws I love

(yself vivd

to speak

your ser-

[r. Puff, I

Its.

business in
/ery hard
\r worked

kors would
ImBelvea.

Puff. Why, yes, but in a clumsy way. Besides, we look
on that as an encroachment, and so take the opposite side.
I dare say. now, you conceive half the very civil paragraphs
and advertisements you see to be written by the parties
concerned, or their friends. No such thing. Nine out of
ten, manufactured by me in the way of business.

Sneer. Indeed! —

Puff. Even the auctioneers now — the auctioneers, I say,
though the rogues have lately got some credit for their lan-
guage — not an article of the merit theirs ! Take them out
of their stands, and they are as dull as catalogues. No,
sirj — 'twas I first enriched their style — 'twas I first taught
them to crowd their advertisements with panegyrical su-
perlatives, each epithet rising above the other, like the
bidders in their own auction-rooms ! From me they learned
to inlay their phraseology with variegated chips of exotic
metaphor. By me, too, their inventive faculties were called
forth. Yes, sir, by me they were instructed to clothe ideal
walls with gratuitous fruits— to insinuate obsequious rivu-
lets into visionary groves — to teach courteous shrubs to
nod their approbation of the grateful soil — or, on emergen-
cies, to raise upstart oaks, where there never had been an
acorn ; to create a delightful vicinage, without the assist-
ance of a neighbor ; or fix the temple of Hygeia in the fens
of Lincolnshire !

JJang. I am sure you have done them infinite service ;
for now, when a gentleman is ruined, he parts with his
house with some credit.

Sneer. But pray, Mr. Puff, what first put you on exercis-
ing your talents in this way?

Piff. In truth, sir, sheer neces8i;y- -the proper parent of
an art so nearly allied to invention. You must know, Mr.
Sneer, that from the first time I tried my hand at an adver-
tisement, my success was such, that, for some time after, I
led a most extraordinary life indeed.

Sneer. How, pray?

Pvff. Sir, I supported myself two years entirely by my
misfortunes.

Sneer. By your misfortunes ?

Pt(ff. Yes, sir, assisted by long sickness, and other occa-
sional disorders ; and a very comfortable living I had of it.

Sneer. From sickness and misfortunes !

Pi(ff. Hark ye! By advertisements, <'To the charitable
and humane!" and "To those whom Providence hath
blessed with affluence !"

278

COMEDY OF THE CRITIC.

Sneer. Oh, I understand you.

Puff. And, in truth, I deserved what I got ; for I sup-
pose never man went through such a series of calamities in
the same space of time. Sir, I was five times made a bank-
rupt, and reduced from a state of affluence, by a train of
unavoidable misfortunes. Then, sir, though a very indus-
trious tradesman, I was twice burnt out, and lost my little
all both times. 1 lived upon those fires a month. I soon
after was confined by a most excruciating disorder, and
lost the use of my limbs. That told very well ; for I had
the case strongly attested, and went about collecting the
subscriptions myself.

Dang. Ah I I believe that was when you first called on
me —

Puff. What ! in November last ? 0,* no. I was, when I
called on you, a close prisoner in the Marshalsea, for a debt
benevolently contracted to serve a friend. I was after-
wards twice tapped for a dropsy, which declined into a very
profitable consumption. I was then reduced to — no —
then I became a widow, with six helpless children, after
halving had eleven husbands, who all died, leaving me in
depths of poverty.

Sneer. And you bora all with patience, I make no doubt.

Puff'. Why, yes. Well, sir, at last, what with bankrupt-
cies, fires, gouts, dropsies, imprisonments, and other valu-
able calamities, having got together a pretty handsome
smn, I determined to quit a business which had always
gone rather against my conscience, and in a more liberal
way still to indulge my talents for fiction and embellish-
ment, through my favorite channels of diurnal communi-
cation ; — and so, sir, you have my history.

Sneer. Most obligingly communicative, indeed ; and your
confession, if published, might certainly serve the cause of
true charity, by r^^'' cuing the most useful channels of ap-
peal to benevolence from the cant of imposition. But
surely, Mr. Puff, there is no great mystery in your present
profession ?

Puff. Mystery ! Sir, I will take upon me to say the
matter was never scientifically treated, nor reduced to rule
before.

Sneer. Reduced to rule?

Puff. U lud, sir I you are very ignorant, I am afraid.
Yes, sir, puffing is of various sorts. The principal are : tlie
puff direct — the puff preliminary — the puff collateral — the
puff collusive — and the puff oblique, or puff by implica-

I sup-
ities in
\ bank-
;rain of
r indus-
ly little

I soon
er, and
►r I had
ing the

lied on

when I
ir a debt
IS after-
bo a very
-O no—
an, after
,g me in

doubt,
mkrupt-
ler valu-
mdsome

1 always
liberal

bellish-
mmuni-

md your

cause of

Is of ap-

But

present

[Say the
to rule

afraid.

ire: the

pal — the

tmplica-

COMEDY OF THE CRITIC.

279

tion. These all assume, as circumstances require, the va-
rious forms of letter to the editor, occasional anecdote,
impartial critique, observation from correspondent, or ad-
vertisement from the party.

Sneer. The puff direct I can conceive.

Puff. O yes, that's simple enough. For instance, a new
comedy or farce is to be produced at one of the theatres.
The author — suppose Mr. Smatter, or Mr. Dapper, or any
particular friend of mine. Very well. The day before it
is to be performed, I write an account of the manner in
which it was received. I have the plot from the author,
and only add — Characters strongly drawn — highly colored
— hand of a master — fund of genuine humor — mine of in-
vention — neat dialogue— attic salt ! Then, for the perform-
ance — Mr. Dodd was astonishingly great in the. character of
Sir Harry ! That universal and judicious actor, Mr. Palmer,
perhaps never appeared to more advantage than in the
Colonel ; but it is not in the power of language to do just-
ice to Mr. King ! Indeed, he more than merited those
repeated bursts of applause which he drew from a most
brilliant and judicious audience ! As to the scenery — the
miraculous powers of Mr. De Loutherburgh's pencil are
universally acknowledged ! In short, we are at a loss which
to admire most — the unrivalled genius of the author, the
great attention and liberality of the managers, the won-
derful abilities of the painter, or the incredible exertions
of all the performers ! —

Sneer. That's pretty well, indeed, sir.

Puff. O ! cool — quite cool — to what I sometimes do.

Sneer. And do you think there are any who are influ-
enced by this ?

Puff. O lud ! yes, sir. The number of those who undergo
the fatigue of judging for themselves is very small indeed.

Sneer. Well, sir, the puff preliminary ?

Piiff. O that, sir, does well in the form of a caution.

Dang. Why, Sneer, you will be quite an adept in busi-
ness.

Puff. Now, sir, the puff collateral is much used as an
appendage to advertisements, and may take the form of
anecdote : — Yesterday, as the celebrated George Bon-Mot
was sauntering down St. James' street, he met the lively
Lady Mary Myrtle, coming out of the Park. " Why, Lady
Mary, I'm surprised to meet you in a white jacket 5 for I
expected never to have seen you but in a full-trimmed
uniform and a light- horseman's cap !" " Indeed, George,

280

THE COUNTRY APOTHECARY.

where could you have learned that?" "Why," replied the
wit, *' I just saw a print of you in a new publication called
the Camp Magazine; which, by-the-bye, is a very clever
thing, and is sold at No. 3, on the right hand of the way,
two doors from the printing office, the corner of Ivy lane,
Paternoster row, the price only one shilling !"

Sneer. Very ingenious indeed !

Pvff. But the puff collusive is the newest of any ; for it
acts in the disguise of determined hostility. It is much used
by bold booksellers and enterprising poets. An indignant
correspondent observes, that the new poem called Beelze-
bub's Cotillon, or Proserpine's Fete Champttre, is one of the
most unjustifiable performances he ever read 1 The sever-
ity with which certain characters are handled is quite
shocking ! . And as there are many descriptions in it too
warmly colored, the shameful avidity with which this piece
is bought by all people of fashion, is a reproach on the
taste of the times, and a disgrace to the delicacy of the
age! — Here, you see, the two strongest inducements are
held forth : first, that nobody ought to read it ; and, sec-
ondly, that everybody buys it ; on the strength of which,
the publisher boldly prints the tenth edition, before he
had sold ten of the first.

Dang. Ha ! ha ! ha ! I know it is so.

Pvff. As to the puff oblique, or pufl* by implication, it is
too various and extensive to be illustrated by an instance.
It branches into so many varieties, that it is the last prin-
cipal class of the art of puffing — an art which, I hope, you
will now agree with me, is of the highest dignity.

sir.

SCENE FROM THE "COUNTRY APOTHECARY.

)»

George Coleman the Younger, horn Oct. 2\st, 1762. Educated
at Westminster and Oxford. Favorite companion of George
IV., and hy him made Licenser of Plays. Died, London^
Oct. 26, 1836.

OLLAPOD AND SIR CHAnLES CROPLAND.

Ollapod. Sir Charles, I have the honor to be your slave.
Hope your health is good. Been a hard winter here : sore
throats were plenty: so were woodcocks. Flushed four
couple one morning, in a half-mile walk from our town, to
cure Mrs. Quarles of a quinsy. May coming on soon, Siv

THE COUNTRY APOTHECARY.

281

dthe
sailed
slever
1 way,
lane,

for it
tiused
Lgnant
{eelze-
ofthe
sever-
quite
it too
s piece
on the
of the
tits are
id, sec-
which,
ore he

)n, it is
stance,
t prin-
)e, you

)»

hicated
George
jondon,

slave,
sore
four
|wn, to

)n, Siv

Charles. Hope you come to sojourn. Siiouldn't be always
on the wing ; that's being too flighty. Do you take, good
bir, do you take ?

Sir Charles. Oh, yes, I take. But, by the cockade in
your hat, OUapod, you have added lately, it seems, to your
avocation.

Olla. My dear Sir Charles, I have now the honor to be
comet in the volunteer association corps of our town. It
fell out unexpected— pop on a sudden ; like the going oft*
of a field-piece, or an alderman in an apoplexy.

Sir C. Explain.

Olla. Happening to be at home — rainy day — no going
out to sport, blister, shoot, nor bleed — was busy behind the
counter. You know my shop, Sir Charles — Galen's Head
over the door — new- gilt him last week, by the by — looks as
fresh as a pill.

Sir C. — Well, no more on that head now : proceed.

Olla. On that head ! That's very well — very well, in-
deed ! Thank you, good sir — I owe you one. Church-
warden Posh, of our town, being ill of an indigestion, from
eating three pounds of measly pork at a vestry- dinner, I
was making up a cathartic for the patient, when who should
strut into the shop but Lieutenant Grains, the brewer —
sleek as a dray horse— in a smart scarlet jacket, tastily
turned up with a rhubarb-colored lapel. I confess his
figure struck me. I looked at him as I was thumping thfe
mortar, and felt instantly inoculated with a military ardor.

Sir C. Inoculated 1 I hope your ardor was of a very
favorable sort.

Olla. Ha ! ha ! That's very well — very well, indeed !
Thank you, good sir, I owe you one. We first talked of
shooting ; he knew my celebrity that way, Sir Charles. I
told him the day before I had killed six brace of birds ; I
thumped on at the mortar. We then talked of physic. I
told him the day before I had killed — lost, I mean — six
brace of patients: I thumped on at the mortar — eyeing
him all the while ; for he looked mighty flashy, to be sure ;
and I felt an itching to belong to the corps. The medical
and military both deal in death, you know ; so ' twas natu-
ral. Do you take, good sir — do you take ?
Sir C. — Take? Oh, nobody can miss.
Olla. — He then talked of the corps itself; said it was
sickly ; and if a professional person would administer to
the health of the association — dose the men and drench the
horse — he could, perhaps, procure him a cornetcy.

IK ''•■'

\:i^3

282

THB COUNTRY APOTHECARY.

Sir C Well, you jumped at the offer !

Olla. Jumped I I jumped over the counter — kicked
down Churchwarden Posh's cathartic into the pocket of
Lieutenant Grains' smart scarlet jacket, tastily turned up
with a rhubarb-colored lapel ; embraced him and his offer ;
and I am now Cornet Ollapod, apothecary, at the Galen's
Head, of the association corps of cavalry, at your service.

Sir C. I wish you joy of your appointment ! You may
now distil water for the shop from the laurels you gather
in the fields.

Olla. Water for — oh ! laurel water. Come, that's very
well — very well, indeed I Thank you, good sir— I owe you
one. Why, I fancy fame will follow, when the poison of a
small mistake I made has ceased to operate.

Sir G. A mistake ?

Olla. Having to attend Lady Kitty Carbuncle on a grand
field-day, clapped a pint bottle of her ladyship's diet-drink
into one of my holsters, intending to proceed to the patient
after »the exercise was over. I reached the martial ground,
and jalaped — galloped 1 mean — wheeled and flourished with
great eclat ; but, when the word ''Fire !" was given, mean-
ing to pull out my pistol, in a horrible hurry I presented,
neck foremost, the villainous diet-drink of Lady Kitty Car-
buncle ; and the medicine, being unfortunately fermented
by the jolting of my horse, forced out the cork with a pro-
'digious pop, full in the face of my gallant commander.

Sir C. But, in the midst of so many pursuits, how pro-
ceeds practice among the ladies ? Any new faces since I
left the country ?

Olla. Nothing worth an item ; nothing new arrived iu
our town. In the village, to be sure, hard by. Miss Emily
Worthington, a most brilliant beauty, has lately given lustie
to the estate of farmer JIarrowby.

Sir C. — My dear doctor, the lady of all others I wish most
to know. Introduce yourself to the family, and pave the
way for me. Come ! mount your horse — I'll explain more
as you go to the stable ; but I am in a flame — in a fever, till
I see you off.

Olla. — In a fever ! I'll send you physic enough to fill a
baggage-waggon.

Sir C. (Aside.) So I a long bill as the price of his polite
ness.

Olla. You needn't bleed ; but you must have medicine.

Sir v. If I must have medicine, Ollapod, I fancy I shall
bleed pretty freely.

THB WEATHBROOCE.

283

-kicked
icket of
medup
is oifer •,
Galen's
jrvice.
^ou may
1 gather

lat's very

owe you

jison of a

n a grand
iiet-drink
tie patient
il ground,
ished with
en, mean-
jresented,
Kitty Car-
ifermeuted
vith a pro-
ander.
i, how pro-
ses since 1

arrived in
y[i8S Emily
iven lustre

OUa. Come, that's very well — very well, indeed ! Thank
you, good sir, I owe you one. Before dinner, a strong dose
of coloquintida, senna, scammony, and gamboge

Sir C. Oh, confound scammony and gamboge I

OUa. At night, a narcotic; next day, saline draughts,
camphorated jalap, and

Sir C. — Zounds! only go, and I'll swallow your whole
shop.

OUa. Galen forbid I 'Tis enough to kill every customer
I have in the parish. Then we'll throw in the bark : — by
the by, talking of bark. Sir Cliarles, that Juno of yours is
the prettiest pointer ■

Sir C. Well, well — she is yours.

My dear Sir Charles! such sport next shooting

OUa.
season !
Sir a
OUa.

If I had but a double barreled gun —
Take mine, that hangs in the hall.
My dear Sir Charles! Here's morning's

senna and coloquintida. {Aside.) '
Sir C. Well, begone, then. {Pushing him.)
OUa. I'm off I — scammony and gamboge !
Sir C. Nay, fly, man !
OUa. I do, Sir Charles. A double-barreled gun

— the bark — I'm going— Juno — a narcotic !
Sir a Off with you !

work;

-I fly

THE WEATHERCOCK.

OLD FICKLE AND TRISTRAM FICKLE.

Old Fickle. What reputation, what honor, what profit
can accrue to you from such conduct as yours ? One mo-
ment you toll me you are going to become the greatest
musician in the world, and straight you fill my house with
fiddlers.

Tristram. I am clear out of that scrape now, sir.

Old F. Then, from a fiddler, you are metamorphosed
into a philosopher ; and, for the noise of drums, trumpets,
and hautboys, you substitute a vile jargon, more unintel-
ligible than was ever heard at the Tower of Babel.

Tris. You are right, sir. 1 have found out that philo-
sophy is folly ; so I have cut the philosophers of all sects,
from Plato and Aristotle t^owu to the puzzlers of modern
date,

284

THE W£ATHER0OCK.

Old F. How much had I to pay the cooper the other
day for barreling you up in a large tub, when you resolved
to live like Diogenes ?

Tris. You should not have paid him anything, sir ; for
the tub would not hold. You see the contents are run
out.

Old F. No jesting, sir ; this is no laughing matter. Your
follies have tired me out. I verily believe you have taken
the whole round of arts and sciences in a month, and have
been of jSfty dijfferent minds in half an hour.

Ti-ia. And by that shown the versatility of my genius.^

Old F. Don't tell me of versatility, sir. Let me see a
little steadiness. You have never yet been constant to
anything but extravagance.

Tris. \ es, sir, one thing more.

OldF. What is that, sir?

Tris. Affection for you. However my head may have
wandered, my heart has always been constantly attached to
the kindest of parents j and, from this moment, I am re-
solved to lay my follies aside, and pursue that line of con-
duct which will be most pleasing to the best of fathers and
of friends.

Old F. Well said, my boy — well said ! You make me
happy indeed. (Patting him on the shoulder.) Now, then,
my dear Tristram, let me know what you really mean
to do.

Tris. To study the law

Old F. The law !

Tris. I am most resolutely bent on following that pro-
fession.

Old F. ^o\
^ Tris. Absolutely and irrevocably fixed.

Old F. Better and better. I am overjoyed. Why, 'tis
the very thing I wished. Now 1 am happy. ( Tristram makes
gestures as if speaking.) See how his mind is engaged !

Tris. Gentlemen of the jury

Old F. Why Tristram

Tris. This is a cause

Old F. Oh, my dear boy 1 I forgive you all your tricks.
I see something about you now that I can depend on.
{Tristram continues making gestures.)

Tris. I am for the plaintiff in this cause

Old F. Bravo ! bravo I— excellent boy ! I'll go and order
your books directly.

JVis. 'Tis dope, s|r,

THE WEATHERCOCK.

285

Old F. What, already ?

2'ris. I ordered twelve square feet of books when I first
thought of embracing the arduous profession of the law.
Old F. What I do you mean to read by the foot ?
Tris. By the foot, sir j that is the only way to become a
solid lawyer.
Old F. Twelve square feet of learning 1 Well — —

Iris. I have likewise sent for a barber

Sid F. A barber ! What ! is he to teach you to shave
close ?

Tris. He is to shave one half of my head, sir.
Old F. You will excuse me if I cannot perfectly under-
stand what that has to do with the study of the law.

Tris. Did you never hear of Demosthenes, sir, the Athe-
nian orator? He had half his head shaved, and locked
himself up in a coal- cellar.

Old F. Ah ! he was perfectly right to lock himself up,
after having undergone such an operation as that. He cer-
tainly would have made rather an odd figure abroad.

Tris. I think I see him now, awakening the dormant
patriotism of his countrymen — lightning in his eye and
thunder in his voice, he pours forth a torrent of eloquence,
resistless in its force ; the throne of Philip trembles while
he speaks ; he denounces, and indignation fills the bosom
of his hearers: he exposes the impending danger, and
every one sees impending ruin ; he threatens the tyrant —
they grasp their swords; he calls for vengeance — their
thu'sty weapons glitter in the air, and thousands reverberate
the cry. One soul animates a nation, and that soul is the
soul of the orator.

Old F. Oh ! what a figure he'll make in the King's
Bench ! But, come, I will tell you now what my plan is,
and then you will seek how happily this determination of
yours will further it. You have ( Tristram makes extravagant
gestures as if speaking) often heard me speak of my friend
Briefwit, the barrister ■ .

Tris. Who is against me in this cause

Old F. He is a most learned lawyer

Ih'is, But, as I have justice on my side

Old F. Zounds I he doesn' t hear a word I say I Why,
Tristram.

Tris. I beg your pardon, sirj I was prosecuting my
studies.
Old F. Now, attend.

286

THE WEATHBRCOCK.

Trit. As my learned friend observes Go on, sir, 1

am all attention.

Old F. Well, my friend, the counsellor

Tris. Say learned friend, if you please, sir. We gentle-
men of the law always

Old F. Well, well — my learned friend

2Vw. A black patch I •

Old F. Will you listen and be silent 7

Tris. I am as mute as a judge. ^

Old F. My friend I say has a ward, who is very handsome
and who has a very handsome fortune. She would make
you a charming wife.

Tris. This is an action

Old F. Now, I have hitherto been afraid to introduce
you to my friend, the barrister, because I thought your
lightness and his gravity

Tris. Might be plaintiff and defendant.

Old F. But now you are grown serious and steady, and
have resolved to pursue his profession, I will shortly bring
you together : you will obtain his good opinion, and all the
rest follows of course.

Tris. A verdict in my favor.

Old F. You marry, and sit down happy for life.

Tris. In the King's Bench.

Old F. Bravo ! Ha, ha, ha ! But now run to your study
— run to your study, my dear Tristram, and I'll go and call
upon the counsellor.

Tris. I remove by habeas corpus.

Old F. Pray have the goodness to make haste then.
(^Hurrying Jiim off.)

Tris. Gentlemen of the jury, this is a cause

(Exit.)

Old F. The inimitable boy 1 I am now the happiest
father living. What genius he has ! He'll be lord chancellor
one day or other, I dare be sworn. I am sure he has
talents 1 Oh, how I long to see him at the bar I

1*HE PLAT Of tON.

SCENE FROM THE PLAY of "ION."

387

Sir Thomas Noon TaJjour(fj an English Judge and most classical
of modern dramatists. Born 1795 — died 1854.

Adrastus, King of Argos ; Crytiies, Captain of the Guard:
Ion, a foundling brought tip in the family of the Priest
of Apollo, and subsequently discovered to be the son of
Adrastus.

l;ff^ Adrastus must be proud, stern, authoritative in manner, and sudden
in passion; Crytlios, rostrainyd and cautious: Ion, youtliful iu manner,
mild but firm, and his elocution smooth and graceful.

Adrastus. The air breathes freshly after our long night
Of glorious revelry. I'll walk awhile.

Crythes. It blows across the town; dost thou not fear
It bear infection with it ?

Adrastus. Fear ! dost talk

Of fear to me ?

Let the air blast me now 1 —
I stir not ; tremble not ; these massive walls,
Whose date o'erawes tradition, gird the home
Of a great race of kings, along whose line
The eager mind lives aching, through the darkness
Of ages else unstoried, till its shapes
Of armed sovereigns spread to godlike port.
And, frowning in th' uncertain dawn of time,
Strike awe, as powers who rul'd an elder world
In mute obedience. I, sad heritor
Of all their glories, feel our doom is nigh ;
And I will meet it as befits their fame ;
Nor will I vary my selected path
The breath of my sword's edge, nor check a wish,
If such unkingly yielding might avert it.

Crythes. Thou art ever oyal in thy thoughts.

Adrastus. No more

I would be private [Exit Crythes

Grovelling parasite !
Why should I waste these fate-environ' d hours,
And pledge my great defiance to despair
With flatterers such as thou ; — as if my joys
Required the pale reflection cast by slaves
On mirror'd mockery round my throne, or lack'd
The aid of reptile sympathies, to stream

:il

'MB

'm^

288

THE PLAT OF ION.

then turning, he besought

Through fate's black pageantry. Let weakness seek
Companionship : I'll henceforth feast alone.

Crythes re-enters.

Crythes. My liege, forgive me.

Adrastiis. Well 1 Speak out at once

Thy business, and retire.

Crythes. I have no part

In the presumptuous message that I bear.

Adrastiis. Tell it, or go. There is -no time to waste
On idle terrors.

Crythes. Thus it is, my lord : —

As they were burnishing their arms, a man
Enter' d the court, and when they saw him first
Was tending towards the palace ; in amaze
We hail'd the rash intruder 5 still he walk'd
Unheeding onward, till the western gate
Barr'd further course
Our startled band to herald him to thee,
That he might urge a message, which the sages
Had charg'd him to deliver.

Adrastiis. Ha ! the graybeards.

Who, mid the altars of the gods, conspire
Against the image of supernal power
On earth? What sage is so resolv'd to play the orator
That he would die for 't ?

Crythes. He is but a youth,

Yet urg'd his prayer with a sad constancy
Which could not be denied.

Adrastus. ^ Most bravely plann'd!

Sedition worthy of the reverend host
Of sophist traitors I

'Tis fit when burning to insult their king.
And, warn'd the pleasure must be bought wiih life.
Their valour send a boy to speak their wisdom.
Thou know'st my last decree ; tell this rash youth
T'lo danger he incurs ; — then let him pass,
'^nd own the king more gentle than his masters.

Cri!] ■ :. They have already told him of the fatfe

♦ ""hich waits his daring j courteously he thank'd us,
But still with solemn accent urg'd his suit.

TUB PLAY OF lOX.

280

seek

[it once

te
lord:-

gilt

rbeards.
orator

Inn'dl

life,
ith

[•s.

Id us,

Adrastus. Toll him once more, if ho persists, ho dies —
Then, if he will, admit him. Should he hold
His purpose, then do thou conduct hun hither,
And see the headsman instantly prepare
To do his office. [Exit Crythes.^

So resolv'd, so young

'Twero pity he should fall | yet he must fall,

Or the great sceptre which hath sway'd the fears

Of ages, will become a common staff

For youth to wield, or age to rest upon,

Despoil' d of all its virtues. He must fall,

Else they who prompt the insult will grow bold,

And, with their pestilent vauntings through the city,

Raise the low fog of murky discontent, [plt»'<^'G)

Which now creeps harmless through its marshy birth-

To veil my setting glories. He is warn'd ;

And if he cross yon threshold, he shall die.

Re-enter Crytlies with Ion.

Crythcs. The king !

Adrasiv^. Stranger, I bid theo welcome ;

We are about to tread the same d.ark passage, [sword
Thou almost on the instant. [To Crythcs'] Is the
Of justice sharpen' d, and the headsman ready?

Crythes. Thou mayst behold them plainly in the. court ;
Even now the solemn soldiers line the ground.
The steel gleams on the altar, and the slave
Disrobes himself for duty,

[Adrastus to Ion] >■ Dost thou see them ?

Ion. I do.

Adrastus. By heaven he does not change !
If, even now, thou wilt depart, and leave
Thy traitorous thoughts unspoken, thou art free.

Ion. I thank thee for thy offer ; but I stand
Before thee for the lives of thousands, rich
In all that makes life precious to the brave ;
Who perish not alone, but in their fall
Break .the far-spreading tendrils that thoy feed,
And leave them nurtureless. If thou wilt hear mo
For them, I am content to speak no more.

B^qKfjfjM!

'w'|f|«||

;^J»

i'''<l^i

''>> Hwi

' '^•'l;n^

'1 '' ;iii

290

THE PLAT OP ION.

Adrasius. Thou hast thy wish then. Crythes! till yon
Cast its thin shadow on the approaching hour, [dial
I hear this gallant traitor. On the instant,
Come without word, and lead him to his doom.
Now leave us.

Crythes.

Adrasius.

He 's no assassin I

What, alone?

Yes, slave! alone,

[Exit Crythes.'^
Tell me, who thou art.
What generous source owns that heroic blood [wars
Which holds its course thus bravely ? What great
Have nurs'd the courage that can look on death.
Certain and speedy death, with placid eye ?

Ion. I am a simple youth, who never bore

The weight of armour,— one who may not boast

Of noble birth, or valour of his own.

Deem not the powers which nerve me thus to speak

In thy great presence, and have made my heart,

Upon the verge of bloody death, as calm.

As equal in its beatin'gs, as when sleep

Approach' d me nestling from the sportive toils

Of thoughtless childhood — to belong to me ! —

These are the strengths of Heaven, to thee they speak,

Bid thee to hearken to thy people's cry,

Or warn thee that thy hour must shortly come I

Adrasius. I know it must ; so mayst thou spare thy

[warnings,
The envious gods in me have doom'd a race,
Whose glories stream from the same cloud-girt founts,
Whence their own dawn'd upon the infant world ;
And I shall sit on my ancestral throne i

To meet their vengeance ; but till then, I rule
As I have ever rul'd, and thou wilt feel.

Ion. I will not further urge thy safety to thee j
It may be, as thou say'st, too late ; nor seek
To make thee tremble at the gathering curse
Which shall burst forth in mockery at thy fall :
But thou art gifted with a nobler sense —
I know thou art, my sovereign ! — sense of pain
Endur'd by myriad Argives, in whose souls,
And in whose fathers' souls, thou and thy fathers
Have kept their cherish'd state ; whose heart-strings
The living fibres of thy rooted power| [still,

THE PLAY OF ION.

291

iill yon
[dial

Quiver with agonies thy crimes have drawn
From heavenly justice on them.

3ne,

Crytlies.li

[wars
laat great
ith,

ast

to speak
tart,

oils
1—
hey speak,

lel

spare thy
[warnings,

birt founts,
rorld 5

{all:

lain

fathers
lart-strings

[still)

Adrasius.

How ! my crimes ?

Ion. Yes ; 'tis the eternal law, that where guilt is,
Sorrow shall answer it j and thou hast not
A poor man's privilege to bear alone,
Or in the narrow circle of his kinsmen.
The penalties of evil ^ for in thine
A nation's fate lies circled. — King Adrastus 1
Steel' d as thy heart is with the usages
Of pomp and power, a few short summers since
Thou wast a child, and canst not be relentless.
Oh, if maternal loYe embrac'd thee then.
Think of the mothers who, with eyes unwet,
Glare o'er their perishing children : hast thou shar'd
The glow of a first friendship, which is born
Midst the rude sports of boyhood? think of youth
Smitten amidst its playthings, — let the spirit
Of thy own innocent childhood whisper pity !

Adrastus. In every word thou dost but steell my soul.
My youth was blasted ; — parents, brother, kin —
All that should people infancy with joy —
Conspir'd to poison mine ; despoil'd my life
Of innocence and hope — all but the sword
And sceptre — dost thou wonder at me now?

Ion. I know that we should pity

Adrasius. Pity! dare

To speak that word again, and torture waits thee I
I am yet king of Argos. Well, go on —
Thy time is short, and 1 am pledg'd to hear.

Ion. If thou hast ever lov'd —

Adrastus. i Beware! beware!

Ion. Thou hast ! I see thou hast ! Thou art not marble !
And thou shalt hear me ! — Think upon the time
When the clear depths of thy yet lucid soul
Were ruffled with the troublings of strange joy,
As if some unseen visitant from heaven
Touch' d the calm lake and wreath'd its images
In sparkling waves; — recal the dallying hope
That on the margin of assurance trembled,
As lotb to lose in certainty too bless'd

292 TUB I'LAY OV lOX.

Its happy being; — taste in thought again
Of the stolen sweetness of those evening-walks,
When pansied turf was air to winged feet ;
When circling forests, by ethereal touch
Enchanted, wore the livery of the sky j
When thy heart,

Jhlnlarg'd by its new sympathy with one,
Grew bountiful to all I

Adrastus. That tone ! that tone !

Whence came it ? from thy lips ? It cannot be —
The long-hush'd music of the only voice
That ever spake unbought atiection to me.
And wak'd my soul to blessing ! — O, sweet hours
Of golden joy, ye como ! Your glories break
Through my pavilion' d spirit's sable folds !
Roll on ! roll on 1 — Stranger, thou dOst enforce me
To speak of things unbreath'd by lip of mine
To human ear: — wilt listen ?

Ion. As a child.

Adrastus. Agaiij ! — that voice again ! — thou hast seen me
As never mortal saw me, by a tone mov'd

Which some light breeze, enamour'd of the sound.
Hath wafted through the woods, till thy young voice
Caught it to rive and melt me. At my birth
This city, which, expectant of its prince.
Lay hush'd, broke out in clamorous ecstacies ;
Yet, in that moment, while the uplifted cups
Foam'd with the choicest product of the sun.
And welcome thunder' d from a thousand throats,
My doom was seal'd. From the hearth's vacant space,
In the dark chamber where my mother lay.
Faint with the sense of pain-bought happiness,
Came forth, in heart-appaling tone, these words
Of me, the nursling—

''Woe unto the babe !
Against the life which now begins, shall life.
Lighted from thence, be arm'd, and, both soon quench'd,

End this great line in sorrow !'

Ere I grew

Of years to know myself a thing accurs'd,
A second son was born, to steal the love
Which fate had else scarce rifled : he became
My parent's hope, the darling of the crew

•mti PLAY OP lOK.

293

Who liv'd upon their smiles, and thought it flattery

To trace in every foible of my youth —

A prince's youth ! — the workings of the curse;

My very mother — Jove ! — I cannot bear

To speak it now — looked freezingly upon me !

Ion. But thy brother —

Adrastus. Died. Thou hast heard the lie.

The common lie that every peasant tells
Of me, his master, — that I slew the boy.
'Tis false 1 One summer's eve, below a crag
Which, in his wilful mood, he strove to climb.
He lay a mangled corpse ; the very slaves
Whose cruelty had shut him from my heart,
Now coin'd their own injustice into proofs
To brand me as his murderer.

Ion.

Accuse thee?

Did they dare

Adrastus. Not in open speech ; — they felt

I should have seiz'd the miscreant by the throat,
And crush'd the lie half spoken with the life
Of the base speaker ; — but the tale look'd out
From the stolen gaze of coward eyes, which shrank
When mine have met them.

Ion. Didst not declare thy innocence ?

Adrastus. To whom ?

To parents who could doubt me? To the ring
Of grave impostors, or their shallow sons,
Who should have studied to prevent my wish
Before I spoke it ? To the common herd, —
The vassals of our house, — the reptile mass —
Declare to them ? No ! though my heart had burst,
As it was nigh to bursting ! — To the mountains
I tied, and on their pinnacles of snow
Breasted the icy wind, in hope to cool
My spirit's fever, but it was in vain.

Ion. Yet succour came to thee ?

Adrastus. A blessed one !

Which the strange magic of thy voice revives,
And thus unlocks my soul. My rapid steps
Were in a wood- encircled valley stay'd
By the bright vision of a maid, whose face

•IS

■;,|'%s

294 THE PLAT OF ION.

Most lovely> moro than loveliness reveal'd

In touch of patient grief, which dearer seem'd

Than happiness to spirit sear'd like mine.

With feeble hands she strove to lay in earth

The body of her aged sire, whose death

Left her alone. I aided her sad work,

And soon two lonely ones by holy rites

Became one happy being. Days, weeks, months,

In stream-like unity flow'd silent by us

In our delightful nest. My father's spies —

Slaves, whom my nod should have consign' d to stripes

Or the swift falchion — track' d our sylvan home

Just as my bosom knew its second joy,

And, spite of fortune, I embrac'd a son, —

— Oh ! could I now behold that son a moment.

Were it with knife uplifted to my heart,

I would embrace him with my dying eyes,

And pardon destiny. While jocund smiles

Wreath' d on the infant's face, as if sweet spirits
Suggested pleasant fancies to its soul,
The ruffians broke upon us, seiz'd the child;
Dash'd through the thicket to the beetling rock
'Neath which the deep wave eddies : I stood still
As stricken into stone : I heard him cry,
Press'd by the rudeness of the murderer's gripe
Severer ill unfearing — then the splash
Of waters that shall cover him for ever,
And could not stir to save him I

Ion.

And the mother-

Adrastus. She spake no word, but clasp'd me in her arms,
And lay her down to die. A lingering gaze
Of love she fix'd on me — none other lov'd.
And so pass'd hence. By Jupiter, her look 1
Her dying patience glimmers in thy face !
She lives again 1 She looks upon me now 1
There's magic in't. Bear with me — I am childish.

Re-enter Orythes.

Adrastus. Why art thou here ?

Crythes. The dial points the hour.

Adrastus. Dost thou not see that horrid purpose pass'd ?
Hast thou no heart— no sense ?

CATILINB.

295

Crythes. Scarce half an hour

Hath flown since the command on which I wait.

' [roU'd since then.

Adrasius. Scarce half an hour ! — ^Years— years have

Begone! remove that pageantry of death

It blasts my sight — and hearken ! Touch a hair
Of this brave youth, or look on hiui as now
With thy cold headsman's eye, and yonder band
Shall not expect a fearful show in vain.
Hence, without word 1 [Exit Crythes.] What wouldst

[thou have me do ?

Ion. Let thy awaken' d heart speak its own language ;
Convene thy Sages ; frankly, nobly meet them ;
Explore with them the pleasure of the gods,
And whatsoe'er the sacrifice— perform it.

Adrasius. Well 1 I will seek their presence in an hour ;
Go summon them, young hero : hold 1 no word
Of the strange passion thou hast witness' d here.

Ion, Distrust me not. — Benignant Powers, I thank ye !

[Exitlon.]

Adrasius. "Yet stay — he's gone — his spell is on me yet ;
What have I promis'd him ?

An idle dream
Of long-past days hath melted me 1 It fades —
Ijb vanishes — I am again a king !

?^;i«''!s

SCENE FROM CATILINE.

Rev. George Croly, LL.D., a literary writer and dinine, horn
in Ireland, 1780 5 still living.

CATILINE holding a letter.

Catiline. Flung on my pillow I does the last night's wine
Perplex me still 1 Its words are wild and bold.

[Beads] ^^ Noble Catiline I where you tread, the earth is hol-
low though it gives no sound. There is a storm gathering,
though there are no clouds in the sky. Rome is desperate ; three
hundred patricians have sworn to do their duty ; and what three
hundred have sworn, thirty thousand will make good.''''

Why half the number now might sack the city,
With all its knights, before a spear could come
From Ostia to their succour, 'Twere a deed ! —

29G

OATILltrtl.

(Reads) " Tou have been betrayed by the Senate, betrayed by

the Consuls, and betrayed by the people. Tou are a Roman, can

you suffer chains ? You are a soldier, can you submit to shame ?

You are a man, will you be mined, trampled on, disdained V^

Disdained. They are in the right. It tells the truth —

[heart — ]
There's one way left: {draws a poniard) th\^ dagger in my
The quickest cure I But 'tis the coward's cure ;
And what shall heal the dearer part of me,
^ My reputation ? What shields for my name,
When I shall fling it, like my corpse, to those
Who dared not touch it living, — for their lives !
So there lies satisfaction ; and my veins
Must weep — for nothing ! when my enemies
Might be compell'd to buy th3m drop by drop.
No I by the Thunderer, they shall pay their price.
To die ! in days when helms are burnishing ;
When heaven and earth are ripening for a change ;
And die by ray own hand ! — Give up the game
Before the dice are thrown ! clamour for chains,
Before the stirring trumpet sounds the charge ! —
Bind up my limbs— a voluntary mark
For the world's enginery, the ruffian gibe.
The false friend's sneer, the spurn of the "afe foe,
The sickly sour-hypocrisy, that loves
To find a wretch to make its moral of,
Crushes the fallen, and calls it Charity i —
Sleep in your sheath I (he puts up the poinard.)
How could my mind give place
To thoughts so desperate, rash, and mutinous ?
Fate governs all things. Madman ! would I give
Joy to my enemies, sorrow to my friends, —
Shut up the gate of hope upon myself*^
My sword may thrive 1 Dreams, dreams ! my mind's as full
Of vapourish fantasies as a sick girl's !
I will abandon Rome, — give back her scorn
W^ith tenfold scorn : break up all league with her, —
All memories. I will not breathe her air,
Nor warm me with her lin^, nor let my bones
Mix with her sepulchres. The oath is sworn.

AuRELiA enters with papers,
Aurelia. What answers for thi. pile of bills, my lord ?
Catiline. Who can have sent them here ?

yedhy
n, can
hanie ?
•neiir

ith—
sart — ]
in my

OAtlLlNE. 20?

Aurelia . Your creditors I

As if some demon woke them all at once,

These have been crowding on me since the morn,

Here, Cains Curtius claims the prompt discharge

Of his half million sesterces 5 besides

The interest on your bond, ten thousand more.

Six thousandTfor your Tyrian canopy ;

Here, for your Persian horses — your trireme ;

Here, debt on debt. Will you discharge them now ?
Cat. I'll think on it.
Aur. It must be now ; this day !

Or, by to-morrow, we shall have no home.
Cat. 'Twill soon be all the same.
Aur. We are undone 1

My gold, my father's presents, jewels, rings, —

All, to the baubles on my neck, are gone.

The consulship might have upheld us still ;

But now — we must go down.
Cat. Aurelia ! — wife 1

All will be well : but hear me — stay— a little ;

I had intended to consult with you —

On — our departure — from — the — city.
Aur. {Indignantly and surpHsed) Eome ?
Cat. Even so, fair wife ! we must leave Rome.
Aur. Let me look on you ; are you Catiline ?
Cat. I know not what I am— we must be gone 1
Aur. Madness!

Cat. {Wildly). Not yet — not yet!
Aur. Let them take all ?
Cat. The gods will have it so !
Aur. Seize on your house ?
Cat. Seize my last sesterce I liOt them have their wish,

We must endure. Ay ; ransack — ruin all ;

Tear up my father's grave, — tear out ray heart,

W'fel the world's wide, — can we not dig or beg?

Can we not find on earth a den, or lomb?
Aur. Before /stir they shall hew oifn^iy hands.
Oit. What's to bo done?
Aur. Hear me Lord Catiline :

The day we wedded, — 'tis but throe bliort years !

You were the first patrician here, — .'nid I

Was Marius' daughter ! There was not in Rome
An eye, however haughty, but would sink
When i turn'd on it; when I pass'd the streets
My chariot wheel was foUow'd by a host

4ll«ii

298

CATILINE.

Of your chief Senators ; as if their gaze

Beheld an empress on its golden round ;

An earthly providence 1
Cat. 'Twas so ! — 'twas so 1

But it is vanish' d — gone I
Aur. By yon bright sun !

That day shall come again ; or, in its place,

One that shall be an era, to the world !
Cat. {Eagerly). What's in your thoughts?
Aur. Our high and hurried life

Has left us strangers to each other's souls-,

But now we think alike, you have a sword, —

Have had a famous name o' the legions !
Cat. Hush I
Aur. Have the walls ears? Great Jove I I wish they had ;

And tongues too, to bear witness to my oath,

And tell it to all Rome.
Cat. Would you destroy?
Aur. Were I a thunderbolt I

Rome's ship is rotten •,

Has she not cast you out j and would you sink

With her, when she can give you no gain else

Of her fierce fellowship ? Who'd seek the chain

That link'd him to his mortal enemy ?

Who'd face the pestilence in his foe's house ?

Who, when the poisoner drinks by chance the cup,

That was to be his death, would squeeze the dregs

To find a drop to bear him company ?
Cat. (ShnnJdng). It will not come to this.
Aur. {Haughtily). Shall we be dragg'd,

A show to all the city rabble ; — robb'd —

Down to the very mantle on our backs, —

A pair of branded beggars 1 Doubtless Cicero —
Cat. Cursed be the ground he treads I

Name him no more.
Aur. Doubtless heHl see us to the city gates;

'Twill be the least respect that he can pay

To hiB fallen rival. Do you hear, my lord ?

Deaf as the rock (aside). With all his lictors shouting

'' Room for the noble vagrants ; all caps off

For Catiline 1 for him that would be consul."
Cat. (Turning away). Thus to be, like the scorpion,

Ring'd with fire,

Till 1 sting my own heart (aside). There is no hope 1
Aur. One h«pe there is, worth all the rest — revenge 1

CATILINE.

299

The time is harass' d, poor, and discontent ;
Your spirit practised, keen and desperate, —
The senate full of feuds, the city vex'd
With petty tyranny, — the legions' wrong' d —

Cat. (Scornfull]/). Yet, who has stirr'd ?
Woman, you paint the air
With passion's pencil.

Aur. Were my will a sword I

Cat. Hear me, bold heart ! The whole gross blood of Eome
Could not atone my wrongs I I'm -soul-shrunk, sick,
Weary of man I And now my mind is fix'd
For Lybia : there to make companionship
Eather of bear and tiger, — of the snake, —
The lion in his hunger, — ^^than of man !

Aur. I had a father once, who would haveplung'd
Kome in the Tiber for an angry look !
You saw our entrance from the Gaulish war.
When Sylla fled ?

Cat. My legion was in Spain.

Aur. We swept through Italy, a flood of fire,
A living lava, rolling straight on Rome,
For days before we reach' d it, the whole rdad
Was throng' d with suppliants — tribunes, consulars
The mightiest names o' the state ; could gold have bribed,
We might have pitched our tents and slept on gold.
But we had work to do, — our swords were thirsty.
We entered Rome, as conquerors, in arms :
I, by my father's side, cuirass'd and helm'd,
Bellona beside Mars.

Cat. with coldness. The world was yours.

Aur. Rome was all eyes ; the ancient totter'd forth ;
The cripple propp'd his limbs beside the wall ;
The dying left his bed to look and die,
The way before us was a sea of heads |
The way behind a torrent of brown spears ;
So on we rode, in fierce and funeral pomp,
Through the long, living streets, that sank in gloom,
As we, like Pluto and Proserpina,
Enthroned, road on, like two-fold destiny !
Cat. These triumphs are but gewgaws. AH the earth 1

What is it ? Dust and smoke. I've done with life.
Aur. (coming closer, and looking steadily upon Mm,)
Before that eve — one hundred senators
And fifteen hundred knights, had paid — in blood f
The price of taunts, and treachery and rebellion I

ifl

'II

'I'll*

300

TROUBLES OP NERVOtJSNfiS^.

Were my tongue thunder — I would cry, Revenge I

Cat. (in sullen wildness). No more of this 1

In to your chamber, wife !

There is a whirling wildness in my brain.

That will not now bear questioning. Away !

Where are our veterans now ? Look on these walls ;

I cannot turn their issues into life.

Where are our revenues — our chosen friends ?

Are we not beggars ? Where have beggars friends ?

/ see no swords and bucklers on these floors 1

/ shake the state ! I — what have I on eai'th

But these two hands ? Must I not dig or starve !

Come back ! I had forgot. My memory dies,

I think by the hour. Who sups with us to-night?

Let all be of the rarest, — spare no cost, —

If 'tis our last ; — it may be — let us sink

In sumptuous ruin, with wonders round ua, wife !

Our funeral pile shall send up amber smokes ;

We'll burn in myrrh or blood 1 [She goes.

I feel a nameless pressure on my brow,

As if the heavens were thick with sudden gloom j

A shapeless consciousness, as if some blow

Were hanging o'er my head. They say such thoughts

Partake of prophesy. [stands at the casement)

This air is living sweetness. Golden sun

Shall I be like thee yet? The clouds have past —

And, like some mighty victor, he returns

To his red city in the West, that now

Spreads all her gates, and lights her torches up.

In triumph for the glorious conqueror.

TROUBLES OF NERVOUSNESS.
W. B. Bernard.

BIGGS, BETTY, ASPEN AND DR. OXYDE.

(Betty sweeping the room, and Biggs arranging the table.)

Biggs. Well, Betty, I have made up my mind to look out
for another place. This will be my last one, if I keep it
another week.

Bet. La, John ! do you think you will better yourself?
Every master or missus has their humor.

TUOUBLES OF NERVOUSNESS.

301

Biggs. That I cxi^ects ; but it's a hard thing when their
humor makes everybody melancholy. Did you ever live
with a nervous man before ?

Bet. No.

Biggs. Then I says this— that all people talk of a toad
under a harrow, and fish in a frying-pan, is quiet and com-
fort to it. Do all we can, nothing will please him. He
won't believe in such a thing as accident, because, he says,
you and I and everybody else is in a conspiracy to worry
him.

Bet. But how do we know, John, what he has to worry
him abroad ?

Biggs. Well, I don't say I know who it is pulls the bell ;
I only know that we hears the clapper. And then it's such
a trifling moxter sets him oft"! A speck on the cloth will
jog his nerves as much as the smashing of a bank ; and
then, what's worse than all, he's doubly nervous.

Bet. Doubly nervous I

Biggs. Yes; nervous strong, as well as nervous weak.
Now, 1 shouldn't mind living with a man who was so deli-
cate, that whenever he shook himself, he wouldn't shake
me ; but, you know, when master begins to tremble, he
makes us all imitate him.

Aspen. (}Fi7AoM^) Biggs! Biggs.

Biggs. Eh ! he's up 1 Bun, Betty, for the urn. No —
stop. Hush! don't run. Steal your steps, or he'll say
you're robbing his rest. {Betty goes out on tiptoe.) Now, let
me see if the room's in order. Yes — well. What will bo
the first thing I shall catch it for this morning? I know —
he'll abuse me for waking him up so early.

{Enter Aspen.)

Asp. Biggs 1 ■ .

Biggs. Sir !

Asp. Look at this watch — half-past ten ! How dare you
sutler me to waste my time in bed till half-past ton, on a
Monday morning ?

Biggs. You told me, sir, last night, not to disturb you,
because you were not well.

Asp. Nonsense, sir ! Did you over hoar of a man get-
ting well by lying in bed on a Monday morning ?

Biggs. Indeed, sir, it was not my fault —

Asp. Don't talk, sir — a nervous man can't bear talking.

Biggs. But if you'll hear a reason, sir —

As^' Don't reason, eir — a nervous man can't boar rea-

III
•If

W-i^?/

302

TROUBLES OF NERVOUSNESS.

soiling. (Sits at table.) Where's the urn ? {Betty steals in
vrith it, and pla^ng it on the table, throws down a plate —
Aspen starts.) What's that ?

Bet. An accident, sir —

Asp. An accident I One of your accidents — a subtle mode
of irritation !

Bet. Dear sirl I never thought —

Asp. Stuff! you think of nothing else. (Exit Betty.)
You Know my weakness of system, and you are all leagued
to lay me in my grave I Here's a breakfast ! Eggs — bul-
lets — muffins— brickbats — lumps of sugar large enough to
pave a street 1 More of your designs 1 Where's the paper ?

Biggs. (Handing a newspaper.) Here, sir.

Asp. (Dropping it.) Damp 1

Biggs. I ". ^ic'i the tire half an hour, sir.

Asp. Givo i.':> ai' Papers are usually dry enough in
November. (K^aad., " Bankrupts — Old Bailey — Suicide —
Horrible Atrocity I The house of Mr. Crank, a wealthy
manufacturer, eai- Leec ^ -^as entered on the night of the
17th ult. by a gang oa nitj' ir-, vho threw the unfortunate
gentleman into a paddock vhich contained a bull, who im-
mediately caught him on his horns, and threw him back
into the window 1" (Throws down the paper.) Here's news !
Talk of the good of newspapers ! What is their good ? All
that they do is to make people nervous. (A double knock.)

Biggs. The postman —

Asp. Biggs, I thought I told you, sir, to muffle that
knocker I Do you know that every rap at that door goes
to my heart I Are you aware of the weakness of my sys-
tem?—

Biggs. Yes, sir —

Asp. Do you wish me then, to make your body the door,
and my hand that knocker ?

Biggs. No, sir ; but if I muffle the knocker, people will
think you are ill, and then you will have them coming here
all day long.

Asp. Go to the door. Stop, sir ! Come back, sir ! More
of your annoyances 1

Biggs. What, sir ?

Asp. (Pointing to the ground.) Look at that pin ! (Biggs
picks up the pin, and exits.) Vivian is righ^— decidedly
right. If I hope to continue my existence, I must leave
London. My antipathy to London increases every day.
Such a hot-bed for roguery ! A lamentable fact — every one
that lives in London must be a rogue — he can't help it-

it's in
choly
crowd
swindle
nerves,
strengt
enters u
rascal I
in a dir
leads m
him to
to take

Biggs

Bsp. '.

(Exit .

I can't 1:

(Enter D

Doct. i
Asp. i
Doct. ]

request o
Asp. E
Doct. 1

vous irrit
Asp. A

strings — j
Doct. Ii
Asp. D

of humar

church-ya
Doct.

more hea

cular.
Asp. D(

of a man-
Doct. A
Asp. V
Doct. Y
Asp. A

per, if you
Doct. A

)or

lore
tore

TROUBLES OP NERVOUSNESS.

303

it's in the atmosphere ! — my shattered system is a melan-
choly evidence. Here I am, surrounded every day by a
crowd of people, who come cringing and begging solely to
swindle me— nothing else. They know the state of my
nerves, and they presume on it. My weakness is their
strength. If the fact required further confirmation— (^/(/^rs
enters with a letter — Aspen opens it) — here it is. Here's a
rascal 1 a feUow — a plumber and glazier— lives somewhere
in a dirty lane — I hire him to lead my house — very well, he
leads my house, and my warehouse, which I did not order
him to lead — sends in his bill — I won't pay him — tell him
to take back his lead.

(Enter BiQQa, with a card.)

Biggs. Gentlemen's at the door, sir.
Bsp. Doctor Oxyde— my new physician — show him in.
{Exit Biggs.) The very man I wanted I Lucky he's come —
I can't live without advice.

{Enter Doctor Oxtdb and Biggs, who places chairs and exits.)

Doct. Mr. Aspen —

Asp. Yes, sir.

Doct. I have done myself the pleasure of calling, at the
request of your friend, Mr. Vivian.

Asp. Bob — perfectly right. Take a chair. {They sit.)

Doct. Mr. Vivian informs me that you are subject to ner-
vous irritability.

Asp. A victim to it— a martyr, sir— a mere case of fiddle-
strings — jar at the least touch 1

Doct. Is it possible ?

Asp. Don't I show it ? Did you ever see such a fag-end
of humanity? Don't I look as if I had been sleeping in a
church-yard, or lodging in a vault ?

Doct. On the contrary — I have met with few persons of
more healthy appearance. Your frame's erect and mus-
cular.

Asp. Deception — deception, sir. I am the mere outside
of a man— an empty house, with strong walls.

Doct, And you are actually very weak ?

Asp. Very weak.

Doct. Your chest affected— and your voice -p-

Asp. A penny trumpet. Couldn't raise it above a whis-
per, if you'd give me the world.

Doct, A favorable symptom, Pray, Mr. Aspen, do you

304

TROUBLES OF NERVOUSNESS.

refer the origin of your complaint to constitution, or to cir
cumstances ?

Asp. Sir, I owe my unhappy state to the moral atmos-
phere of London; you are no doubt aware of that rule in
political economy, that "Numbers increase crime." Lon-
don being therefore the most densely populated, is the
most roguish spot in Europe. Behold one of the results ! I
am at the head of a large establishment— clerks— captains,
merchants,— porters— all swarm about me— all preying on
mo— all rogues 1 I'm another Actoeon: worried to death by
my own dogs !

Doct. But are you certain yours is not a diseased imagi-
nation? In the course of my practice I have met with
many, who have been self-afl3ictors— men who have created
their annoyances.

Asp. What, sir — self-aflBictor ? — hear the man — you are
mad ! Sir, you doubt my persecutions ; perhaps you'll hear
a few ?

Doct. With pleasure I

Asp. Perhaps, sir, you never met with such a thing as
civil assassination — murder administered by social means ;
friends pouring in at all hours of the day to squeeze you
into a fever, and talk you into a phrenzy ? Sir, there's not
a man or woman that I meet, but is in a league against me.
If I go out, I am sure to be chased by a dust-man with a
bell — when I come home, a barrel-organ's at my window ;
the twopenny postman knocks louder here than any where
else. My servants smash the crockery, or slam the doors
— and when I get to sleep, my cook, like the head of Mem-
non, must always sing at sunrise.

Doct. Then, Mr. Aspen, I have but one thing to advise ;
you must leave London.

Asp. Sensible fellow I

Doct. Quiet is the only thing to restore composure — and
change of air will give you strength.

Asp. You agree, tlipn, in my principle?

Doct. Your principle.

Asp. That there U something in the air of London inim-
ical to honesty ?

Doct. Sir, I think the admixture of good and bad is
pcetty equal everywhere.

Ai^p. (Aside.) Stupid doctor ! I won't give him his fee.
(Aloud.) Sir, if you had slaved in a counting-house as I
have done from fifteen to fifty, you'd know that it is im-
possible for a man to live in London and not be a rogue !
(Presenting money.) Good morning !

Doci
Asp
hasn't
could
said h(
— char]
lever
—•plays
no one

SCENE

Lord .
Take a c

Pang.
entaryj
vulttis.^^-

Lord 1
had rath

Pang.
hurried,
say, <'I1

Shakspei

Lord L

morning,

Pang.
thor's m<
"Lend m
unknown
that tho
conferred
beheld th
with a d«
Lord D
Pang.
desty, coi
one poitn(
paid on r
to the nu]

THE BEIR At LAW.

305

Doct (Taking it.) Good morning, Mr. Aspen. (Exit.)
Asp. There's a fellow to be called one of the faculty —
hasn't got a faculty— couldn't see my weakness; what
could Vivian mean by recommending ^uch an ass ? Vivian
said he would be here to-day. Wants me to marry Emily
— charming creature — perfect creature — the quietest vroiaan
I ever met with — talks in a whisper— walks like a fairy —
— plays sweetly on the piano. (A knock.) Biggs, I'll see
no one ; I'm out— I'm dead.

SCENE FROM THE COMEDY OF THE HEIR AT LAW
George Coleman, the Younger. Seep. 280.

ivise ;

mim-

)ad is

is fee.

) as I

is im-

rogue !

DR. PANGLOSS AND LORD DITBERLT.

Lord D. Doctor, good morning — I wish you a bon repos I
Take a chair, doctor.

Pang. Pardon me, my lord ; I am not inclined to be sed-
entary; I wish, with permission, *^ erectos ad sidera telUre
vultu^.^^ — Ovid. Hem!

Lord D. Tollory vultures t I suppose that that means you
had rather stand?

Pang. Fye ! this is a locomotive morning with me. Just
hurried, my lord, from the Society of Arts ; whence, I may
say, " I have borne my blushing honors thick upon me."—
Shakspeare. Hem !

Lord D. And what has put your honors to the blush this
morning, doctor ?

Pang. To the blush ! A ludicrous perversion of the au-
thor's meaning— he, he, he 1 hem! You shall hear, my lord,
"Lend me your ears." Shakspeare again. Hem! 'tis not
unknown to your lordship, and the no less literary world,
that tho Caledonian University of Aberdeen long since
conferred upon me the dignity of LL.D. ; and, as I never
beheld that erudite body, I may safely say they dubb'd me
with a degree from sheer considerations of my celebrity.

L&rd D. True.

Pang. For nothing, my lord, but my own innate mo-
desty, could suppose that Scotch college to be swayed by
one poUnd fifteen shillings and three pence three farthings,
paid on receiving my diploma as a handsome compliment
to the numerous and learned head of that seminary,

306

THE ITEIR AT LAW.

Lord D. Oh, no, it wasn't for the matter of money.

Pang, I do not think it was altogether the " auri sacra
fames'^ — Virgil, Hem! But this very day, my lord, at
eleven o'clock, A. M., the Society of Arts, in consequence,
as they were pleased to say, of my merits — he, he, he I my
merits, my lord — have admitted me as an unworthy member,
and I have, henceforward, the privilege of adding to my
name the honorable title of A double S.

Lord D. And I make no doubt, doctor, but you have
richly deserved it. I warrant a man doesn't get A double
S tack'd to his name for nothing.

Pang. Decidedly not, my lord. Yes, I am now artium
societatis socius. My two last publications did that business.
,, Exegi monumenium osre perennius^^ — Horace. Hem!

Lord D. And what might them there two books be
about, doctor ?

Pang. The first, my lord, was a plan to lull the restless
(jo sleep, by an infusion of opium into their ears. The effi-
cacy of this method originally struck me in St. Stephen's
chapel, while listening to the oratory of a worthy country
gentleman.

Lord D. I wonder it wa'nt hit upon before by the
doctors.

Pang. Physicians, my lord, put their patients to sleep
in another manner. He, he, he! "To die — to sleep; no
more." — Shakspeare. Hem ! my second treatise was a pro-
posal for erecting dove-houses, on a principle tending to
increase the propagation of pigeons. This, I may affirm,
,has received considerable countenance from many who
move in the circles of fashion. " Nee gemere cessabit turtur.'^
— Virgil. Hem ! I am about to publish a third edition, by
subscription. May I have the honor to pop your lordship
down among the pigeons?

Lord D. Aye, aye ; down with me, doctor.

Pang. My lord, I am grateful. I ever insert names and
titles at full length. What may be your lordship's spon-
sorial and patronymic appellations? {Taking out his pocket-
book,)

LordD. My what?

Pang. I mean, my lord, the designations given to you
by your lordship's godfathers and parents.

Lord D. Oh 1 What ? my Christian and surname ? I was
baptized Daniel.

Pang. ^^Abolens baptismatelabem.^- I forgot where — no
matter — hem 1 The Right Honorable Daniel — — ( Writing.)

spe£

berli

(Thl

Pa
cate
leai
sUp-i

Loi
a tole

Pai
in the
check

Lor

Pa?

Lon
ofmuj

Pan
cert,
tertainl

TIIE HEIR AT LAW .

307

Lord D. Dowlas.

Pang. {Writing.) Dowlas— "filthy Dow 1" hem! Shak-
speare. The Right Honorable Daniel Dowlas, Baron Du-
berly. And now, my lord, to youi*lesson for the day.
{They sit.)

Lord D. Now for it, doctor.

Pang. The process which we are now upon is to eradi-
cate that blemish in your lordship's language, wliich the
learned denominate cacology, and which the vulgar call
slip-slop.

Lord D. I'm afraid, doctor, my cakelclogy will give you
a tolerable tight job on't.

Pang. '^ Nildesperandum." — Horace. Hem ! We'll begin
in the old way, my lord. Talk on : when you stumble, I
check. Where was your lordship yesterday evening ?

Lord D. At a consort.

Pang. Umph I tHe-d-tUe with Lady Duberly, I presume.

Lord D. I'he-dtSie with five hundred people, hearing
of music.

Pang. Oh ! I conceive. Your lordship would say a con-
cert. Mark the distinction. A concert, my lord, is an en-
tertainment visited by fashionable lovers of harmony. Now,
a corCsort is a wife.

Lord D. Humph ! After all, doctor, I shall make but a
poor progress in my vermicular tongue.

Pang. Your knowledge of our native, or vernacular
language, my lord, time and industry may meliorate. Ver-
micular is an epithet seldom applied to tongues, but in the
case of puppies who want to be worm'd.

Lird I). Aha! then I an' t so much out, doctor. I've
met plenty of puppies since I came to town, whose tongues
are so troublesome, that worming might chance to be of
service. But, doctor, I've a bit of a proposal to make to
you, concerning my own family.

Pang. Disclose, my lord.

Lord D. Why, you must know, I expect my son, Dicky,
in town this here very morning. Now, doctor, if you would
but mend his cakelology, mayhap it might be better worth
while than the mending of mine.

Pang. I smell a pupil. {Aside.) Whence, my lord, does
the young gentleman come?

Lord D. You shall hear all about it. You know, doctor,
though I'm of good family distraction —

Pang. Ex.

Lord D. Though I'm of a good family extraction, 'twas
but t'other day I kept a shop at Gosport.

mJ*

■'M

;,s3

;- f

11'

''■/•i

•^Ej

^1'

■ Vv-Sf ■'

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308

THE HEIR AT LAW.

Pang. The rumor has reached me. '^Famavolaiviresquey

Lord D. Don't put me out.

Pang. Virgil. Hem! proceed.

Lord D. A tradeipan, you know, must mind the main
chance. So, when Dick began to grow as big as a porpus, I
got an old friend of mine, who lives in Derbyshire, to take
Dick 'prentice at half price. He's just now out of his time;
and I warrant him, as wild and as rough as a rock. Now, if
you, doctor — if you would but take him in ha.id, and soften
him, a bit—

Pang. Pray, my lord — "to soften rocks." — Congreve.
Hem ! Pray, my lord, what profession may the Honorable
Mr. Dowlas have followed ?

Lord D. Who ? Dick? He has served his clerkship to
an attorney, at Castleton.

Pang. An attorney I Gentleman of his profession, my
lord, are very difficult to soften.

Lord D. Yes ; but the pay may make it worth while.
I'm told that Lord Spindle gives his eldest son. Master
Drumstick's tutorer, three hundred a year, and, besides
learning his pupil, he has to read my lord to sleep of an
afternoon, and walk out with the lap-dogs and children.
Now, if three hundred a year, doctor, will do the business
for Dick, I shan't begrudge it you.

Pang. Three hundred a year! Say no more, my lord
LL.D. A double S, and three hundred a year ! I accept I of
office. " Verbum saV^ — Horace. Hem I Pllrun to my lodg-
ings — settle with Mrs. Suds— put my wardrobe into a

no, I've got it all on, and — {Going.)

Lord D. Hold, hold ! not so hasty, doctor ; I must first
send you for Dick, to the Blue Boar.

Pang. The Honorable Mr. Dowlas, my pupil, at the
Blue Boar.

Lord D. Aye, in Holborn. As I aint fond of telling
people good news beforehand, for fear they maybe baulked,
Dick knows nothing of my being made a lord.

Pang. Three hundred a year 1

"I've often wished that I had, clear
For life— six" no ; three—
" Three hundred."

Lord D. 1 wrote to him just before I left Gosport, to
tell him to meet me in London with —

Pang. Three hundred pounds a year ! — Swift. Hem I

Lord D. With all speed upon business, d'ye mind me.

Pang. Dr. Pangloss, with an income of!— no lap-dog,
my lord?

Lo
wher
Dick
coach

Pm
Boar-

Loj

r-'i a

jump
Par
of mi
When

me, I'
hundn

Lord .

T„ .y

Unlocks

And — w

Tis brie

Beneath

Not far i

Then sti:

Through

Somethii

Till one (

Watched

Looked s

Learned

With a qi

Lady A

Vyv.

And that

Oft but fc

And thus

Faint as t

Lady M

TUB RIOIITFUL HBIU.

309

Lord D. Nay, but listen, doctor; and as I didn't know
where old Ferrett was to make me live in London, I told
Pick to be at the Blue Boar this morning, by the stage-
coach. Why, you don't hear what I'm talking about, doctor.

Pang. Oli, perfectly, my lord — thi'ee hundred — Blue
Boar— in the stage-coach!

Lord D. Well, step into my room, doctor, and I'll give
y-'^ a letter which you shall carry to the inn, and bring
away with you. I warrant the boy will be ready to
jump out of his skin.

Pang. Skin? jump! Bless me! I'm ready to jump put
of mine ! I follow your lordship— oh, doctor Pangloss.
Where is your philanthrophy now. I attend you, my lord !
^^ j^guam memento.^^ — Horace. Servare meniem — hem! bless
me, I'm all in a fluster, LL.D. A double S, and three
hundred a— I attend your lordship,

SCENE FROM THE RIGHTFUL HEIR.

Lord Lytton, a novelist j poet and statesman, born in 1805 5

still living.

Lady Montrevillb and Vivian.

Gentle Lady,
T„ jy of some charmed music in your voice
Unlocks a haunted chamber in my soul j
And — would you listen to an outcast's tale, —
Tis briefly told. Until my fifteenth year,
Beneath the roof of a poor village priest,
Not far from hence, my childhood wore away ;
Then stirred within me restless thoughts and deep ; —
Throughout the liberal and harmonious nature
Something seemed absent, — what, I scarcely knew,
Till one calm night, when over slumbering seas
Watched the still heaven, and down on every wave
Looked some soft lulling star — the instinctive want
Learned what it pined for ; and I asked the priest
With a quick sigh — '* Why I was motherless?"

Lady M. And he ? —

Vyv. Replied that— I was nobly born.

And that the cloud which dimmed a dawning sun.
Oft but foretold its splendour at the noon.
And thus he spoke, faint memories struggling came —
Faint as the things some former life hath known,

lady M, Of what; ?

'if ■■11

1**

4:m

■M^"^

310

THE RIGHTFUL HEIR.

Vyv. A face sweet with a stately sorrow,

And lips which breathed the words that mothers murmur.

Lady M. (aside.) Back, tell-tale tears !

Vyv. About that time, a stranger

Came to our hamlet ; rough, yet, some said, well-bom j
Koysterer, and comrade, such as youth delights in.
Sailor he called himself, and nought belied
The sailor's metal ringing in his talk
Of El Dorados, and Enchanted Isles,
Of hardy Raleigh, and of fearless Drake,
And great Columbus with prophetic eyes
Fixed on a dawning world. His legends fired me
And, from the deep whose billows washed our walls,
The alluring wave called with a Siren's music.
And thus I left my home with that wild seaman.

Lady M. The priest, consenting, still divulged not more ?

Vyv. No I nor rebuked mine ardour. "Go," he said,
" The noblest of all nobles are the men
In whom their country feels herself ennobled."
Lady M. (aside.) I breathe again. Well, thus you left
these shores —

Vyv. Scarce had the brisker sea-wind filled our sails,
When the false traitor who had lured my trust
Cast me to chains and darkness. Days went by,
At length— one belt of desolate waters round.
And on the decks one scowl of swarthy brows,
(A hideous crow, the refuae of all shores) —
Under the flapping of his raven flag
The pirate stood revealed, and called his captive.
Grimly he heard my boyish loud upbraidings,
And grimly smiled in answering : "I, like theo.
Cast off, and disinherited, and desperate,
Had but one choice, death or the pirate's flag —
Choose ihou—1 am more gracious than thy kindred j
I proffer life ; the gold they gave me paid
Thy grave in ocean I"

Lady M. Hold ! The demon lied !

Vyv. Swift, as I answered so, his blade flashed forth ;
But self-defence is swifter still than slaughter ;
I plucked a sword from one who stood beside me.
And smote the slanderer to my feet. Then all
That human hell broke loose ; oaths rang, steel lightened j
When in the death-swoon of the caititt* chief,
The pirate next in rank forced back the swaririj
jfl^d— in that superstition of the sea

Whicj

Forba

Teas

And!

Evei

And, «

ryv.

Tossed

Heave:

All loo

Recalle

Ev'n w

But— n

Lady

Vyv.

A sail—

Ladg

Vyv.

Aoon gl

And wit

To wren

Into the

And the

I saw a c

With wai

Swam hu

Grew sw<

And lifte

Grew din

(In whicl

Fell on n

Lady Jk

Vyv.

My nativt

I lay on d

For God I]

Lady M

Make eart

And each

Break not

Vyv. T

Of that go

Nor all un

And the fr

I fought n:

THE RIGHTFUL HEIR.

311

Which makes the sole religion of its outlaws-
Forbade my doom by bloodshed— griped and l)0und me
To a slight plank ; spread to the wintis the sail,
And left me On the waves alone with God.

Evel. Pause. Let my hand take thino — led its warm life,
And, shuddering less, thank Him whose eye was o'er thee.

Vyv. That day, and all that night, upon tho seas
Tossed the frail barrier between life n!Kl death ;
Heaven lulled the gales ; and when tl lo stars came forth,
All looked so bland and gentle that I wept,
Recalled that wretch's words, and murmured, "All,
Ev'n wave and wind, are kinder than my kindred 1"
But— nay, sweet lady —
Lady M. Heed me not. Night passed

Vyv. Day dawned ; and, glittering in the sun, behold
A sail — a flag I
Ladg M. Well, well?

Vyv. Like Hope, it vanished !

Noon glaring came— with noon came thirst and famine.
And with parched lips I called on death, and sought
To wrench my limbs from the stiff cords that gnawed
Into the flesh, and drop into the deep ;
And then — the clear wave trembled, and below
I saw a dark, swift-moving, shapeless thing,
With watchful, glassy eyes ; the ghastly shark
Swam hungering round its prey — then life once more
Grew sweet, and with a strained and horrent gaze
And lifted hair I floated on, till sense
Grew dim, and dimmer ; and a terrible sleep
(In which still— still — those livid eyes met mine)
Fell on me— and —
Lady M. Quick, quick !

Vyv. I woke, and heard

My native tongue I Kind looks were bent upon me.
I lay on deck— escaped the ravening death—
For God had watched the sleeper.

Lady M. Oh, such memories

^fake earth, for ever after, nearer heaven ;
And each new hour an altar for thanksgiving.
Break not the tale my ear yet strains to listen.

Vyv. True lion of the ocean was the chief
Of that good ship. Beneath his fostering eyes.
Nor all ungraced by Drake's illustrious praise,
And the frank clasp of Raleigh's kingly hand,
I fought my way to manhood. ^At his death

312

OOMBDY OF MONBY.

The veteran left me a more absolute throne
Than CsBsar filled— his war-ship ; for my realm
Add to the ocean, hope— and measure it !
Nameless, I took his name. My tale is done
And each past sorrow, like a wave on shore,
Pies on this golden hour.

SCENE FEOM THE COMEDY OF MONEY.

Lord Lytton.

Mr. Evelyn and others.

Enter Stout.

Eve. Stout, you look heated !

Stout I hear you have just bought the great Groginhole
property.

Eve. It is true. Sharp says it's a bargain.

Stout. Well, my dear friend Hopkins, member for Gro-
ginhole, can't live another month^-but the interests of
mankind forbid regret for individuals 1 The patriot Pop-
kins intends to start for the boro' the instant Hopkins is
dead ! — your interest will secure his election 1 — now is your
time ! — put yourself forward in the march of enlightenment?
fiy all that is bigoted here comes Glossmore !

Enter Glossmore ; Sharp at his desk.

Gloss. So lucky to find you at home ! Hopkins, of Gro-
ginhole, is not long for this world. Popkins, the brewer, is
already canvassing underhand (so very ungentlemanly like!)
Keep your interest for young Lord Cipher — a valuable can-
didate. This is an awful moment — the constitution de-
pends on his return I Vote for Cipher I

Stout. Popkins is your man !

Eve. (Musingly.) Cipher and Popkins — Popkins and
Cipher ! Enlightenment and Popkins — Cipher and the Con-
stitution I I AM puzzled I Stout, I am not known at Grogin-
hole.

Stout. Your property's known there I

Eve, But purity of election — independence of votes —

Stout. To be sure: Cipher bribes abominably. Frus-
trate his schemes— preserve the liberties of the borough--

turn I
enme

Ev
admi

-Glc
50,00(1
derini
affects
• Evel
pertj
law!-

Stc
the ^
when

COMEDY OP MONEY.

313

turn every man out of his house who votes against enlight-
enment and Popkins !

£ve. Bight ! — down with those who take the liberty to
admire any Uberty except our liberty I

. Gloss. Cipher has a stake in the country — will have
50,000?. a-year— Cipher will never give a vote without consi-
dering beforehand how people of 50,000?. a-year will bo
affected by the motion.

Eve. Bight; for as without law there would be no pro-
perty so to be the law for property is the only property of
law ! — ^That is law 1

Stout. Popkins is all for economy — there's a sad wast© of
the public money— they give the Speaker 5,0OOZ. a-year,
when I've a brother-in-law who takes the chair at the ves-
try, and who assures me confidentially he'd consent to be
Speaker for half the money !

Gloss. Enough, Mr. Stout. Mr. Evelyn has too much at
stake for a leveller.

Stout. And too much sense for a bigot.

Eve. Mr. Evelyn has no politics at all !— Did you ever
^lay at battledore f

Both. Battledore I

Eve. Battledore I— that is, a contest between two par-
ties : both parties knock about something with singular
skill, something is kept up—high — low — here — there —
everywhere, nowhere 1 How grave are the players 1 how
anxious the bystanders ! how noisy the battledores ! But
when tliis something falls to the ground, only fancy — it's
nothing but cork and feather I Go, and play by yourselves,
—I'm no hand at it !

Stout. (Aside.) Sad ignorance ! — Aristocrat?

Ghss. Heartless principles ! — Parvenu !

Stout. Then you don't go against ua'i I'll bring Pop-
kins to-morrow.

Gloss. Keep yourself free till I present Cipher to you.

Stout. I must go to inquire after Hopkins. The return
of Popkins will be an era in history. lExit.

Gloss. I must be off to the club— the eyes of the coun-
try are upon Groginhole. If Cipher fail, the constitution is
gone I lExit.

Eve. Sharp, come here, let me look at you 1 You are
my agent, my lawyer, my man of business. I believe you
honest; but what is honesty? Where does it exist? in what
part of us ?

Shar^. In \]\q heart, I suppose,

314

COMEDY OF MONEY.

Eve. Mr. Sharp, it exists in the pocket ! Observe ! I lay
this piece of yellow earth on the table— I contemplate you
both ; the man there — the gold here ! — ^Now, there is
many a man in yonder streets, honest as you are, who
moves, thinks, feels, and reasons as well as we do ; excel-
lent in form — imperishable in soul ; who, if his pockets
were three days empty, would sell thought, reason, body,
and soul too, for that little coin! Is that the fault of the
man ? — no 1 it is the fault of mankind 1 God made man —
Sir, behold what mankind have made a god I When I was
poor I hated the world ; now I am rich I despise it. Fools
— knaves— hypocrites ! By the by. Sharp, send lOOZ. to the
poor bricklayer whose house was burnt down yesterday.

Enter Graves.

Ah Graves, my dear friend ! what a world this is !

Graves. It is an atrocious world I — it will be set on fire
one day, — and that's some comfort I

Eve. Every hour brings its gloomy lesson— the temper
sours — the affections wither — the heart hardens into stone !
Zounds ! Sharp I what do you stand gaping there for ? — have
you no bowels ?— why don't you go and see to the brick-
layer. [ Exit Sharp.

Eve. Graves, of all my new friends — and their name is
Legion, you are the only one I esteem ; there is sympathy
between us — we take the same views of life. I am cordially
glad to see you !

Graves. (Groaning.) Ah ! why should you be glad to see
a man so miserable ?

Eve. (^Sighs.) Because I am miserable myself 1

Graves. You I Pshaw ! you have not been condemned to
lose a wife ?

Eve. But, plague on it, man, I may be condemned to
take one ! Sit down and listen. I want a confidant ! Left
fatherless when yet a boy, my poor mother grudged herself
food to give me education. Some one had told her that
learning was better than house and land— that's a lie.
Graves.

Graves. A sofindalous lie, Evelyn.

Eve. ©n the strength of that lie I was put to school-
sent to a college, a sizar. Do you know what a sizar is ? In
pride he is a gentleman— in knowledge a scholar — and he
crawls about, amidst gentlemen and scholars, with the livery
of a pauper on his back 1 I carried off the great prizes— I
became distipguished- 1 looked to a high degree, leading to

for

COMEDY OP MONEY.

315

a fellowship ; that is, an independence for myself— a homo
for my mother. One day a young lord insulted me — I re-
torted — he struck me — refused apology — refused redress. I
was a sizar ! a Pariah ! — a thing to be struck 1 Sir, I was at
least a man, and £ horsewhipped him in the hall before the
eyes of the whole college! A few days, and the lord's
chastisement was forgotten. The next day the sizar was
expelled — the career of a life blasted. That is the differ-
ence between rich and poor : it takes a whirlwind to move
the one — a breath may uproot the other 1 I came to Lon-
don. As lonor as my mother lived I had one to toil for;
and I did toil — did hope — did struggle to be something
yet. She died, and then, somehow, my spirit broke — I re-
signed my spirit to my fate — I ceased to care what became
of me. At last I submitted to be the poor relation — the
hanger-on and gentleman-lackey of Sir John Vesey. But I
had an object in that ; there was one in that house whom I
had loved at the first sight.

Graves. And were you loved again ?

Eve. I fancied it, and was deceived. Not an hour be-
fore I inherited this mighty wealth, 1 confessed my love, and
was rejected because I was poor.

Grraves. But now she would accept you I

Eve. And do you think I am so base a slave to passion,
that I would owe to my gold what was denied to my affec-.
tion ? No; but I've already, thank heaven I taken some
revenge upon her. Come nearer. (^Whispers.) I've bribed
Sharp to say that Mordaunt's letter to me contained a codi-
oil leaving Clara Douglas 20,000Z.

Graves. And didn't it ?

Eve. Not a farthing ! But I'm glad of it— I've paid the
money — she's no more a dependant. No one can insult her
now— she owes it all to mo, and does not guess it, man,
does not guess ! owes it to me whom she rejected ; — me, the
poor scholar ! Ha 1 ha ! there's some spite in that, eh ?

Graves. You're a fine fellow, Evelyn, and we understand
each other.

316

NOT SO BAD AS WE SEEM.

SCENE FROM THE COMEDY OF NOT SO BAD AS

WE SEEM.

Lord Lytton.

David Fallen, a poor Grub street Author. Paddy, his Land-
lord,

Fal. {Opening casement.) So, the morning air breathes
fresh! One moment's respite from drudgery. Another
line to this poem, my grand bequest to my country I Ah !
this description ; unfinished ; good, good !

"Methinks we walk in dreams on fairy land
Where golden ore — lies mixed with"

Paddy. Please, Sir, the milkwoman's score I
Fal, Stay, stay

" Lies mixed with— common sand"

Eh ? milkwoman ? she must be paid, or the children — I, — I,
^There's another blanket on the bed— pawn it.

Paddy, Ah, now, don't be so ungrateful to your old
friend the blanket. When Mr. Tonson the great booksel-
ler told me, says he "Paddy I'd give two hundred gold
guineas for the papers Mr. Fallen has in his desk.

FdL Go— go. (knock.)

Pad. Ah ! murder I who can be disturbing the door at
the top of the morning ? [Exit.

Fal. Oh! that fatal memoir! My own labours scarce
keep me from starving and this wretched scrawl of .a profli-
gate worth what to mo were Golgotha ! Heaven sustain
me 1 I'm tempted.

Re-enter Paddy with Lord Wilmot disguised as Curll the book-
seller.

Pad, Stoop your head, sir. It's not a dun, sirj its Mr.
Curll : says he's come to outbid Mr. Tonson, sir.

Fal. Go, quick, pawn the blanket. Let me think my
children are fed. [Exit Pad."} Now, Sir, what do you want ?

Wil. My dear, good Mr. Fallen— no offence. I do so
feel for the distresses of genuis. I am a bookseller, but 1
have a heart— and I am come to buy.

Fal. Have you? This poem — it is nearly finished —
twelve books, twenty years labour, twenty-four thousand
lines! £10— Mr. Curll £10 1

Wil, Price of " Paradise Lost !'' can't expect such prices
for poetry now-a-days, my dear Mr. Fallen. Nothing takes
|)I)at is ^ot smart and s|)ic^. Hem I heni ! X bear ^ou haye

some
of a ]
lea';
son—'
de Mc
Fal.
for th<
Ah!
the se(
Wil.
But ho
lent fr
Fal.
his de(
Wil.
my swe
who lov
Fal.
this m(
might I
injured
remorse
serve th
sudden
the lady
best ser
Wil. i
friend ?
Fal,
father —
Wil, 1
Fal. E
Wil. (
gent pul
my magi

Fal.
but whei

Wil,
bag.

Fal. :
betrayal
fraud, i
know I a
ed my nt
this--thi

VOT SO BAD AS WE SEEM.

Zll

}ok-

Lr.

Ind

some interesting papers ; private memoirs and confessions
of a man of quality, recently deceased. Nay — nay, Mr. Fal-
len'; don't shrink back; I'm not like that shabby dog, Ton-
son — Three hundred guineas for the memoirs of Lord Henry
de Mowbray I

Fal. Three hundred guineas for that garbage 1 not ten
for the poem ! and — the children. Well {takes out memoir^
Ah ! but the honour of a woman ; the secrets of a woman ;
the secrets of a family ; the

Wil. Nothing sells better — my dear, dear Mr. Fallen.
But how, how did you come by these treasures, my excel-
lent friend ?

Fal. How ? Lord fienry gave them to me himself on
his death-bed.

Wil. And what should he give them for but to publish,
my sweet Mr. Fallen ; no doubt to immortalise all the ladies
who loved him.

Fal. No, Sir; profligate as he was and evil as be much in
this memoir, that was not his dying intention though it
might be his first. There was a lady he had once foully*
injured ; the solo woman that he had ever loved enough for
remorse. This memoir contains a confession that might
serve the name he himself had foully aspersed ; and in the
sudden repentance of his last moments, he bade me seek
the lady, and place the whole in her hands, to use as might
best serve to establish her innocence.

Wil. .How could you know the lady, my benevolent
friend?

Fal. I did not, she was supposed to be abroad With her
father — a Jacobite agent had the best chance to trace her.

Wil. And you did?

Fal. But to hear that she had died somewhere in France.

Wil. Oh 1 Then of course you may now gratify our intelli-
gent public J for your own personal profit. Clear as day,
my magnanimous friend.

Fal. I thought so — sent for Tonson — broke the seal ;
but when I came to read I No, no — let go. Sir I

Wil. Three hundred guineas. I have them here in a
bag.

Fal. No. Stop — stop — let me look again. Hal this
betrayal of a brother's most private correspondence — this
fraud. Shame on you, base huckster of conscience 1 You
know I am penniless — starving — you know 1 have tarnish-
ed my name, played fast and loose with all parties : but
this- -this were worse than deceit to placemen and joboers.

318

KOT SO BAD AS WS SEEM.

These memoirs would give up to lewd gossip and scoff
whatever is sacred in the temple of home. Begone, Sir ! I
will not sell man's hearth to the public.

Wil. Gently, gently, my too warm, but high spirited
friend I To say the truth I don't come on my own account.
To whom, my dear Sir, since the lady is dead, should be
given the papers, if unfit for a virtuous but inquisitive pub-
lic ? Why, surely to Lord Henry's nearest relation. 1 am
employed by the rich Duke of Middlesex— name your
terms.

Fal. So then at last he comes crawling to me, your
proud duke I Sir, years ago, wherf a kind word from his
Grace, a nod of his head, a touch of his hand, would have
turned my foes into flatterers, I had the meanness to
name him my patron — inscribed to him a work — took it to
his house and waited in his hall among porters and lacqueys
— till, sweeping by in his carriage, he said "Oh I you are
the poet? but take this,'^ and extended his alms as if to a
beggar. " You look very thin, Sir, stay and dine with my
people." — People I— his servants I

Wil. Calm yourself, my good Mr. Fallen, 'tis his Grace's
innocent way with us all.

Fal. Go, Sir ! Lei him know what this household treason
contains. Lord Henry was a cynic — a wit ; his brother had
galled and renounced him; much of these memoirs are
meant for revenge. They would make the proud Djuke the
butt of the town— the jeer of those lacquays that jeered at
my rags ; expose his frailties, his follies, his personal se-
crets. Tell him this ; and then say, that my poverty shall
not be the tool of his brother's revenge ; but, tell him also
that my pride shall not stoop from its pedestal to take
money from him. Now, Sir, am I right? Reply, not
as tempter to pauper j but if one spark of manhood be in
you, as man speaks to man.

Wil. I reply, Sir, as man to man, and as gentleman to
gentleman— I am Frederick, Lord Wilmot. Pardon this
imposture. The Duke is my father's friend. I am here to
obtain, what it is clear that he alone should possess. Mr.
Fallen, your works first raised me from the world of the
senses, and taught me to believe in such nobleness as I now
find in you. Give me this recoid to take to the Duke— no
price, Sir : for such things are priceless, and let me go
hence with the sight of their povertv before my eyes, and
on my soul the grand picture of the man who has spurned
the bribe to his honour, and can humble by a gift the great
prince who insulted him by alms.

there's JIOTHING IN IT.

319

Fal. Take it. Take it ! I am saved from temptation.
God bless you, young man I

Wil. Now you indeed make me twofold your debtor —
in your book the rich thought ; in yourself the heroic ex-
ample. Accept from my superfluities, in small part of such
debt, a yearly sum equal to that which your poverty refused
as a bribe from Mr. Tonson.

FaL My Lord 1— my Lord I

Wil. Oh ! trust me the day shall come, when men will
feel that it is not charity we owe to the ennoblers of life —
it is tribute ! When your order shall rise with the civiliza-
tion it called into being ; and amidst an assembly of all
that is lofty and fair in the chivalry of birth, it shall refer
its claim to just rank among freemen, to some Queen
whom even a Milton might have sung, or a Hampden died
for.

THERE'S NOTHING IN IT, OR MISERIES OF ENNUI.
Charles Mathews, Comedian.

SIR CHARLES COLDSTREAM, SIR ADOXIS LEECH.

Sir C. My dear Leech, you began life late — you are a
young fellow — forty-five — and have the world yet before you
—I started at thirteen, lived quick, and exhausted the
whole round of pleasure before I was thirty. I' ve tried
everything, heard everything, done everything, know
everything, and here I am, a m4n at thirty-three, literally
used up.

Leech. Nonsense, man! — used up, indeed!— with your
wealth, with your little heaven in Spring Gardens, and your
paradise here at Kingston- upon-Thames, with twenty
estates in the sunniest spots in England, not to mention
that Utopia, within four walls, in the Eue de Provence, in
Paris. Oh, the nights we've spent there?

Sir C. I'm dead with ennui.

Leech. Ennui ! do you hear him, poor Croesus !

air C. Croesus ! — no, I'm no Cro0sus. My father— you've
seen his portrait, good old fellow — he certainly did leave
me a little matter of £12,000 a year, but after all —

Leech. Oh, come! —

Sir C. Oh, I don't complain of it.

Leech. I should think not.

'iU

lUi

i
It

320

there's NOTHIKO IK IT.

' Sir C. Oh no, there a.re some people who can manage to
do on less— on credit.

Leech. I know several — but, my dear Coldstream, you
should try change of scene.

Sir C. I have tried it— what's the use?

Leech. But I'd gallop all over Europe.

SirC. I have — there's nothing in it.

Leech. Nothing in all Europe !

Sir C. Nothing— oh, dear, yes ! I remember, at one time
I did somehow go about, a good deal.

Leech. You should go to Switzerland.

Sir C. I have been— nothing there— people say so much
about everything — there certainly were a few glaciers, some
monks, and large dogs, and thick ankles, and bad wine, and
Mont Blanc ; yes, and there was ice on the top, too ; but I
prefer the ice at Gunter's — less trouble, and more in it.

Leech. Then if Switzerland wouldn't do, I'd try Italy.

Sir C. My dear Leech, I've tried it over and over again,
and what then ?

Leech. Did not Home inspire you ?

Sir C. Oh, believe me, Tom, a most horrible hole I Peo-
ple talk so much about these things— there's the Colosseum,
now — round, very round, a goodish ruin enough, but I was
disappointea with it: Capitol— tolerable high; and St. Peter's
— marble, and mosaics, and fountains, dome certainly not
badly scooped, but there was nothing in it.

Leech. Come, Coldstream, you must admit we have noth*
ing like St. Peter's in London.

Sir C. No, because we don't want it; but if we wanted
such a thing, of course we should have it. A dozen gentle-
men meet, pass resolutions. Institute, and in twelve months
it would be run up ; nay, if that were all, we'd buy St.
Peter's itself, and have it sent over.

Leech. Ha, ha ! well said, you're quite right. What say
you to beautiful Naples ? Ay, Ma Belle Napoli f

Sir C. Not bad, — excellent watermelons, and goodish
opera; they took me up to Vesuvius— a horrid bore; it
smoked a good deal, certainly, but altogether a wretched
mountain; — saw the crater — looked down, but there was
nothing in it.

Leech, But the bay ?

Sir C. Inferior to Dublin.

Leech, The Campagna.

Sir C. A great swamp I

Leech. Greece ?

LONDON ASSURANOB.

321

Sir C. A morass I

Leech. Athens?

Sir G. A bad Edinburgh ! ^

Leech. Egypt?

Sir C. A desert I

Leech. The Pyramids ?

Sir C. Humhugsl Nothing in any of them ! Have done
— you bore me.

Leech. But you enjoyed the hours we spent in Paris, at
any rate ?

Sir C. No, I was dying for excitement. In fact, I've no
appetite, no thirst; everything wearies me — no, they
fatigue me.

Leech. Fatigue you ! I should think not, indeed j you
are as strong as a lion.

Sir C. But as quiet as a lamb— that was Tom Cribb's
character of me : you know I was a favorite pupil of his.
I'd give a thousand pounds for any event that would make
my pulse beat ten to the minute faster. Is it possible, that
you cannot invent something that would make my blood
boil in my veins — my hair stand on end — my heart beat —
my pulse rise — that would produce an excitement — an
emotion — a sensation I

Lt say

FROM THE COMEDY OF LONDON ASSURANCE.

Dion Boucicaultj Actor and Dramatic Author.

Sir Harcourt Courtly (an old becm), Max Harkawat (a
country squire), Grace (his daughitr.)

Max. Here, all of you — look, here is Lady Gay Spanker
coming across the lawn at a hand gallop !

Sir H. Bless me, the horse is running away !

Max. Look how she takes that fence ! there's a feat.

Sir H. Lady Gay Spanker— who may she be ?

Grace. Gay Spanker, Sir Harcourt ? My cousin and dear-
est friend — you must like her.

Sir H. It will be my devoir, since it is your wish — though
it will be a hard task in your presence.

Grace. I am sure she will like you.

Sir H, Ha 1 ha 1 1 flatter myself.

Young C. Who, and what is she ?

32^

tONDON ASSURANdE.

Chace. Glee, glee, made a living thing — Nature in some
frolic mood, shut up a merry imp in her eye, and, spiting
Art, stole joy's brightest harmony to thrill her laugh,
which peall out sorrow's knell. Her cry rings loudest in
the field — the very echo loves it best, and as each hill
attempts to ape her voice, Earth seems to laugh that it
made a thing so glad.

Enter Lady Gay, fully equipped in riding habit, &c.

Lady Qay. Ha ! ha 1 Well, Max, how are ye ? I have been
down five times, climbing up your stairs in my long clothes.
How are you, Grace, dear ? Oh, gracious, I didn't see you
had visitors.

Max. Permit me to introduce — Sir Harcourt Courtly,
Lady Gay Spanker.

Lady Gay. I am so glad you have come, Sir Harcourt.
Now we shall be able to make a decent figure at the heels
of a hunt.
Sir H. Does your Ladyship hunt?

Lady Gay. Ha 1 I say. Max, does my Ladyship hunt ?
I rather flatter myself that I do hunt 1 Why, Sir Harcourt,
one might as well live without laughing as without hunt-
ing. Man was fashioned expressively to fit a horse. Are
not hedges and ditches created for leaps ? Of course !
Sir H. Yes it is all very well in the abstract : I tried it
once.
Lady Gay. Once ! Only once ?

Sir H. Once, only once. And then the animal ran away
with me.
Lady Gay. Why, you would not have him walk?
Sir H. Finding my society disagreeable, he instituted a
series of kicks, with a view to removing the annoyance | but
aided by the united stays of the mane and tail, I frustrated
his intentions. His next resource, however, was more
effectual, for he succeeded in rubbing me ofi'against a tree.
Max. How absurd you must have looked with your legs
and arms in the air, like a shipwrecked tea-table.

Sir H. Sir, I never looked absurd in my life. Ah, it may
be very amusing in relation, I dare say, but very unpleas-
ant in effect.

Lady Gay. I pity you. Sir Harcourt ; it was criminal in
your parents to neglect your education so shamefully.

Sir H. Possibly ; but be assured, I shall never break my
neck awkwardly from a horse, when it might be accom-
plished with less trouble from a window.

LoimON ASStJRAKOS.

323

Max. Ah I Sir Harcourt^ had you been here a month ago
you would have witnessed the most glorious run that ever
swept over merry England's green cheek — a steeple chase,
sir, which I intended to win, but my horse broke down the
day before. I had a chance, notwithstanding, and but for
Gay here, I should have won. How I regretted my absence
from it ! How did my filly behave himself, Gay ?

Lady Gay. Gloriously, Max ! gloriously 1 There were sixty
horses in the field, all mettle to the bone : the start was a
picture — away we went in a cloud— pell-mell— helter-skelter--
the fools first, as usual, using themselves up — we soon passed
them — first your Kitty, then my Blueskin, and Craven's colt
last. Then came the tug — Kitty skimmed the walls— Blue-
skin flew over the fences — the Colt neck-and-neck, and
half a mile to run — at last the colt baulked a leap and went
wild. Kitty and I had it all to ourselves — she was three
lengths ahead as we breasted the last wall, six feet, if an
inch, and a ditch oi^i the other side. Now, for the first time
I gave Blueskin his head — ha ! ha I Away he flew like a
thunderbolt — over went the filly — I over the same spot;
leaving Kitty in the ditch — walked the steeple, eight miles
in thirty minutes, and scarcely turned a hair.

All. Bravo I Bravo !

Max. [to Sir H.'\ You must leave your town habits in the
smoke of London, Sir Harcourt, here we rise with the lark.

Sir H. Haven't the remotest conception when that
period is.

Grace. The man that misses sunrise loses the sweetest
part of his existence.

Sir II. Oh, pardon me ; I have seen sunrise frequently after
a ball, or from the windows of my travelling carriage, and I
always considered it disagreeable.

Grace. I love to watch the first tear that glistens in the
opening eye of morning, the silent song, the flowers
breathe, the thrilling choir of the woodland minstrels, to
which the modest brook trickles applause : these swelling
out the swoptest chord of sweet creation's matins, seem to
poT me soft and merry tale into the daylight's ear, as if
the waking world had dreamed a happy thing, and now
smiled o er the telling of it.

Sir J The effect of a rustic education ! Who could ever
'^^iscover music in a damp foggy morning, except those con-
iounded waits, who never play in tune, and a miserable
A retch who make^ a point of crying coffee under my win-
dow just as I am ^<orsuading myself to sleep: in fact, I

^li

■'iiife-';

324

LONbON ASStJRAlfClEi.

never heard any music worth listening to, except irt
Italy.'

Lady Gay. No? then you never heard a well-trained
Englisn pack in full cry?

<S'iJ»if. FuUcryl

Lady 0. Ay I there is harmony, if you will. Give me
the trumpet-neigh: the spotted pack just catching scent.
What a chorus is tneir yelp I The view hallow, blent with
a peal of free and fearless mirth. That's our old English
music, — match it where you can. Time then appears as
young as love, and plumes as swift a wing. Away we go !
The earth flies back to aid our course! Horse, man,
hound, earth, heaven! — all — all — one piece of glowing
ecstacy 1 Then I love the world, myself, and every living
thing, — my jocund soul cries out for very glee, as it could
wish that all creation had but one mouth, that I might kiss
it!

Max. Why, we will regenerate you, Baronet! But Gay,
where is your husband ? — Where is Adolphus !

Lady Gay. Bless me, where is my Dolly ?

Sir H. You are married, then ?

Lad^ Gay. I have a husband somewhere, though I can't
find him just now. Dolly, dear !

Enter Spanker.

Span. Here I am, — did you call me, Gay ?

Max. Permit me to introduce you to Sir Harcourt Courtly.

Span. How d'ye do ? I — ah 1 — um 1

lAppears fnghiened.

Lady Gay. Delighted to have the honor of making the
acquaintance of a gentleman so highly celebrated in the
world of fashion.

Span. Oh, yes, delighted, I'm sure — quite — very, so de-
lighted—delighted 1

[ Gets quite confusedj draws on his glove and tears it.

Lady Gay. Wriere have you been, Dolly ?

Span. On, ah, I was just outside.

Max. Why did you not come in ?

Span. I'm sure I didn't — I don't exactly know, but I
thought as — perhaps — I can't remember.

Max. Shall we have the pleasure of your company to
dinner ?

Span. I always dine — usually — that is, unless Gay re-
mains

Lady Gay. Stay to dinner, of course ; we came on purpose
to stop three or four days with you.

LONDON ASSURANCE.

325

Grace. Will you excuse my absence, Gay ?

Max. What t what ! Where are you going ? What takes
you away!

Grace. We must postpone the dinner till Gay is dressed.

Max, Oh,, never mind, — stay where you are.

Grace. No, I must go.

Max. I say you shan't, I will be king in my own house.

Grace. Do, my dear uncle; — you shall be king, and I'll
be your prime [minister, — that is, I'll rule, and you shall
have the honor of taking the consequences.

[Exit.

Lady Gay. Well said, Grace, have your own way, it is the
only thing we women ought to be allowed.

Max. Come, Gay, dress for dinner.

Sir H. Permit me. Lady Gay Spanker.

Lady Gay. With pleasure,— what do you want ?

Sir H. To escort you.

Lady Gay. Oh, never mind, I can escort myself, thank
you, and Dolly too; — come, dear !

[Exit.

Sir H. Au re voir ! What an ill-assorted pair I

Max. Not a bit I She married him for freedom, and she
has it ; he married her for protection, and he has it.

Sir H. How he ever summoned courage to propose to
her, I can't guess.

I^ax. Bless you he never did. Slie proposed to him. She
says he would if he could ; but as he couldn't she did it for
him.

•I

SELECTIONS FROM SHAKSPEARE.

William Shakspeare, Born 23rd April, 1564, Died 23rd

April, 1616.

" His life was eentle ; and the elomenta
So mixed in nim, tliat Nature might stand up,
And say to all the world— This was a man !"

FROM THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA.

Launoe, leading a dog.

Launce. Nay, 'twill be this hour ere I have done weep-
ing : all the kind of the Launces have this very fault. I
have received my proportion, like the prodigious son, and
am going with Sir Proteus to the Imperial's court. I think
Crab, my dog, be the sourest-natured dog that lives ; my
mother weeping, my father wailing, my sister crying, our
maid howling, our cat wringing her iiands, and all our house
in a great perplexity, yet did not this cruel-hearted cur shed
one tear : he is a stone, a very pebble-stone, and has no
more pity in him than a dog : a Jew would have wept to
have seen our parting : why, my grandam, having no eyes,
look you, wept herself blind at my parting. Nay, I'll show
you the manner of it. This shoe is my father ; — no, this
left shoe is my father : —no, no, this left shoe is my mother;
— nay, that cannot be so, neither : — yes, it is so ; it is so ; it
hath the worser sole. This shoe, is my mother, and this
my father. A vengence on'tl there 'tis: now, sir, this
staff is my sister ; for, look you, she is as white as a lily,
and as small as a wand : this hat is Nan, our maid :
I am the dog ; — no, the dog is himself, and I am the dog,
— 0, the dog is me, and I am myself : ay, so so. Now come
I to my father; ''Father, your blessing;" now should not
the shoe speak a word for weeping : now should I kiss my
father ; well, he weeps on. Now come I to my mother ; —
O, that she could speak now! like a good woman ; well, I
kiss her ; — why there 'tis, here's my mother's breath up
and down. Now come I to my sister ; mark the moan slio
makes. Now the dog all this while sheds not a tear, nor
speaks a word ; but see how I lay the dust with my tears.

JklEASURfi FOR MEASURE.

Enter Panthio.

Pant. Launce, away, away, aboard ! thy master is shipped,
and thou art to post after with oars. What's the matter?
Why weepest thou, man ? Away, ass ! you'll lose the tide,
if you tarry any longer.

Launce. It is no matter if the tied were lost ; for it is the
unkindest tied that ever any man tied.

Pant. What's the unkindest tide 1

Launce. Why, he that's tied hfere ; Crab, my dog.

Pant. Tut, man, I mean thou' It lose the flood ; and, in
losing the flood, lose thy voyage ; and, in losing thy voyage,
lose thy master ; and, in losing thy master, lose thy service ;
and, in losing thy service,— Why dost thou stop my mouth?

Launce. For fear thou shouldst lose thy tongue.

Pant. Where should I lose my tongue ?

Launce. In thy tale. Lose the tide, and the voyage, and
the master, and the service, and the tied ! Why, man, if the
river were dry, I am able to fill it with my tears j if the
wind were down, I could drive the boat with my sighs.

Pant. Confe, come away, man ; I was sent to call theo.

Launce. Sir, call me what thou darest.
Pant. Wilt thou go ?
Launce. Well, I will go.

FIIOM MEASURE FOR MEASURE.

ANGELO, ISAlJELLA AND PROVOST.

An(/. Now, what's the matter, Provost?

Proo. Is it yonr will Claudio shall die to-morrow ?

Ang. Did I not tell thee, yea? hadst thou not order ?
Why dost thou ask again ?

Prov. Lest I might be too rash :

Under your good correction, I have seen,
When, after execution, judgment hath
liopented o'er his doom.

Ang, Go to ; let thfkt bo mine

Do you your ofRce, or give up your place.
And you shall well bo spar'd.

Pi'ov. Hero is the sister of the man condomii'd,
Desires access to you.

Any. Hath ho a sister ?

Prov. Ay, my good lord ; a very virtuous maid,

m
m

a2S

SELfiOTIONS FROM SHAKSPSAR6.

And to be shortly of a sisterhood,
If not already.

Ang. Well, let her be admitted.

Enter Isabella..

Prov. Save your honor!

Ang. You are welcome.

What's your will ?

Isab. I am a woful suitor to your honor.
Please but your honor hear me.

Ang. Well, what's your suit?

Isab. There is a vice, that most I do abhor.
And most desire should meet the blow of justice ;
For which I would not plead, but that I must ;
For which I must not plead, but that I am
At war, 'twixt will, and will not.

Ang. Well ; the matter ?

Isc^. I have a brother is condemn'd to die :
I do beseech you, let it be his fault,
And not my brother.

Ang. Condemn the fault, and not the actor of it !
Why, every fault's condemn'd, ere it be done :
Mine was the very cipher of a function,
To find the faults, whose fine stands in record.
And let go by the actor.

Isab. just, but severe law !

I had a brothel- then. Must ho needs die?

Ang. Maiden, no remedy.

Isab. Yes ; I do think that you might pardon him,
And neither heaven, nor man, grieve at the mercy.

Ang. I will not do't.

Isab. But can you, if you would ?

Ang. Look, what I will not, that I cannot do.

Isab. But might you do't, and do the world no wrong,
If so your heart were touch'd with that remorse
As mine in to him ?

Ang. He's sontenc'd I 'tis too late.

Isab. Too late ? why, no ; I, that do speak a word,
May call it back again : Well believe this,
No ceremony that to great ones 'longs,
Not the king's crown, nor the deputed sword,
The marshal's truncheon, nor the judge's robe, •
Become them with one half so good a grace,
As mercy does. If he had been as you,
And you as he, you would have slipt like him ;
But he, like you, would not havo been so stern.

MEASURE FOR IfEASURE. 329

Ang. Pray you, begone. j

/sa6. I would to heaven I had your potency,
And you were Isabel : should it then be thus ?
No ; I would tell what 'twere to be a judge,
And what a prisoner.

Ang. Your brother is a forfeit of the law,
And you but waste your words.

Isah. Alas I alas !

Why, all the souls that were, were forfeit once |
And He that might the vantage best have took,
Found out the remedy : How would you be.
If He, which is the top of judgment, should
But judge you as you are ? O, think on that ;
And mercy then will breathe within your lips,
Like man new made.

Ang. Be you content, fair maid ;

It is the law, not I, condemns your brother :
Were he my kinsman, brother, or my son.
It should be thus with him ; — he must die to-morrow.

Isah. To-morrow? O, that's sudden ! Spare him, spare him :
He's not prepar'd for death! Even for our kitchens
We kill the fowl of season ; shall we serve heaven
With less respect than we do minister
To our gross selves ? Good, good my lord, bethink you :
Who is it that hath died for this offence ?
There's many have committed it.

Ang. The law hath not been dead, though it hath slept :
Those many had not dar'd to do that evil.
If the first man that did the edict infringe,
Had answer'd for his deed : now, 'tis awake ;
Takes note of what is done ; and, like a proj het,
Looks in a glass, that shows what future evils,
(Either now, or by remissness new-conceiv'd,
And so in progress to be hatch'd and born,)
Are now to have no successive degrees,
But, where they live, to end.

Jsdb. Yet show some pity.

Aug. I show it most of all, wlici^ I show justice
For then I pity those I do not know,
Which a dismiss'd oftence would after gall ;
And do him right, that answering one foul wrong,
Lives not to act another. Be satisfied ;
Your brother dies to-morrow ; be content.

hah. So you must be the first that gives this sonteuco ;
And he, that suffers : O, it is excellent

\nm

-i:-li L

■I*'/':

..rill

■11

' ■ '"t'

■.rK

330

8ELE0TIONS FROM SHAKSPEARB.

To have a giant's strength ; but it is tyrannous
To use it like a giant.
Could great men thunder

As Jove himself does, Jove would ne'er be quiet,
For every pelting, petty officer

Would use his heaven for thunder : nothing but thunder,
Merciful heaven I *

Thou rather, with thy sharp and sulphurous bolt,
Split' st the unwedgeable and gnarled oak.
Than the soft myrtle ; — But man, proud man !
Drest in a little brief authority ;
Most ignorant of what he's most assur'd,
His glassy essence, — Hke an angry ape
Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven.
As make the angels weep ; who, with our spleens.
Would all themselves laugh mortal.
We cannot weigh our brother with ourself :
Great men may jest with saints : 'tis wit in them ;
But, in the less, foul profanation.
That in the captain's but a choleric word.
Which in the soldier is flat blasphemy. ^

Aug. Why do you put these sayings upon me ?

Isdb. Because authority, though it err like others,

Hath yet a kind of medicine in itself.

That skins the vice o' the top : Go to your bosom ;

Knock there ; and a^k your heart, what it doth know

That's like my brother's fault : if it confess

A natural guiltiness, such as is his.

Let it not sound a thought upon your tongue

Against my brother's life.

Ang. [Aside.'\ IShe speaks, and 'tis
Such sense, that my sense breeds with it. Fare you well.

Isdb. Gentle my lord, turn back.

Ang. I will bethink me : — Come again to-morrow.

Isah. Hark, how I'll bribe you: Good, my lord, turn back.

Ang. How! bribe me?

Isah. Ay, with such gifks, that heaven shall share with you .
Not with fond shekels of the tested gold,
Or stones, whose rates are either rich, or poor,
,A8 fancy values them : but with true prayers.
That shall be up at heaven, and enter there.
Ere sunrise : prayers from preserved souls, ^

From fasting maids, whoso minds are dedicate
To wothing temporal.

Ang.
To-mori

Isah.
At what
Shall I a

Ang.

Isah. I

Lbonai

Beatric
the wars
Messem
none sue]
Leonatc
Mess. U
Beat. I
these wai
promised
Leon. F
but he'll
Mess. H
Beat. Y
he is a ve
stomach.
Mess. Ai
Beat. Ai
lord ?

Mess. A

honourabl

Beat. It

but for th(

Leon. Y(

kind of m(

never mee

Beat. Air

four of his

man gover

keep hims(

himself anc

left, to be

panion ijov

UCOH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.

331

Ang. Well : come to me

To-morrow.

Isah. Heaven keep your honor safe !
At what hour to-morrow
Shall I attend your lordship ?

Ang. At any time 'fore noon.

/sa6. Save your honor !

FROM MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.

Lbonato, Beatrice, Benedick, Claudio, Don Pedro, and

Messenger.

from

was

Beatrice. I pray you is signior Montanto returned
the wars or no ?

Messenger. I know none of that name, lady : there
none such in the army of any sort.

Leonato. My niece means signior Benedick of Padua.

Mess. U, he is returned ; and as pleasant as ever he was.

Beat. I pray you, how many hath he killed and eaten in
these wars ? But how many hath he killed ? for indeed, I
promised to eat all of his killing.

Leon. Faith, niece, you tax signior Benedick too much ;
but he'll be meet with you, I doubt it not.

Mess. He hath done good service, lady, in these wars.

Beat. You had musty victual, and he hath help to eat it :
he is a very valiant trencher- man ; he hath an excellent
stomach.

Mess. And a good soldier, too, lady.

Beat. And a good soldier to a lady ; — but what is he to a
lord?

Mess. A lord to a lord, a man to a man ; stuffed with all
honourable virtues.

Beat. It is so, indeed ; he is no less than a stuffed man ;
but for the stuffing — Well we are all mortal.

Leon. You must not, sir, mistake my niece; there is a
kind of merry war betwixt signior Benedick and her : they
never meet, but there's a skirmish of wit between them.

Beat. Alas, he gets nothing by that I In our last conflict
four of his five wits went halting off, and now is the whole
man governed with one : so that if he have wit enough to
keep himself warm, let him bear it for a difference between
himself and his horse ; for it is all the wealth that he hath
left, to be known a reasonable creature. — Who is his com-
panion now ? He hath eveiy month a new sworn brother.

;ii2:

fm':

't':,l<

III 3':"

r yPW.

■il

I-'H' 'iff I
i'M

332

SELECTION FROM SHAXSPBARB.

Jl/«w. Is' t possible?

Beat Very easily possible : he wears his faith but as the
fashion of his hat ; it ever changes with the next block.

Mess. I see, lady, the gentleman is not in your books.

Beat. No ; an he were, I would burn my study. But I
pray you, who is his companion ?

Fmter Benedick and Claudio talking.

Beat. I wonder that you will still be talking, sign ior Ben-
edick ! nobody marks you.

Benedict. What, my dear lady Disdain 1 are you yet living ?

B d. It is possible disdain should die, while she hath
such meet food to feed it, as signior Benedick ? Courtesy
itself must convert to disdain, if you come in her presence.

Bene. Then is courtesy a turn-coat. — But it is certain I
am loved of all ladies, only you excepted : and I would I
could find in my heart that 1 had not a hard heart : for,
truly, I love none.

Beat. A dear happiness to woman : they would else have
been troubled with a pernicious suitor. I thank God and
my cold blood, I am of your humour for that : I had rather
hear my dog bark at a crow, than a man swear that he loves
me.

Bene. Heaven keep your ladyship still in that mind ! so
some gentleman or other shall scape a predestinate scratch-
ed face.

Beat. Scratching could not make it worse, an' t were such
a face as yours were.

Bene. Well, you are a rare parrot-teacher.

Beat. A bird of my tongue is better than a beast of yours.

Bene. I would my horse had the speed of your tongue,
and so good a continuer. But keep your way : I have
done.

Beat. You always end with a jade's trick: I know you of
old.

Exit Beatrice.

Claud. Benedick, didst thou note Hero, the daughter of
signior Leonato ?

Bene. I noted her not ; but I looked on her.

Claud. Is she not a modest young lady ?

Bene. Do you question me, as an honest man should do,
for my simple true judgment; or would you have me
speak after my custom, as being a professed tyrant to
their sex ?
Claud. No ; I pray thee, speak in sober judgment,

ItUdH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.

Sene. Why, i' faith, me thinks she's too low for a high praise,
too brown for a fair praise, and too little for a great praise :
only this commendation I can afford her: that were she
other than she is, she were unhandsome j and being no
other but as she is, I do not like her.

Claud. Thou thinkest I am in sport : I pray thee, tell me
truly how thou likest her.

Bene. Would you buy hor, that you enquire after her?

Claud. Can the world buy such a jewel ?

Bene. Yea, and a case to put it into. But speak you this
with a sad brow ?.or do you play the flouting Jack; to tell
us Cupid is a good hare- finder, and Vulcan a rare carpen-
ter? Come, in what key shall a man take you, to go in the
song?

Claud, In mine eye she is the sweetest lady that ever I
looked on.

Bene. I can see yet without spectacles, and I see no such
matter: there's her cousin, an' she were not possessed with
a fury, exceeds her as much in beauty, as the first of May
doth the last of December. But I hope, you have no intent
to turn husband, have you ?

Claud. I would scarce trust myself, though I had sworn
to the contrary, if Hero would be my wife.

Bene, Is't come to thisj i' faith? Hath not the world
one man, but he will wear his cap with suspicion ? Shall I

never see a bachelor of three-score

again ?

Go to i' faith:

an' thou wilt needs thrust thy neck into a yoke, wear the
print of it, and sigh away Sundays. Look, Don Pedro is
returned to seek you.

Reenter Dox Pedro.

D. Pedro. What secret hath held you here, that you fol-
lowed not to Leonato's ?

Bene. I would your grace would constrain me to tell.

D. Pedro. I charge thee on thy allegiance.

Bene. You hear, Count Claudio; 1 can be secret as a
dumb man, I would have you think so ; but on my allegi-
ance, — mark you this, on my allegiance. — tie is in love.
With who ? — now that is your grace's part. — Mark, how
short his answer is; — with Hero, Leonato's short daughter.

Claud. If this were so, so were it uttered.

Bene. Like the old tale, my lord : it is not so nor 'twas not
80; but, indeed, Heaven forbid it should be so.

Clttiid. If my passion change not shortly. Heaven forbid
it should be otherwise.

Kit 1 4

S34

SfiLEOTIONS FROM SHAKSPBARE.

D. Pedro. Amen, if you love her ; for the lady is very
well worthy.
. Claud. You speak this to fetch me in my lord.

D. Pedro. By my troth, I speak my thought.

Claud. And in faith, my lord, I spoke mine.

Bene; And by my two faiths and troths, my lord, I spoke

Claud. That I love her, I feel. [mine.

D. Pedro. That she is worthy, I know.

Bene. That I neither feel how she should be loved, nor
know how she would be worthy, is the opinion that fire
cannot melt out of me : I will die In it at the stake.

D. Pedro. Thou wast ever an obstinate heretic in the des-
pite of beauty.

Claud. And never could maintain his part, but in the force
of his will.

Bene. That a woman was my mother, I thank her ; that
she brought me up, I likewise give her most humble thanks;
but that I will have a recheat winded in my forehead, or
hang my bugle in an invisible baldrick, all women shall
pardon me. Because I will not do them the wrong to mis-
trust any, I will do myself the right to trust none : and the
fine is, (for the which I may go the finer) I will live a
bachelor.

D. Pedro. I shall see thee, ere I die, look pale with love.

Bene. With anger, with sickness, or with hunger, my
lord ; not with love : prove that ever I lose more blood with
love than I will get again with drinking, pick out mine
eyes with a ballad-maker's pen, and hang me up for the
sign of blind Cupid.

D. Pedro. Well, if ever thou dost fall from this faith, thou
wilt prove a notable argument.

Bene. If I do, hang me in a bottle like a cat, and shoot
at me ; and he that hits me, let him be clapped on the
shoulder, and called Adam.

D. Pedro. Well, as time shall try :

" In time the savage bull doth bear the yoke."

Bene. The savage bull may; but if ever the sensible Ben-
edick bear it, pluck off the bull's horns, and set them in
my forehead ; and let me be vilely painted : and in such
great letters as they write, " Here is good horse to hire,"
let them signify under my sign, — " Here you may see Bene-
dick the married man."

Claud. If this should ever happen, thou wouldst be horn-
mad.

Veni
Be
D.

the m
comm
at suf

Ben

anoth(

love,

others

love;

there v

now h£

known,

a good

mg the

plain, a

dier; ar

very fa

May I b

tell; It.

form m(

have ma

fool.

yet I am

graces bi

grace. E

virtuous,

on her ;

angel; oi

hair shaL

Dogheri

Verges.

salvatjon,

Dogh. 1

if they sh(

for the pi

ktJCH ADO ABOUT NOTHIKO.

335

love.

t). Pedro. Nay, if Cupid have not spent all his quiver in
Venice, thou wilt quake for this shortly.

Bene. I look for an earthquake too, then.

D. Pedro. Well, you will temporize with the hours. In
the meantime, goodsignior Benedick, repair to Leonato's;
commend me to him, and tell him that I will not fail him
at supper ; for indeed he hath made great preparation.

Exit Don Pedro.
Bene. I do much wonder, that one man, seeing how much
another man is a fool when he dedicates his behaviour to
love, will, after he hath laughed at such shallow, follies in
others, become the argument of his own scorn ,by falling in
love I and such a man is Claudio. I have known, when
there was no music with him but the drum and the fife ; and
now had he rather hear the tabor and the pipe : I have
known, when he would have walked ten miles afoot to see
a good armour and now will he lie ten nights awake, carv-
mg the fashion of a new doublet. He was wont to speak
plain, and to the purpose, like an honest man and a sol-
dier ; and now is he turned orthographer ; his words are a
very fantastical banquet, — just so many strange dishes.
May I be so converted, and see with these eyes ? I cannot
tell I 1 think not : I will not be sworn but love may trans-
form me to an oyster ; but I'll take my oath on it, till he
have made an oyster of me, he shall never make me such a
fool. One woman is fair ; yet I am well ; another is wise
yet I am well ; another virtuous ; yet I am well ; but till all
graces be in one woman, one woman shall not come in my
grace. Eich she shall be, that's certain; wise, or I'll none;
virtuous, or I'll never cheapen her; fair, or 1 11 never look
on her ; mild, or come not near me ; noble, or not I for an
angel ; of good discourse, an excellent musican, and her
hair shall be of what colour it pleases.

■■'-IS

FROM MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.

Dogberry and Verges, with the Watch.

Dogberry. Are you good men and true ?

Verges. Yea, or else it were pity but they should suffer
salvation, body and soul.

Dogb. Nay, that were a punishment too goo for them,
if they should have any allegiance in them, being chosen
for the prince's watch.

336

SELEOTIONS FROM SHAKSPBARti.

Verg. Well, give them their charge, neighbour Dogberry.
Dogb. First, who think you the most desartless man to
be constable ?

1 . Watch. Hugh Oatcake, sir, or George Seacoal ; for
they can write and read.

Dogh. Come hither, neighbour Seacoal. Heaven hath
blessed you with a good name : to bo a well-favoured man
is the gift of fortune 5 but to write and read comes by
nature.

2. Watch. Bot^ which, master constable, —

Dogh. You have : I knew it would be your answer, Well,
for your favour, sir, why, give H eaven thanks, and make
no boast of it ; and for your writing and reading, let that
appear when there is no need of such vanity. You arc
thought here to be the most sensible and fit man for the
constable of the watch ; therefore bear you the lantern.
This is your charge: — you shall comprehend all vagrom
men ; you are to bid any man stand, in the prince's name.

Watch, How, if a' will not stand ?

Dogh. Why, then take" no note of him, but let him go ;
and presently call the rest of the watch together, and thank
Heaven you are rid of a knave.

Verg. If he will not stand when he is bidden, he is none
of the prince's subjects.

Dogh. True, and they are to meddle with none but the
prince's subjects. — You shall also make no noise in the
streets ; for, for the watch, to babble and talk, is most
tolerable and not to be endured.

2. Watch. We will rather sleep than talk; we know
what belongs to a watch.

Dogh. Why you speak like an ancient and most quiet
watchman ; for I cannot see how sleeping should offend :
only have a care that your bills be not stolen.— Well, you
are to call at all the ale-houses, and bid those that are
drurik get them to bed.

Watch. How if they will not ?

Dogh. Why, then, let them alone till they are sober ; if
they make you not then the better answer, you may say
they are not the men you took them for.

Watch. Well, sir.

Dogh. If you meet a thief, you may suspect him, by
virtue of your office, to be no true man ; and, for such
kind of men, the less you meddle or make with them, why,
the more is for your honesty.

2. Watch. If we know him to be a thief, shall we not
lay hands on him ? ,

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.

337

[quiet
fend :

J. you

It are

3r; il-
ly say

such
I why,

not

Dogb. Truly, by your office, you may ; but I think they
that touch pitch will be defiled : the most peaceable way
for you, if you do take a thief, is to let him show himself
what he is, and steal out of your company.

Verg. You have been always called a merciful man
partner.

Dogb. Truly, I would not hang a dog by my will j much
more a man who hath any honesty in him.

Verg. If you hear a child cry in tlie night, you must
call to the nurse, and bid her still it.

2. Watch. How, if the nurse be asleep and will not hear
us?

Dogb. Why, then, depart in peace, and let the child
wake her with crying ; for the ewe that will not hear her
lamb when it baes, will never answer a calf when he bleats.

Verg. 'Tis very true.

Dogb. This is the end of the charge. — You constable,
are to present the prince's own person : if you meet the
prince in the night, you may stay him.

Verg. Nay, by'r lady, that, I think, a'cannot.

Dogb. Five shillings to one on't, with any man that
know.s the statues, he may stay him : marry, not without
the prince be willing ; for, indeed, the watch ought to
offend no man ; and it is an offence to stay a man against
his will.

Verg. By'r lady, I think it be so.

Dogb. Ha, ha, ha 1 Well masters, good night ; an' there
be any matter of weight chances, call up me : keep your
fellows' counsels and your own j and good night. — Come,
neighbour. •

2. Watch. Well, masters, we hear our charge : let us go
sit here upon the church-bench till two, and then all go to
bed.

Dogb. One word more, honest neighbors. I pray you
watch about signior Leonato's door ; for the wedding being
there to-morrow, there is a great coil to-night. Adieu, be
vigilant, I beseech you. lExeuni Watch.

Enter Leonato.

Dogb. Marry, sir, I would have some confidence with
you, that descerns you nearly.

Leon. Brief, I pray you ; for you see it is a busy time

Dogb. Marry, this it is, sir. [with me.

Verg. Yes, in truth it is, sir.

Leon. What is it my good friends?

Dogb. Goodman Verges, sir, speaks a little of the

lis

i*^

''''^'m

m
■Ill

ill

:.r

338

SELECTIONS FROM SUAKSPEARE.

matter : an old man, sir, and his wits are not so blunt, as
I woula desire they were ; but, in faith, honest as the skin
between his brows.

Verg. Yes, I am as honest as any man living, that is an
old man, and no honester than I.

J)ogb. Comparisons are odorous : palabras, neighbour

Leon. Neighbours, you are tedious. [Verges.

Dogb. It pleases your worship to say so, but we are the
poor duke's officers ; but truly, for mine own part, if I were
us tedious as a king, I could lind in my heart to bestow it
all on your worship.

Leon. All thy tediousness on me, ha ?

Dogb. Yea, an' t were a thousand pound more than 'tis ;
for I hear as good exclamation on your worship, as of any
man in the city ; and though I be put a poor man, I am
clad to hear it.

Verg. And so am I.

Leon. I would fain know what you have to say.

Verg. Marry, sir, our watch to-night, excepting your
worship's presence have ta'en a couple of as arrant knaves
as any in Messina.

Dogb. A good old man, sir, he will be talking ; as they
say : when the age is in, the wit is out. Well said, i' faith,
neighbour Verges I well, a good man ; an' two men ride of
a horse, one must ride behind. An honest soul, i' faith,
sir ; by my troth he is, as ever broke bread : but all men
are not alike ; alas, good neighbour !

Lecn. Indeed neighbour, he comes too short of you.

Dogb. Gifts that Heaven gives.

Leon. , I must leave you.

Dogb. One word, sir ; our watch, sir, hath indeed com-
prehended two auspicious persons, and v/e would have them
this morning e:xamined before your worship.

Leon. Take their examination yourself, and bring it
me : 1 am now in groat haste as may appear unto you.

Dogb. It shall be suffiganco.

Leon. Drink some wine ere you go : fare you well.

Dogb. We are now to examination these men.

Verg. And we must do it wisely.

Dogb. We will spare for no wit, 1 warrant you; here's
that {touching his forehead) shall drive some of them to a
non com : only get the learned writer to set down our excom-
munication.

MUCH ADO ABOUT XOTHINO.

339

Enter Sexton and the Watch with Conrade and^ORAcmo,

prisoners.

Dogb. Is our whole dissembly appeared ?

Vcrg. O, a stool and a cushion for the sexton.

Sexton. Which be the malefactors ?

Dogb. Marry, that am I and my partner.

Verg. Nay, that's certain: we have the exhibition to
examine.

Sexton. But which are the offenders that are to be
examined? let them come before master constable.

Dogb. Yea, marry, let them come before me — What is

Bora. Borachio. [your name, friend ?

Dogb. Pray write down — Borachio.' — Your's, sirrah ?

Con. I am a gentleman, sir, and my name is Conrade.

Dogb. Write down — master gentleman Conrade. — Mas-
ters, it is proved already that you are little better than
false knaves j and it v;ill go near to bo thought so shortly.
How answer you for yourselves ?

C< .i. — Marry, Sir, we »ay we arc none.

Dogb. A marvelous witty follow, I assure you ; but I
will go about with him. — Come you hither, sirrah ; a word
in your oar, sir : I say to you, it is thought you are false
knaves.

Bora. Sir, I say to you we are none.

Dogb. Well, stand aside. They are both in a tale. Have
you writ down— -that they are none ?

Sexton. Master constable, you go not the way, to ex-
amine I you must call forth the watch that are their accusers.

Dogb. Yea, marry, that's theeftestway. — Let the watch
come forth. — Masters, t charge you, in the prince's name,
accuse these men.

1 , Widch. This man said, sir, that Don John, the prince's
brother, was a villain.

Dogb. Write down — Prince John, a villain. — Why, this
is flat perjury, to call a prince's brother villain.

Bora. Master constable, [1 promise thee.

Dogb. Pray thee, fellow, peace ; I do not like thy look,
Sexton. What heard you him say else ?

2. Watch. Marry, that he had received a thousand ducats
of Don John for accusing the Lady Hero wronglully.

Dogb. Flat burglary as ever was committed.

Verg. Yea, by the mass, that it is.

Sexton. What else, fellow ?

I. Watcli. And that Count Claudio did mean, upon his

'.il"i.'

340

SELECTIONS FROM SHAKSPEARH.

words, to* disgrace Hero before the whole assembly, and
not marry her.

Dogb. O villain ! thou wilt be condemned into everlast-

Sexton. What else ? [ing redemption for this.

2. Watch. This is all.

Sexton. And this is more, masters, than you can deny.
Prince John is this morning secretly stolen away: Hero
was in this manner accused | in this very manner refused }
and, upon the grief of this, suddenly died. — Master con-
stable, let these men be bound, and brought to Leonato's j
I will go before and show him their examination. lExii,

Dogb. Come, let them be opinioned.

Verg. Let them be in the hands.

Con. Off, coxcomb !

Dogb. On my life i where's the sexton ? let him write
down— the prince's officer, coxcomb. — Come, bind them. —
Thou naughty varlet !

Von. Away ! you are an ass, you are an ass.

Dogb. Dost thou not suspect my place ? Dost thou not
suspect my years ? that he were here to write me down
an ass ! but, masters, remember that I am an ass ; though
it be not written down, yet forget not, that I am an ass. —
No, thou villain, thou art full of piety, as shall be proved
upon thee by good witness. I am a wise fellow ; and which
is more, an officer ; and, which is more, a householder ; and,
which is more, as pretty a piece of flesh as any in Messina ;
and one tha knows the law, go to; and a rich fellow
enough, go to ; and a fellow that hath had losses ; and one
that hath two gowns, and every thing handsome about him.
— Bring him away. — that I had been writ down an ass !

FROM MIDSUMMEES NIGHT'S DREAM.
QuiNCK, Snug, Bottom, Flutk, Snout, and Starveling.

Qidn. Is all our company here ?

Bot. You were best to call them generally, man by man,
according to the scrip.

Quin. Here is the scroll of every man's name, which is
thought fit, through all Athens, to play in our interlude
before the duke and the duchess on his wedding-day at
night.

Bot. First, good Peter Quince, say what the play treats
on ; then read the names of the actors ; and so grow to a
point.

^iCStlMMERS night's DREAM.

341

How
ono

Quin. Marry, our play is. — The most lamentable comedy,
and most cruel death of Pyrauius and Thisby.

Bot. A very good piece of work, I assure you, and a
merry. Now, good Peter Quince, call forth your actors by
the scroll : Masters, spread yourselves.

Quin. Answer, as I call you. — Nick Bottom, the weaver.

Bot. Ready. Name what part I am for, and proceed.

Quin. You, Nick Bottom, are set down for Pyramus.

Bot. What is Pyramus ? a lover, or a tyrant ?

Quin. A lover, that kills himself most gallantly for love.

Boi. That will ask some tears in the true performing of

it if I do it, let the audience look to their eyes ; I will

"i-'vc storms, I will condole in some measure. Yet my

chief humour is for a tyrant : I could play Ercles rarely,

or a part to tear q, cat in, to make all split.

" TIic ragiiif? rocks
And shivering eliocks
Shall break tho locks

Of prison gates:
And rliibl MS' ear
Shall shine from far,
And make and mar

The foolish fates."

i'li- «vas lofty 1 — Now name the rest of the players —
This is Ercles' vein, a tyrant's vein; a lovor is more con
doling.

Quin. Francis Flute, the bellows-mender.

Flu. Here, Peter Qumce.

Quin. You must take Thisby on you.

Flu. What is Thisby ? a wandering knight ?

Quin. It is the lady that Pyramus must lovo.

Flu. Nay,
beard coming.

Quin. That's all one : you shall play it in a mask, and
you may speak as small as you will.

Bot. An I may hide my face, let mo play Thisby too :
I'll speak in a monstrous little voice; — "Thisbe, Thiabe,
"Ah, Pyramus, my lover dearl thy Thisby dear, and Lady
dear 1"

Quin. No, no ; you must play Pyramus : and Flute, you
Thisby.

Bot. Well, proceed.

Quin. Robin Starveling, the tailor.

Star. Here, Peter Quince.

Quin. Robin Starveling, you must play Thisby' s mother.
Tom Snout, tho tinker.

Snout. Here, Peter Quince.

':i:-

I r

faith, lot not me play a woman

I have a

342

SELECTI0J7S FROM SHAI^ftPEARfl.

Quin. You, Pyramus's father ; myself, Thisby's father ;
Snug the joiner, you the lion's part: — and, I hope, here is
a play fitted.

Snug. Have you the lion's part Written? pray you, if it
be, give it me, for I am slow of ^tudy.

Quin. You may do it extempore, for it is nothing but
roaring.

Bot. Let me play the lion too : I will roar, that I will
do any man's heart good to hear me : I will roar, that I will
make the duke say, "Let him roar again, let him roar
again."

Quin. An' you should do it too terribly, you would fright
the duchess and the ladies, that they would shriek ; and
that were enough to hang us all.

All. That would hang us, every mother's son.

Bot. I grant you, friends, if that you should fright the
ladies out of their wits, they would have no more discretion
but to hang us : but I will aggravate my voice so, that I
will roar you as gently as any sucking dove ; I will roar you
an 'twere any nightingale.

Quin. You can play no part but Pyramus ; for Pyramus
is a sweet-faced man ; a proper man, as one shall see in a
summer's day ; a most lovely, gentleman- like man ; there-
fore, you must needs play Pyramus.

Bot. Well, I will undertake it. What beard were I best
to play it in ?

Quin. Why, what you will.

Bot. I will discharge it in either your straw-colour beard,
your orange tawny beard, your purple-in-grain beard, or
your French crown colour beard, your perfect yellow.

Quin. Some of your French crowns have no hair at all,
and then you will play bare-faced. — But masters, here are
your parts : and I am to entreat you, request you, and
desire you, to con them by to-morrow night ; and meet me
in the palace wood, a mile without the town, by moon-
light ; there will we rehearse ; for if we meet in the city,
we shall be dogged with company, and our devices known.
In the meantime, I will draw a bill of properties, such as
our play wants. I pray you, fail me not.

Bot. We will meet j and there we may rehearse more
decorously, and courageously. Take pains; be perfect;
adieu.

Quin. At the duke's oak we meet.

Bot. Enough; hold, or cut bow-strings.

[Exeunt,

1IID3UMMER3 NIOHT'S DREAM. 343

Scene II.— vl Wood.
Quince, Snug, Bottom, Flute, Snout and Starveling.

Bot. Are we all met ?

Quin. Pat, pat ; and here's a marvellous convenient place
for our rehearsal. This green plot shall be our stage, this
hawthorn brake our 'tiring-house; and we will do it in
action, as we will do it before the duke.

Boi. Peter Quince —

Quin. What sayst thou, biilly Bottom ?

Bot. There are things in this comedy of " Pyramus and
Thisby" that will never please. First, Pyramus must draw
a sword to kill himself; which the ladies cannot abide.
How answer you that ?

Snout. By'r lakin, a parlous fear.

Star. 1 believe we must leave the killing out, when all is
done.

Bot. Not a whit : I have a device to make all well.
Write me a prologue ; and let the prologue seem to say,
we will do no harm with our swords, and that Pyramus is
not killed indeed ; and, for the more better assurance, that
I, Pyramus, am not Pyramus, but Bottom the weaver. This
will put them out of fear.

Quin. Well, we will have such a prologue ; and it shall
be written in eight and six.

Bot. No, make it two more, let it be written in eight and
eight.

Snout. Will not the ladies be afeard of the lion ?

Star. I fear it, I promise you.

Bot. Masters, you ought to consider with yourselves : to
bring in, — Heaven shield us 1 — a lion among ladies, is a most
dreadful thing ; for there is not a more fearful wild-fowl
than your lion, living; and we ought to look to it.

Snout. Therefore, another prologue must tell he is not a
lion.

Bot. Nay, you must name his name, and half his face
must be seen through the lion's neck ; and he himself must
speak through, saying thus, or to the same defect, —
''Ladies, — or, fair ladies, — I would wish you — or, I would
request you — or, I would entreat you, — not to fear, not to
tremble : my life for yours. If you think I come hither
as a lion, it were pity of my life : no, 1 am no such thing :

I'; .ft'

Whv

JM'- '

m
11

344

SELBCTIONS FROM SHAKSPEARE.

I am a man as other men are : — and there, indeed, let him
name his name, and tell them plainly, he is Snug, the
joiner.

Quin. Well, it shall be so. But there are two hard things,
— that is, to bring the moonlight into a chamber j for, you
know, Pyramus and Thisby meet by moonlight.

Snug. Doth the moon shine that night we play our play ?

Bot. A calendar, a calendar I look in the almanack , find
out moonshine, find out moonshine.

Quin. Yes, it doth shine that night.

£ot. Why, then may you leive a casement of the great
chamber window, where We play, open ; and the moon may
shine in at the casement.

Quin. Ay I or else one must come in with a bush of thorns
and a lanthorn, and say he comes to disfigure, or to pre-
sent, the person of moonshine. Then, there is another
thing: we must have a wall in the great chamber; for
Pyramus and Thisby, says the story, did talk through the
chink of a wall.

Snug. You can never bring in a wall. — What say you,
Bottom ?

Bot. Some man or other must present wall : and let him
have some plaster, or some loam, or some roughcast about
him, to signify wall | and let him hold his fingers thus and
through that cranny shall Pyramus and Thisby whisper.

Quin. If that may be, then all is well. Come, sit down,
every mother's son, and rehearse your parts. Pyramus, you
begin. When you hav^ spoken your speech, enter into
that brake; — and so every one according to his cue.

Enter Puck heliind.

Puck. What hempen homespuns have we swaggering
here,
So near the cradle of the fairy queen ?
What, a play toward I I'll be an auditor ;
An actor^ too, perhaps, if I see cause.

Quin. Speak, Pyramus. — Thisby stand (brth.

Fyr. '* Thisby, the flowers of odious savours sweet" —

Quin. ' ' Odours, " * < od ours . ' '

I'yr. *' Odours savours sweet.

So hath thy breath, my dearest Thisby, dear.
But hark, a voice 1 stay thou but here awhile,

And by and by I will to thee appear." lExit.

This. Must I speak now ?
Quin. Ay; marry, must you ; for you must understand,

JIIDStrMMERS night's DREAM.

345

he goes but to see a noise that he heard, and is to come
again.

This. ''Most radiant Pyramus, most lily-white of hue,

Of colour like the red rose on triumphant brier,
Most briskly juvenal, and eke most lovely Jew,

As true as truest horse, that yet would never tire,
I'll meet thee, Pyramus, at Ninny's tomb."

Quin. ''Ninus' tomb," man. Why, you must not speak
that yet ; that you answer to Pyramus : you speak all your
part at once, cues and all. — Pyramus, enter : your cue is
past; it is, "never tire."

This, O, — "As true as truest horse, that yet would never
tire."

Enter Bottom with an ass^s head.

Pyr. "If I were, fair Thisby, I were only thine:" —
Quin. O monstrous 1 O strange ! we are haunted. —
Pray, masters ! fly, masters !— Help !

[Exit with Snug, Flute, Snout and Starveling.
Puck. I'll follow you, I'll lead you about around,
Through bog, through bush, through brake, through
brier 1
Sometime a horse I'll be, sometime a hound,

A hog, a headless bear, sometime a fire ;
And neigh, and bark, and grunt, and roar, and burn,
Like horse, hound, hog, bear, fire, at every turai. [Exit.
Bot. Why do they run away ? this is a knavery of them,
to make me afeard.

Re-enter Snout.

Snout. Bottom ! thou art changed 1 what do I see on
thee?

Bot. What do you see ? you see an ass's head of your
own, do you ? Exit Snout.

Pe enter Quince.

Quin. Bless thee, Bottom 1 bless thee 1 thou art trans-
lated. [Exit.

Bot. I see their knavery: this is to make an ass of me,
to fright mo, if they could. But I will not stir from this
place, do what they can : 1 will walk up and down here,
and I will sing, that they shall hear I am not afraid.

[Sings.

The oufipl-cock, so black of hue,

With »)i:mgo-tftwny bill,
The tliroytlo With his note so truci

The wrou with littlo quill.

»i|-

k^4

I.' '3

346

SELECTIONS FROM SHAESPEARE.

FROM THE MERCHANT OF VENICE.
The avenue to Portia's house.
Lorenzo and Jessica. .

Lorenzo. The moon shines bright : in such a night as this,
When the swefet wind did gently kiss the trees,
And they did make no noise, — in such a night •

Troilus methinks mounted the Trojan walls.
And sigh'd his soul towards the Grecian tents,
Where Cressid lay that night.

Jessica. In such a night

Did Thisbe fearfully o'er trip the dew,
And saw the lion's shadow ere himself,
And ran dismay' d away.

Lor. In such a night

Stood Dido with a willow in her hand
Upon the wild sea-banks, and waved her love
To come again to Carthage.

Jes. In such a, night

Medea gather' d the enchanted herbs
That did renew old iEson. '

Lor. In such a nigM

Did J essica steal from the wealthy Jew,
And with an un thrift love did run from Venice,
As far as Belmont.

Jes. In such a night

Did young Lorenzo swear he lov'd her well,
Stealing her soul with many vows of faith^
And ne'er a true one.

Lor. In such a night

T)id pretty Jessica, like a little shrew.
Slander her love, and he forgave it her.

Jes. I would out-night you, did nobody come ;
But, hark, I hear the footing of a man.

Enter Stephano.

Lor. Who comes so fast in silence of the night ?

Steph. A friend.

Lor. A friend ! what friend ? your name, I pray you,
friend.

Steph. Stephano is my name ; and I bring word,
My mistress will before the break of day
Be here at Belmont.

Lor. Sweet soul, let's in, and there expect their coming.

And
My f r
Withi
And I

THB MSROHANT OF VENICE.

347

And yet no matter : why should we go in ? —

My friend, Stephano, signify, I pray you.

Within the house, your mistress is at hand ;

And bring your music forth into the air.—

[Exit Stephano.

How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank !

Here will we sit, and let the sounds of music

Creep in our ears : soft stillness, and the night.

Become the touches of sweet harmony.

Sit, Jessica : look, how the floor of heaven

Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold :

There's not the smallest orb that thou behold' st,

But in his motion like an angel sings.

Still quiring to the young-ey'd cherubims:

Such harmony is in immortal souls ;

But whilst this muddy vesture of decay

Doth^rossly close it in, we cannot hear it.

Come, ho 1 and wake Diana with a hymn :

With sweetest touches pierce your mistress' ear.

And draw her home with music. [Music.

Jes. I am never merry when I hear sweet music.
Lor. The reason is, your spirits are attentive :

For do but note a wild and wanton herd.

Or race of youthful and unhandled colts,

Fetching mad bounds, bellowing, and neighing loud,

Which is the hot condition of their blood :

If they but hear perchance a trumpet sound.

Or any air of music touch their ears.

You shall perceive them make a mutual stand,

Their savage eyes turn'd to a modest gaze,

By the sweet power of music : therefore the poet

Did feign that Orpheus drew trees, stones, and floods |

Since nought so stockish, hard, and full of rage,

But music for the time doth change his nature.

The man that hath no music in himself.

Nor is not mov'd with concord of sweet sounds.

Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils ;

The motions of his spirit are dull as night.

And his affections dark as Erebus :

Let no such man be trusted. — Mark the music.

Enter Portia and Nerissa, at a distance.

For. That light we see is burning in my hall.
How far that little candle throws his beams 1
So shines a good deed in a naughty world.

■I ',.'!■■

348

BEtEOTIONS FROM SHAltSPEAllti.

Ner. When the moon shone, we did not see the candle.

For. So doth the greater glory dim the less :
A substitute shines brightly as a king,
Until a king be by : and then his stat^p
Empties itself, as doth an inland brook
Into the main of waters, — Music 1 hark I

Ner. It is your music, madam, of the house.

For. Nothing is good, I see, without respect :
Methinks it sounds much sweeter than by day.

Ner. Silence bestows that virtue on it, madam.

For. The crow doth sing as sweetly as the lark,
When neither is attended; and I think.
The nightingale, if she should sing by day.
When every goose is cackling, would be thought
No better a musician than the wren.
How many things by season seasoned are
To their right praise and true perfection ! — •

Peace, ho 1 the moon sleeps with Endymion,
And would not be awak'd ! [Music ceases.

Lor. That is the voice,

Or I am much ddceived, of Portia.

For. He knows me, as the blind man knows the cuckoo,
By the bad voice.

Lor. Dear lady, welcome home.

For. We have been praying for our husbands' welfare,
Which speed, we hope, the better for our words.
Are they return'd ?

Lor. Madam, they are not yet ;

But there is come a messenger before.
To signify their coming.

For. Go in, Nerissa ;

Give order to my servants that they take
No note at all of our being absent hence ;
Nor you, Lorenzo; — Jessica, nor you. [A iucJcet sounds.

Lor. Your husband is at hand ; I hear his trumpet :
We are no tell-tales, madam, fear you not.

For. This night methinks is but the day- light sick ;
It looks a little paler : 'tis a day,
Such as the day is when the sun is hid.

Unier Bassanio, Antonio, Ghatiano, and their followers^,

Bass. We should hold day with the Antipodes,
If you would walk in absence of the sun.

For. Let me give light, but let me not be light ;
For a light wife doth make a heavy husband,

» m.

THE MERCHANT OF VENICE.

349

And never be Bassanio so for me .

But Heaven sort all I — You are welcome home my lord.

Bass. I thank you, madam, give welcome to my friend ;
This is the man, this is Antonio,
To whom I am so infinitely bound.

Por. You should in all sense be much bound to him,
For, az I hear, he was much bound for you.

A t. No more than I am well acquitted of.

Ft Sir, you are very welcome to our house :
It must appear in other ways than words.
Therefore 1 scant this breathing courtesy.

Gra. [^oNerissa.! By yonder moon I swear you do me
wrong I
In faith, I gave it to the judge's clerk :
Would he were dead that had it, for my part,
Since you do take it, love, so much at heart.

Por. A quarrel, ho, already ! what's the matter?

Cra. About a hoop of gold, a paltry ring
THat she did give me ; whose poesy was
For all the world like cutlers' poetry
Upon a knife, " Love me, and leave me not."

Ner. What talk you of the poesy, or the value ?
You swore to me, when I did give it you.
That you would wear it till your hour of death ;
And that it should lie with you in your grave :
Though not for me, yet for your vehement oaths,
You should have been respective, anji have kept it.
Grave ^ a judges' clerk 1

Gra. Now, by this hand, I gave it to a youth, —
A kind of boy ; a little scrubbed boy,
No higher than thyself, the judge's clerk ;
A prating boy, that begg'd it as a fee :
I could not for my heart deny it him.

Por. You were to blame, — I must be plain with you, —
To part so lightly with your wife's first gift ;
A thing stuck on with oaths upon your linger,. ^

And so riveted with faith unto your flesh.
I gave my love a ring, and made him swear
Never to part with it ; and here he stands, —
I dare be sworn for him, he would not leave it.
Nor pluck it from his finger for the wealth
That the world masters. Now, in fiiith, Gratiano,
You give your wife too unkind a cause of grief :
An 'twere to me, I should be mad at it.

Bass. [Aside.] Why, I were best to cut my left hand off,
And swear I lost the ring defending it.

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(716) 873-4503

350

SELECTIONS FROM SHACSPKABB.

Gra. My lord Bassanio gave his ring away
Unto the judge that begg'd it, and indeed
Deserv'd it too ; and then the boy, his clerk,
That took some pains in writing, he begg'd mine :
And neither man nor master would take aught
But the two rings.

For. Wliat ring gave you, my lord?

Not that, I hope, that you receiv'd of me.

Bass. If I could add a lie imto a fault,
I would deny it ; but you see, my finger
Hath not the ring upon it,-rit is gone.

Por, Even so void is your false heart of truth.

Bass. Sweet Portia,

If you did know to whom I gave the ring,
If you did know for whom I gave the ring,
And would conceive for what I gave the ring.
And how unwillingly I left the ring.
When nought would be accepted but the ring.
You would abate the strength of your displeasure. '

Por. If you had known the virtue of the ring.
Or half her worthiness that gave the ring,
Or your own honour to contain the ring,
You would not then have parted with the ring.
What man is there so much unreasonable.
If you had pleas' d to have defended it
W'th any terms of zeal, wanted the modesty
To urge the thing hel^^ as a ceremony ?

Bass. Pardon me, good lady ; ,

For, by these blessed candles of the night,
Had you been there, I think you would have begg'd
The ring of me to give the worthy doctor.

Par. Let not that doctor e'er come near my house :
Since he hath got the jewel that I lov'd,
And that which you did swear to keep for me.

Ant. I am th' unhappy subject of these quarrels.

Por. Sir, grieve not you; you are welcoma notwith-
standing.

Bass. Portia, forgive me this enforced wrong ;
And, in the hearing of these many friends,
I swear to thee, even by thine own fair eyes,
Wherein I see myself, —

Por. Mark you but that !

In both my eyes he doubly sees himself ;
In each eye, one : — swear by your double self.
And there's an oath of Credit.

THE MEROUANT OF VENICE.

351

Bass. Nay, but hear mo :

Pardon this fault, and by my soul I swear,
I never more will break an oath with thee.

Ant. I once did lend my body for his wealth;
Which, but for him that had your husband's ring,
Had quite miscarried : I dare be bound again,
My soul upon the forfeit, that your lord
Will never more break faith advisedly.

For. Then you shall be his surety. Give him this
And bid him keep it better than the other.

Ant. Here, lord Bassanio j swear to keep this ring.

Bass. What, this ! it is the same I gave the doctor

For. You are all amazed ;

Here is a letter, read it at your leisure ;
It comes from Padua, from Bellario :
There you shall find that Portia was the doctor :
Nerissa there, her clerk : Lorenzo, here,
^hall witness I set forth as soon as you.
And even but now return'd ; I have not yet
Enter'd my house. — Antonio, you are welcome j
And I have better news in store for you
Than you expect : unseal this letter soon ;
There you shall find, three of your argosies
Are richly come to harbour suddenly :
You shall not know by what strange accident
I chanced on this letter.

Ant. Sweet lady, you have given me life and living j
For here I read for certain that my ships
Are safely come to road.

For. How now, Lorenzo !

My clerk hath some good comforts, too, for you.

Ner. Ay, and I'll give them without a fee, —
There do 1 give to you and Jessica,
From the rich Jew, a special deed of gift.
After his death, of all he dies possess' d of.

Lor. Fair ladies, you drop manna in the way
Of starv'd people.

For. It is almos* morning.

And yet I'm sure ye are not sutislied
Of these events at full. Let us go in :
And charge us there upon interro<3atories.
And we will answer all things faithfully.

itl

352

SELECTIONS FROM SHAE3PEARE.

FROM AS YOU LIKE IT.

THE FOREST OF ARDEN.

The Banished Duke, Amiens, and other Lords, in the dress of

Foresters.

Duke IS. Now, my co-mates and brothers in exile,
Hath not old custom made this life more sweet
Than that of painted pomp? Are not these woods
More free from peril than the envious court ?
Here feel we but the penalty of Adam.
The seasons' difference : as, the icy fang
And churlish chiding of the winter's wind,
Which, when it bites and blows upon my body,
Even till I shrink with cold, I smile and say,
This is no flattery : these are counsellors
That feeLagly persuade me what I am.
Sweet are the uses of adversity ;
Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous.
Wears yet a precious jewel in his head ;
And this our life, exempt from public haunt,
Finds tongues, in trees, books in the running brooks,
Sermons in stones, and good in everything.

Ami. I would not change it. Happy is your grace,
That can tra^islate the stubborness of fortune
Into so quiet and so sweet a style.

Duke S. Come, shall we go and kill us venison ?
And yet it irks me, the poor dappled fools,
Being native burghers of this desert city,
Should, in their own confines, with forked heads
Have their round haunches gor'd.

1 Lord. Indeed, my lord.

The melancholy Jaques grieves at that;
And, in that kind, swears you do more usurp
Than doth your brother that hath banish'd you.
To-day my lord of Amiens and myself
Did steal behind him, as ho lay along
Under an oak, whose antique root peeps out
Upon the brook that brawls along this wood :
To the which place a poor sequester' d stag,
That from the hunters' aim had ta'en a hurt.
Did come to languish ; and, indeed, my lord,
The wretched animal heav'd forth such groans.
That their discharge did stretch his leathern coat

AS YOU LIKE IT.

353

Almost to bursting ; and the big round tears
Cours'd one another down his innocent nose
In piteous chase ; and thus the hairy fo ol,
Much marked of the melancholy Jaques,
Stood on the extremest verge of the swift brook,
Augmeiiting it with tears.

iJuke S. But what said Jaques ?

Did he not moralize this spectacle ?

1 Lord. O, yes, into a thousand similes,
First, for his weeping in the needless stream ;

" Poor dear,^^ quoth he, " tJiou mak^st a testament
As worldlings do, giving thy sum ofmme
To that which had too much;^' then being there alone,
Left and abandon' d of his velvet friends ;
" ' 2Y5 right," quoth he ; *' thus misery doth part
Thejiux of cmmgany /" anon, a careless herd.
Full of the pasture, jumps along by him,
And never stays to greet himj "^y," quoth Jaques,
" Sweep on, you fat and greasy citizens ;
' Tisjust the fashion ; wherefore do you look
Upon that poor and broken bankrupt there f
Thus most invectively he pierceth through
The body of the country, city, com-t,
Yea, and of this our life : swearing that we
Are mere usurpers, tyrants, and what's worse.
To fright the animals, and to kill them up.
In their assign'd and native dwelling-place.
Duke S. And did you leave him in this contemplation ?

2 Lord. We did, my lord, weeping and commenting
Upon the sobbing deer.

Duke S. Show me the place :

I love to cope him in these sullen fits,
For then he's full of matter.

1 Lord. My lord, he is but even now gone hence :
Here was he merry, hearing of a song.

Duke S. If he, compact of jars, grow musical,
We shall have shortly discord in the spheres,
Go seek him : tell him I would speak with him.

1 Lord. He saves my labour by his own approach.

Enter Jaques.

Duke S. Why, how now, monsieur 1 what a life is this,
That your poor friends must woo your company ?
What, you look merrily !

Jaq. A fool, a fool 1 — I met a fool i' the forest.

!• ;»

"it

354

SELECTIONS FROM SHAKSPEARB..

A motley fool ; — a miserable world ! —

As I do live by food, I met a fool ;

Who laid him down and bask'd him in the sun,

And rail'd on lady Fortune in good terms,

In good set terms, — and yet a motley fool,

<' Good-morrow, fool,^' quoth I. <'iVo sir," quoth he,

" Call me not fool, till heaven hath sent me fortune,

And then he drew a dial from his poke,

And, looking on it with lack-lustre eye,

Says very wisely, "/if is ten o'clock;

Thus may we «ee," quoth he, ^^how the world wags :

' Tis but an hour ago since it was nine ;

And after one hour more ' twill be eleven ;

And so, from hour to hour, we ripe and ripe,

And then from hour to hour, we rot and rot ;

And thereby hangs a taleJ'^ When I did hear

The motley fool thus moral on the time,

My lungs began to crow like chanticleer,

That fools should be so deep contemplative ;

And I did laugh, sans intermission,

An hour by his dial. — noble fool I

A worthy fool ! — Motley's the only wear.

Duke S. What fool is this ?

Jaq. worthy fool 1 — One that hath been a courtier
And says, if ladies be but young and fair.
They have the gift to know it j and in his brain, — ■
Which is as dry as the remainder biscuit
After a voyage, — he hath strange places cramm'd
With observation, the which he vents
In mangled forms. — O that I were a fool !
1 am ambitious for a motley coat.

Duke S. Thou shalt have one.

Ja^. It is my only, suit j

Provided, that you weed your better judgments
Of all opinion that grows rank in them.
That I am wise. I must have liberty
Withal, as large a charter as the wind.
To blow on whom I please ; ior so fools have ;
And they that are most galled with my folly.
They most must laugh. And why, sir, must they so ?
The why is plain as way to parish church :
He, that a fool doth very wisely hit.
Doth very foolishly, although he smart.
Not to seem senseless of the bob ; if not.
The Wiseman's folly is anatomiz'd

■*S TOU LIKE IT.

To speak my mLd an^T* ^-n® ?^ ^^'-^^^

Cleai'se the Cl bo'd/o/ ^-^^d through

If chey will mfu^n H v { • infected world, ^

^a.. What, forituLlr wou/d"l'd' '"k^" ^^"^^«t clo
/>MAe 6\ Most mischievnnu f , .-^ ^^' ^^^ good?

For thou thyselS bein « Uh^ f ' °' '" "^'^'"S sin -

As sensual as the bruti.h^f^ libertine, ^ '"^ '

And all th' embossPd «? ^^'""^ "«®^f

That thou mS SniT/? ^^^ ^^'"^d^d evils

Wouldst thou d /or?e?n/n?/°°* ^^'^ ^4ht

^/«?. Why, whoSout *^« ^T'''^ ^«^id. '

That can therein fat I .^° P^'^^^j

Dc ih it not flow as h„t T ^"^^*« P^^V?

Till that the veTv viT^^ ""' *^« ««a.

What womanYn ^the X"^^^"« ^^ «bb ?

When that I sLu th« ' -J" "^"^ ^ "**^«»

The cost of prinies on ^'''^T" ^^^rs

Who can co£e in'and sav^W^r'^^^^^^^''^ ?
When such a one aa «hL ^ T^^ ^ '»®^n her,
Or what isyo^Z^^C:^,^^ ^^^ "-'^^^our ?

C^^^S^^^f^y cost,

Sertthd^tS^

Mytongue^^h^rt^^^ Let n.e see wherein

w4^tnt^S"4'{^^^^^

n-Wdo.W^;.!^Xa^^^^^^ .

^/.Forbear, and eat no more.

C>?1 Nor shalt not fill «^«« ^M ^ ^^^® eat none v^f
^ i>«Ae ^^ Art thou thusS'''^^^ ^® «^^^'^-
Or else a rude despisep of go^^^^^^^^^ ^^"^ by thy distr
That m civility thou ^Lmw manners,
Sit down and feed and^l '"^ ^""^^^ ^
, Or/. Speak youl^lT^^^^^^^

I thought that all hingsK hf "'^^" "^^^ ^ P^^y you ?
And thereforeputiZ th« - ^'^ "'"''''«'' ^«^®5
Of stem commSndmenf T?"''*®"^»ce
Who after meTtr^y a^T/.f-^^ POor man,

355

ess.

W2"l

356

SELECTIONS FROM SHAESPEARE.

•■ 'P

Limp'd in pure love : till he be first BuflBc'd, —
Oppress'd with two weak evils, age and hunger,—
I will not touch a bit.

Duke S. Go And hi'm out,

And we will nothing wa-te till you return.

Orl. I thank ye ; and be bless'd for your good comfort I

lExii.

Duke S. Thou seest, we are not all alone unhappy :
This wide and universal theatre
Presents more woful pageants, than the scene
Wherein we play in.

Jaq. All the world's a stage,

And all the men and women merely players :
They have their exits and their, entrances j
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first the infant, • ■

Mewling and pukin in the nurse's arms
Then the whining school-boy, with his satchel.
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover.
Sighing like furnace, with a woful ballad
Made to his mistress' eye-brow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's niouih. And then the justice,
In fair round body with good capon lined
With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut.
Full of wise saws and modern instances j
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into th6 lean and slipper'd pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side ;
His youthful hose, well saved^ a \70rld too wide
For his shrunk shank ; and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness, and mere oblivion, —
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

FROM KING JOHN.

Kino, Queen Elinor, Arthur, Hubert.

K. John. [To Elinor.] So shall it be : your grace shall
stay behind.

KtNO JOHir.

357

So strongly guarded. — [To Arthur. 1 Cousin, look not sad :
Thy grandam loves thee ; and thy uncle will
As dear be to thee as thy father was.

Arth. 0, this will make my mother die with grief.

Eli. Come hither, little kinsman ; hark, a word.

[She takes Arthur aside.

K. John. Come hither, Hubert. O my gentle Hubert,
We owe thee much : within this wall of flesh
There is a soul counts thee her creditor,
And with advantage means to pay thy love :
And, my good friend, thy voluntary oath
Lives in this bosom, dearly cherished.
Give me thy hand. 1 had a thing to say, —
But 1 will fit it with some better time.
By heaven, Hubert, I am almost asham'd
To say what good respect I have of thee.

Huh. I am much bounden to your majesty.

K. John. Good friend, thou hast no cause to say so yet j
But thou shalt have ; and creep time ne'er so slow,
Yet it shall come for me to do thee good.
I had a thing to say, — but let it go j
The sun is in the heaven, and the proud day,
Attended with the pleasures of the world,
Is all too wanton, and too full of gawds.
To give me audience : — if the midnight bell
Did, with his iron tongue and brazen mouth,
Sound one into the drowsy ear of night ;
If this same were a churchyard where we stand,
And thou possessed with a thousand wrongs :
Or if that surly spirit, melancholy.
Had bak'd thy blood, and made it heavy, thick ;
(Which else runs tickling up and down the veins,
Making that idiot, laughter, keep men's eyes,
And strain their cheeks to idle merriment,
A passion hateful to my purposes,)
Or if that thou couldst see me without eyes.
Hear me without thine ears, and make reply
Without a tongue, using conceit alone,
Without eyes, ears, and harmful sound of words ;
Then, in despite of brooded watchful day,
I would into thy bosom pour my thoughts ;
But ah, I will not : — yet I love thee well ;
And, by my troth. I think thou lov'st me well.

Huh. So well, that what you bid me undertake,
Though that my death were adjunct to my act,

M":A

SELECTIONS FROM SHAESPEARE.

By heaven I would do it.

K. John. Do not I know thou wouldst ?

Good Hubert, Hubert, Hubert, throw thine eye
On yon young boy ; I'll tell thee what, my friend,
He is a very serpent in my way ;
And wheresoe'er this foot of mine doth tread,
He lies before me : — dost thou understand me ? —
Thou art his keeper.

Huh. And I'll keep him so.

That he shall not offend your majesty.

K. John. Death.

Huh. My lord ?

K. John. A grave.

Huh. He shall not live.

K. John. Enough.

I could be merry now. Hubert, I love thee ;
Well, I'll not say what I intend for thee :
Remember, — Madam, fare you well :
I'll send those powers o'er to your majesty,

Eli. My blessing go with thee !

K. John. For England, cousin, go :

Hubert shall be your man, a.ttend on you
With all true duty. — On toward Calais, ho !

FROM KING JOHN.

Hubert, Arthur, and Attendants.

Huh. Heat me these irons hot ; and look thou stand
Within the arras : when I strike my foot
Upon the bosom of the ground, rush forth,
And bind the boy, which you shall find with me,
Fast to the chair : be heedful : hence and watch.

1 Attend. I hope your warrant will bear out the deed.

Huh. Uncleanly scruples 1 fear not you : look to 't. —

Exeunt Attendants.
Young lad come forth ; I have to say with you.

Enter Arthur.

Arth. Good morrow, Hubert.

Huh. Good morrow, little prince.

Arth. As little prince (having so great a title
To be more prince) as may be. — You are sad.
Huh. Indeed, I have been merrier.
Arth. Mercy on mo 1

KING JOHN.

359

Methinks nobody should be sad but I :
Yet, I remember when I was in France,
Young gentlemen would be as sad as night,
Only for wantonness. By my Christendom,
So I were out of prison, and kept sheep,
I should be as merry as the day is long ;
And so I would be here, but that I doubt
My uncle practises more harm to me :
He is afraid of me, and I of him :
Is it my fault that I was Geffrey's son?
No, indeed, is 't not ; and I would to heaven
I were your son, so you would love me, Hubert.

Huh. [Aside.l If I talk to him with his innocent prato
He will awake my mercy, which lies dead :
Therefore I will be sudden, and despatch.

Arth. Are you sick, Hubert, you look pale to- day.
In sooth, I would yoa were a little sick.
That I might sit all night, and watch with you :
I warrant, I love you more than you do me.

Huh. [Asid^.'\ His words do take possession of my
bosom —
Read here, young Arthur. [Showing a paper.

[Aside."] How now, foolish rheum I

Turning dispiteous torture out of door I
I must be brief, lest resolution drop
Out at mine eyes in tender womanish tears. —
Can you not read it ? is it not fair writ ?

Arth. Too fairly, Hubert, for so foul effect :
Must you with hot irons burn out both mine eyes ?

Huh. Young boy, I must.

Arth. And will you ?

Huh. And I will.

Arth. Have you the heart? When your head did but
ache,
I knit my handkerchief about your brows,
(The best I had, a princess wrought it me,)
And I did never ask it you again ;
And with my hand at midnight held your head 5
And, like the watchful minutes to the hour,
Still and anon cheer* d up the heavy time,
Saying, " What lack you ?" and <' Where lies your grief?"
Or, " What good love may I perform for you ?"
Many a poor man's son would have lain still,
And ne'er have spoke a loving word to you ;
But you at your iick service had a prince.

,..ril,l

360

SELEOTtONS FROM SHAK3PBARB.

Nav, you may think my love was crafty love,

Anti call it cunning : — do, an if you will :

If heaven be pleas'd that you must use me ill,

Why, then you must. Will you put out mine eyes ?

These eyes that never did, nor never shall

Ko much as frown you ?

Hub. I have sworn to do it ;

And with hot irons must I burn them out.

Arth. Ah, none but in this iron age would do it !
The iron of itself, though heat red-hot,
Approaching near these eyes would drink my tears,
And quench his fier> indignation,
Even in the matter of mine innocence ;
Nay, after that, consume away in rust.
But for containing fire to harm mine eye.
Are you more stubborn-hard than hammer'd iron ?
An if an angel should have come to me,
And told me Hubert should put out mine eyes,
1 would not have believed him, — no tongue but Hubert's.

Hub. [Stomps.] Come forth. ,

Re-enter Attendants, with cord, irons, &c.

Do as I bid you do.

Arth. O I save me, Hubert, save me I mine eyes are out
Even with the fierce looks of these bloody men.

Hub. Give me the iron, I say, and bind him here.

Arth. Alas 1 what need you be so boisterous-rough !
I will not struggle, I will stand stone-still.
For heaven's sake, Hubert, let me not be bound !
Nay, hear me, Hubert 1 — drive these men away,
And I will sit as quiet as a lamb ;
I will not stir, nor wince, nor speak a word,
Nor look upon the iron angerly :
Thrust but these men away, and I'll forgive you,
Whatever torment you do put me to.

Hub. Go, stand within : let me alone with him.

1 Attend. I am best pleas'd to be from such a deed.

Exeunt Attendants.

Arth. Alas 1 I then have chid away my friend :
He hath a stern look, but a gentle heart :
Let him come back, that his compassion may
Give life to yours.

Hub. Come, boy, prepare yourself.

Arth. Is there no remedy ?

Hub. None, tut to lose your eyes.

EINO JOHN.

361

Arth. O heaven ! — that there were but a mote in yours,
A grain, a dust, a gnat, a wandering hair,
Any annoyance in that precious sense I
Then, feeling what small things are boisterous there,
Your vile intent must needs seem horrible.

Hub. Is this your promise ? go to, hold your tongue.

Arth. Hubert, the utterance of a brace of tongues
Must needs want pleading for a pair of eyes :
Let me not hold my tongue ; let me not. Hubert !
Or, Hubert, if you will, cut out my tongue,
So I may keep mine eyes : O, spare mine eyes,
Though to no use but still to look on you I
Lo ! by my troth, the instrument is cold,
And would not harm me.

Hub. I can heat it, boy.

Arth. No, in good sooth *, the fire is dead with grief,
Being create for comfort, to be us'd
In undeserved extremes: see else yourself;
There is no malice in this burning coal ;
The breath of heaven hath blown his spirit out.
And strew'd repentant ashes on his head.

Hub. But with my breath I can revive it, boy.

Arth. And if you do, you will but make it blush,
And glow with shame of your proceedings, Hubert :
Nay, it, perchance, will sparkle in your eyes ;
And, like a dog that is compelled to fight,
Snatch at his master that doth tarre him on.
All things that you should use to do me wrong,
Deny their office : only you do lack
That mercy, which fierce fire, and iron, extends.
Creatures of note for mercy-lacking uses.

Hub. Well, see to live ; I will not touch thine eyes
For all the treasure that thine uncle owes :
Yet am I sworn, and I did purpose, boy.
With this same very iron to burn them out.

Arth. O, now you look like Hubert ! all this while
You were disguised.

Hub. Peace 1 no more. Adieu.

Your uncle must not know but you are dead j
I'll fill these dogged spies with false reports j
And, pretty child, sleep doubtless and secure,
That Hubert, for the wealth of all the world
Will not offend thee.

Arth, O heaven ! — I thank you, Hubert.

Hub. Silence I no more : go closely in with me :
U,\XQh danger do I undergo for thee.' [Exeunt.

362

SELBCTIONS FROM SHAESPEARB.

FROM KING JOHN.

Kino and Hubert.

Huh. My lord, they say five moons were seen to night :
Four fix'd ; and the fifth did whirl about
The other four in wondrous motion.

K. John. Five moons !

Huh. Old men, and beldams in the streets

Do prophesy upon it dangerously.
Young Arthur's death is common in their mouths :
And when they talk of him, they shake their heads,
And whisper one another in the ear;
And he that speaks doth gripe the hearer's wrist,
Whilst he that hears, makes fearful action.
With wrinkled brows, with nods, with rolling eyes.
I saw a smith stand with his hammer thus,
The whilst his iron did on the anvil cool,
With open mouth swallowing a tailor's news,
Who with his shears and measure in his hand,
Standing on slippers, (which his nimble haste
Had falsely thrust upon contrary feet,)
Told of a many thousand warlike French,
That were embattail^d and rank'd in Kent ;
Another lean unwash'd artificer
Cuts off his tale, and talks of Arthur's death

K. John. Why seek'st thou to possess
fears ?
Why urgest thou so oft young Arthur's death ?
Thy hand hat!i murder' d him ; I had a mighty cause
To wish him derd, but thou hadst none to kill him.

Huh. Had none, my lord ! why, did you not provoke me?

K. John. It is the curse of kings, to be attended
By slaves, that take their humours for a warrant
To break within the bloody house of life j
And, on the winking of authority.
To understand a law; to know the meaning
Of dangerous majesty, when, perchance, it frown*
More upon humour than advis'd respect.

Huh. Here is your hand and seal for what I

K. John. 0, when the last account 'twixt
earth
Is to be made, then shall this hand and seal
Witness against us to damnation !
How oft the sight of means to do ill deeds.
Make ill deeds done 1 Hadst not thou been by^

me with thesa

did.
heaven and

A fe
Quo<
This
But,
Find
Apt,
I fail
And
Made
Hu
K.

KINO JOHK.

363

10?

A fellow by the hand of nsiture mark'd,
Quoted, and sign'd, to do a deed of shame,
This murder had not come into my mind ;
But, taking note of thy abhorr'd aspect,
Finding thee fit for bloody villainy,
Ape, liable to be employ'd in danger,
I faintly broke with thee of Arthur's death ;
And thou, to be endeared to a king,
Made it no conscience to destroy a prince.

Huh. My lord, —

K. John. Hadst thou but shook thy head, or made a
pause.
When I spake darkly of what I purposed,
Or tum'd an eye of doubt upon my face,
As bid me tell my tale in express words,
Deep shame had struck me dumb, made me break off.
And those thy fears might have wrought fears in me ;
But thou didst understand me by my signs,
And didst in signs again parley with sin ;
Yea, without stop, didst let thy heart consent,
•And consequently thy rude hand to act
The deed, which both our tongues held vile to name.
Out of my sight, and never see me more I
My nobles leave me, and my state is brav'd,
Even at my gates, with ranks of foreign powers :
Nay, in the body of this fleshly land.
This kingdom, this confine of blood and breath,
Hostility and civil tumult reigns
Between my conscience and my cousin's death.

Hub. Arm you against your other enemies,
I'll make a peace between your soul and you.
Young Arthur is alive : this hand of mine
Is yet a maiden and an innocent hand,
Not painted with the crimson spots of blood.
Within this bosom never enter'd yet.
The dreadful motion of a murderous thought ;
And you have slander'd nature in my form.
Which, howsoever rude exteriorly,
Is yet the cover of a fairer mind
Than to be butcher of an innocent child.

K. Jchn. Doth Arthur live ? 0, haste thee to the peers,
Throw this report on their incensed rage,
And make them tame to their obedience 1
Forgive the comment that my passion made
Upon thy feature j for my rage was blind.

364

SELEOnONS FROM SHAKSPBARl!.

And foul imaginary eyes of blood
Presented thee more hideous than thou art.
O, answer not : but to my closet bring
The angry lords, with all expedient haste ;
I conjure thee out slowly ; run more fast.

Wha!;,

FROM THE TAMING OF THE SHREW.
KiiTHARiNE and Grumio.

Otu. No, no, forsooth ; I dare not, for my life.

Kalh. The more my wrong, the more his spite appears :

hi.!;, did he marry me to famish me ?
Beggars, that come unto my father^ s door.
Upon entreaty have a present alms ;
If not, elsewhere they meet with charity j
But I, — ^who never knew how to entreat,
Nor never needed that I should entreat, —
Am starv'd for meat, giddy for lack of sleep :
With oaths kept waking, and with brawling fed ;
And that which spites me more than all these wants,
He does it under name of perfect love ;
As who should say, if 1 should sleep, or eat,
'Twere deadly sickness, or else present death, —
I pr'ythee go, and get me some repast;
I care not what, so it be wholesome food.

Gru. What say you to a neat's foot?

Kath. • 'Tis passing good : I pr'ythee let me have it.

€fm. I fear it is too choleric a meat.
How say you to a fat tripe, finely broil'd ?

Kath. I like it well : good Grumio, fetch it me.

Gru. I cannot tell : I fear 'tis

choi

eric.

What say you to a piece of beef, and mustard?

Kath. A dish that I do love to feed upon.

Gru. Ay, but the mustard is too hot a little.

Kath. Why, then the beef, and let the mustard rest.

Cfru. Nay, then I will not : you shall have the mustard,
Or else you get no beef of Grumio.

Kath. Then both, or one, or any thing thou wilt.

Cfru. Why then, the mustard without the beef.

Kath. Go, get thee gone, thou false deluding slave,

iBcats him.
Thou feed'st me with the very name of meat :
Sorrow on thee, and all the pack of you.
That triumph thus upon my misery I
Go, get thee gone, I say.

And

im.

THE TAMING OF THE SHREW.

365

Enter FetruOhio with a dish of meat ; and Hortbnsio.

Pet. How fares my Kate ? What, sweeting, all amort ?

Hot. Mistress, what cheer?

Kath. Faith as cold, as can be.

Pet. Pluck up thy spirits ; look cheerfully upon me.
Here, love ; thou seest how diligent I am,
To dress thy meat m^selt^ and bring it thee:

iSets the dish on the table,
I am sure, sweet Kate, this kindness merits thanks.
What, not a word ? Nay then, thou lov'st it not j
And all my pains is sorted to no proof, —
Here, takeaway this dish.

Kath. I pray you, let it stand.

Pet, The poorest service is repaid ^with thanks ;
And so shall mine, before you touch the meat.

Kath. I thank you, sir.

Hot. Signior Petruchio, fie I you are to blame.
Come, mistress Kate, I'll bear you company.

Pet. lAside.} Eat it up all, Hortensio, if thou lov'st me.
Much good do it unto thy gentle heart 1
Kate, eat apace ; — ^and mw, my honey love,
Will we return unto thy father's house,
And revel it as bravely as the best,
With silken coats, and caps, and golden rings.
With ruifs, and cuffs, and farthingales, and things ;
With scarfs, and fans, and double change of bravery,
With amber bracelets, beads, and all this knavery.
What, hast thou din'd ? The tailor stays thy leisure.
To deck thy body with his ruffling treasm'e.

Enter Tailor.

Come, tailor, let us see these ornaments :
Lay forth the gown. — [Enter Haberdasner.) What news
with you, sir?

Hah. Here is the cap your worship did bespeak.

Pet. Why, this was moulded on a porringer j
A velvet dish : — fie, fie ! 'tis low and filthy :
Why, 'tis a cockle or a walnut shell,
A knack, a toy, a trick, a baby's cap j •

Away with it I come, let me have a bigger,

Kath. I'll have no bigger; this doth tit the time,
And gentlewomen wear such caps as these.

Pet. When you are gentle, you bhall have one too j
And not till then.

ffor. [Aside.] That will not be in haste.

366

SELECTIONS FROM SHAKSPBARB.

Kaih. Why, sir, I trust I may have leave to speak :
And speak I will ; I am no child, no babe :
Your betters have endur'd me say my mmd ;
And if you cannot, best you stop your ears.
My tongue will tell the anger of my heart;
Or else my heart, concealing it, will break ;
And rather than it shall, I will be free
Even to the uttermost, as I please, in words.

Pet Why, thou say'st true ; it is a paltry cap,
A custard coffin, a bauble, a silken pie )
I love thee well, in that thou like'st it not,

Xath. Love me or love me not, I like the cap ;
And it I will have, or I will have none.

Pet. Thy gown ? why, ay ; — come, tailor, let ua see't,

mercy, what masking stim' is here !

What's this ? a sleeve ? 'tis like a demi-cannon :
What 1 Up and down, carv'd like an apple-tart?
Here's snip, and nip, and cut, and slish, and slash,
Like to a censer in a barber's shop —
Why, what, recreant tailor, call'st thou this ?

Hor. {Aside.) I see, she's like to have neither oap nor
gown.

Tai. You bade me make it orderly and well,
According to the fashion and the time.

Pet. Marry, and did ; but if you be remember' d,

1 did not bid you mar it to the time.
Go, hop me over every kennel home.

For you shall hop without my custom, sir ;
I'll none of it; hence ! make your best of it.

Kath. 1 never saw a better-fashion' d gown.
More quaint, more pleasing, nor more commendable :
Belike you mean to make a puppet of me.

Pet, Why, true ; he means to make a puppet of thee.

Tai. She says your worship means to make a puppet of

[her.

Pet. O monstrous arrogance ! Thou liest, thou thread.
Thou thimble.

Thou yard, thjpee-quarters, half yard, quarter, nail!
Thou flea, thou nit, thou winter cricket thou 1 —
Brav'd in mine own house with a skein of thread ?
Away I thou rag, thou quantity, thou remnant ;
Or I shall so be-mete thee with thy yard,
As thou shalt think on prating whilst thou liv'stl
T tell thee, I, that thou hast marr'd her gown.

Tai. Your worship is deceiv'd ; the gown is made

THE TAMING OF THE SHREW.

367

Just as my master had direction :
Grumio gave order how it should be done.

Gru. I gave him no order ; I gave him the stuff.

Tai. But how did you desire it should be made ?

Gru. Marry, sir, with needle and thread.

Tai. But did you not request to have it cut ?

Gru. Thou hast faced many things.

Tai. I have.

Gru. Face not me ; thou hast braved many men ; brave
not me : I will neither be faced nor braved. I say unto
thee. — I bid thy master cut out the gown ; but I <lid not
bid him cut it to pieces ; ergo, thou liest.

Tai. Why, here is the note of the fashion to testify.

Pet. Read it.

Gru. The note lies in 's throat, if he say I said so,

lai. [Reads]. *^ Imprimis, a loose-bodied gown ;^^ —

Gru. Master, if ever I said loose-bodied gown, sew me in
the skirts of it, and bear me to death with a bobbin of
brown thread : I said, a gown.

Pet. Proceed.

Tai. [Reads']. ^^ With a small-compassed cape :^^ —

Gru. I confess the cape.

Tai. [Reads]. ^^ With a trunk sleeve -^^^ —

Gru. I confess two sleeves.

Tai. [Reads], " The sleeve i curiously cut.^^

Pet. Ay, there's the villainy.

Gru. Error i' the bill, sir ; errpr 1' the bill. I command-
ed the sleeves should be cut out, and sewed up again ; and
that I'll prove upon thee, though thy little finger be armed
in a thimble.

Tai. This is true that I say : an I had thee in place where
thou shouldst know it.

Gru. I am for thee straight : take thou the bill, give me
thy mete-yard, and spare not me,

Hor. O ! have mercy. Grumio ! then he shall have no
odds.

Pet. Well, sir, in brief, the gown is not for me.

Gru. You are i' the right, sir : 'tis for my mistress.

Pet. Go, take it up unto thy master's use.

Gru. Villain, not for thy Hie.

Pet. (Aside). Hortensio, say thou wilt see the tailor paid.—

( To Tailor). Go take it hence ; be gone, and say no more.

Jlor. (Aside <o Tailor). Tailor, I'll pay thee for thy gown
to-morrow |
Take no unkindness of his hasty words ;

1 Jti r

I'm

■ij:i!l!i|

368

SELEOTIONS FROM SHAKSPRAF.E.

Away, I say ; commend me to thy master.

{Exeunt Taiior and Haberdasher.

Pet. Well, come, my Kate; we will unto your father's,
Even in these honest mean habiliments :
Our purses shall be proud, our garments poor,
For 'tis the mind that makes the body rich ;
And as the sun breaks through the darkest clouds.
So honour peereth in the meanest habit.,
What, is the jay more precious than the lark.
Because his feathers are more beautiful ?
Or is the adder better than the eel, .
Because his painted skin contents the eye ?
O, no, good Kate ; neither art thou the worse
For this poor furniture and mean array.
If thou account' st it shame, lay it on me ;
And therefore frolic ; we will hence forthwith,
To feast and sport us at thy father's house. —
Go, call my men, and let us straight to him ^
And bring our horses unto Long-lane end ;
There will we mount, and thither walk on foot. —
Let's see ; I think 'tis now some seven o'clock,
And well we may come there by dinner- time.

Kath. I dare assure you, sir, 'tis almost two ;
And 'twill be supper-time ere you cor s there.

Pet. It shall be seven ere I go to hc.se :
Look, what I speak, or do, or think to do,
You are still crossing it.— -^irs, let 't alone :
I will not go to-day: and ere 1 do.
It shall be what o'clock I say it is.

H(yr. Why, so 1 this gallant will command the sun.

FROM FIRST PART OF HENRY IV.

HOTSPUR, and lady Percy.

Hotspur, reading a letter.

«_

-But for mine own part, my lord, I could be well con-
tented to be there, in respect of the love I bear your house."
— He could be contented, — why is he not, then ? In respect
*of the love he bears our house : — he shows in this, he loves
his own barn better than he loves our house. Let me see
some more. <« The purpose you undertake, is dangerous. "
— Why, that's certain: 'tis dangerous to take a cold, to
sleep, to drink ; but I tell you, my lord fool, out of this
nettle, danger, we pluck this flower, safety. ''The purpose

yoi

unc

too

-S

Henry iv.

36d

you undertake, is dangero"s ; the friends you have named,
uncertain ; the time itself >. asorted, and your whole plot
too light for the counterpoise of so great an opposition. "
— Say you so, say you so ? I say unto you again, you are a
shallow, cowardly hind and you lie. What a lackbrain is
this ! Our jjlot is a good plot as ever was laid ; our friends
true and constant : a good plot, good friends, and full of
expectation ; an excellent plot, very good friends. What a
frosty-spirited rogue is this ! Why, my lord of York com-
mends the plot, and the general course of the action.
'Zounds ! an I were now by this rascal. I could brain him
with his lady's fan. la there not my father, my uncle, and
myself? lord Edmund Mortimer, my lord of York, and
Owen Glendower? Is there not, besides, the Douglas?
Have I not all their letters, to meet me in arms by the ninth
of the next month ? and are they not, some of them, set
forward already ? What a pagan rascal is this ! an inidel I
Ha I you shall sec now, in very sincerity of fear and cold
heart, will he to the king and lay open all our proceedings.
O, I could divide myself, and go to buffets, for moving
such a dish of skimmed milk with so honourable an action I
Hang him ! let him tell the king : we are prepared. I will
set forward to night.

Enter Lady Percy.
How now, Kate I I must leave you within these two hours.

Lady. 0, my good lord, why are you thus alone ?
For what offence have I this fortnight been
A banish'd woman from my Harry's sight?
Tell me, sweet lord, what is 't that takes from thee
Thy stomach, pleasure, and thy golden sleep ?
Why dost thou bend thine eyes upon the earth.
And start so often when thou sitt'st alone ?
Why hast thou lost the fresh blood in thy cheeks •,
And given my treasures and my rights of thee.
To thick-ey'd musing and curs' d melancholy ?
In thy faint slumbers, I by thee have watch' d.
And heard thee murmur tales of iron warsj
Speak terms of manage to thy bounding steed ,
Cry, " Courage! to the field ! " — And thou hast talk'd
Of sallies and retires, of trenches, tents.
Of prisoners' ransom, and of soldiers slain,
And all the currents of a heady fight.
Thy spirit within thee hath been so at war,
And thus hath so bestirr'd thee in thy sleep.
That beads of sweat have stood upon thy brow,

SELEOTIONS FROM S&AESPEARB.

Like bubbles in a late disturbed stream ;

And in thy face strange motions have appear' d,

Such as we see when men restrain their breath

On some great sudden hast. O, what portents are these ?

Some heavy bushiess hath my lord in hand,

And I must know it, else he loves me not.

Eoi. What, hoi [Enter Servant.] Is Gilliams with the
packet gone ?

Serv. He is, my lord, an hour ago.

Hot. Hath Butler brought those horses from the sheriff?

Serv. One horse, my lord, he brought even now.

Hot. What horse? a roan, a crop-ear, is it not?

Serv. It is, my lord.

Hot. That roan shall be my throne.

Well, I will back him straight: O, Esperancel —
Bid Butler lead him forth into the park.

[Exit Servant.

Lady. But hear you, my lord.

Hot. What say'st thou, my lady?

Jjady. What is it carries you away ?

Hot. Why, my horse,
My love, — my horse.

Lady. Out, you mad headed ape !

A weasel hath not such a deal of spleen,
As you are toss'd with. In faith,
I'll know your business^ Harry, that I will.
I fear my brother Mortimer doth stir
About his title, and hath sent for you
To line his enterprise; but if you go, —

Hot. So far afoot, I shall be weary, love.

Lady. Come, come, you paraquito, answer me
Directly unto this question that I ask :
In faith, I'll break thy little finger, Harry,
An if thou will not tell me all things true.

Hot. Away,
Away, you trifler 1— Love ?— I love thee not,
I care not for thee, Kate ; this is no world
To play with mammets, and to tilt with lips :
We must have bloody noses and crack'd crowns.
And pass them current toe—Rods me, my horse I—
What say'st thou, Kate? what wouldst thou have with me?

Lcdy. Do you not love mo? do you not, indeed ?
Well, do not, then ; for since you love me not,
I will not love myself. Do you not love me ?
Nay, tell me if you speak in jest or no.

itot

And w

I love

I must

Whith.

Whith

This e\

I know

Thant

But yei

No ladj

Thou w

And so

Lady

Hot.

Whithe:

To-day

Will thi

Lady.

P.Hei
How no\
ago, Jao]
Fal. I/.
I VKs not
into any
grief! it 1
news abr
you mus
fellow oi
Amaimoi

Moint.

Fal.
iner; anc
Scots, Do
cular.

P. Hen
kills a spi

Fal Y(

jP. Hen,

flEltRt 17.

371

ffoi dome, wilt thou see me ride ?
And when I am on horseback, I will swear
1 love thee infinitely. But hark you, Kate ;
I must not have you hencei'orth question me
Whither I go, nor reason whereabout ;
Whither I must, I must ; and, to conclude,
This evening must 1 leave you, gentle Kate.
I know you wise ; but yet no farther wise
Than Harry Percy's wife : constant you are ♦,
But yet a woman ; and for secrecy,
No lady closer ; for I well believe
Thou wilt not utter what thou dost not know ;
And so far will I trust thee, gentle Kate.

Lady. Howl so far?

Hot. Not an inch further. But, hark you, Kate
Whither I go, thither shall you go too ;
To-day will I set forth, to-morrow you. —
Will this content you, Kate ?

Lady. It must, of force.

lllii

!;i'l

FROM FIRST PART OF HENRY IV.
Prince Henry, Falstafp, and Hostess.

P. Hen. Here comes lean Jack, here comes bare-bone.
How now, my sweet creature of bombast I How long is't
ago. Jack, since thou sawest thine own knee ?

Fal. My own knee I when I was about thy years. Hal,
I wios not an eagle's talon in the waist ; I could have crept
into any Alderman's thumbering : a plague of sighing and
grief I it blows a man up like a bladder. — There's villainous
news abroad : here was Sir John Bracy from your father ;
you must to the court in the morning. That same mad
fellow of the north, Percy; and he of Wales, that gave
Amaimon the bastinado, — what a plague, call you him? —

Moint. 0, Glendower.

Fal. Owen, Owen, — the same; and his son-in-law, Morti-
mer ; and old Northumberland ; and that sprightly Scot of
Scots, Douglas, that runs o' horseback up a hUl perpendi-
cular.

F. Hen. He that rides at high speed, and with his pistol
kills a sparrow flying.

Fal. You have hit it.

P. Hen. So did he never the sparrow.

3t2

SELEOtlONS FROM SHAKSPEARB.

Fal. Well, that rascal hath good metal in him ; he will
not run.

P. Hen. Why, what a rascal art thou, then, to praise him
so for running ?

Fal. O' horseback, ye cuckoo ! but, afoot, he will not
budge a foot.

P. Hen. Yes, Jack, upon instinct.

Fal. I grant ye, upon instinct. — Well, ho is there too,
and one Mordake, and a thousand blue caps more : Wor-
cester is stolen away to-night ; thy father's beard is turned
white with the news : — But tell me, Hal, art thou not
horribly afeard ? thou being heir-apparent, could the world
pick thee out three such enemies again, as that fiend
Douglas, that spirit Percy, and that devil Glendower ? Art
thou not horribly afraid ? doth not thy blood thrill at it ?

P. Hen. Nor a whit, i' faith ; I lack some of thy instinct.

Fal. Well, thou wilt be horribly chid to-morrow, when
thou comest to thy father: if thou love me, practise an
answer.

P. Hen. Do thou stand for my father, and examine me
upon the particulars of my life.

Fal. Shall I ? content : — ^This chair shall be my state, this
dagger my sceptre, and this cushion my crown.

P. Hen. Thy state is taken for a joint-stool, thy golden
sceptre for a leaden dagger, and thy precious rich crown
for a pitiful bald crown 1

Fal. Well, an the fire of grace be not quite out of thee,
now shalt thou be moved. — Give me a cup of sack, to make
mine eyes look red, that it may be thought I have wept ;
for I must speak in passion, and I will do it in kmg
Cambyses' vein.

P. Hen. Well, here is my leg.

Fal. A.id hero is my speech. — Stand aside, nobility.

Host. This is excel. ent sport, i" faith.

Fal. Weep not, sweet queen, for trickling tears are vain.

Host. O, the father, how he holds hia countenance !

Fal. Good my lords, convey my tristful queen, for tears
do stop the flood-gates of our eyes.

Host. O rare I he duth it as like one of these players, as
I ever see.

Fal. Peace, good pint-pot ; peace, good tickle-brain.
— Harry, I do not only marvel where thou spendest thy
time, but also how thou art accompanied j for though the
camomile, the more it is trodden on, the faster it grows,
yet youth, the more it ii waited, the sooner it wears. That

HENRT IV.

373

this

king

I vain,
tears

rs, as

thou art my son, I have partly thy mothers word, partly
my own opinion ; but chiefly, a villainous trick of thine eye,
and a foolish hanging of thy nether lip, that doth warrant
me. If, then, thou be son to me, here lies the point ; —
why, being son to me, art thou so pointed at-? Shall the
blessed sun of heaven prove a micher, and eat blackberries ?
a question not to be asked. Shall the son of England prove
a thief, and take purses? a question to be asked. There is
a thing, Harry, which thou hast often heard of, and it is
known to many in our land by the name of pitch : this
pitch, as ancient writers do report, doth defile ; so doth the
company thou keepest ; for, Harry, now I do not speak to
thee in drink, but in tears ; not in pleasure, but in passion j
not in words only, but in woes also ; — and yet there is a
virtuous man, whom I have often noted in thy company,
but I know not his name.

P. Hen. What manner of man, an it like your majesty ?

Fal. A goodly portly man, i' faith, and a corpulent : of a
cheerful look, a pleasing eye, and a most noble carriage ;
and, as I think, his age some fifty, or, by'r lady, inclining
to threescore ; and now I remember me, his name is Falstaff :
if that man sholild be badly given, he deceiveth me ; for,
Harry, I see virtue in his looks. If, then, the tree may be
known by the fruit, as the fruit by the tree, then, peremp-
torily I speak it, there is virtue in that Falstaff: him keep
with, the rest banish. And tell me now, thou naughty
varlet, tell me, where bast thou been this month?

P. Men. Dost thou speak like a king*? Do thou stand for
me, and I'll play my father.

Fal. Depose me ? if thou dost it half so gravely, so majes-
tically, both in word and matter, hang me up by the heels
for a rabbit- sucker, or a poulter's hare.

P. Hen. Well, here 1 am set.

Fal. And here I stand :— judge, my masters.

P. Hen. Now, Harry, whence come you .

Fal. My noble lord, from Eastcheap.

P. Hen. The complaints I hear of tliee are grievous.

Fal. 'Sblood, my lord, they are false : — nay, I'll tickle ye
for a young prince, i' faith.

P. Hen. Swearest thou, ungracious boy? henceforth ne'er
look on me. Thou art violently carried away from grace :
there is a* devil haunts thee, in the likeness of a fat old
man, — a tun of man is thy companion. Why dost thou
converse with that trunk of humours, that huge bombard
of sack, that roasted Manningtree ox, that reverend Vice,

374

SELEOTIONS FROM SHAKSPEARE.

that grey Iniquity, that father ruffian, that Vanity in years ?
Wherein is he good, but to taste sack and drink it ? wherein
neat and cleanly, but to carve a capon and eat it ? wherein
cunning, but in craft? wherein crafty, but in villainy?
wherein villainous, but in all things ? wherein worthy, but
in nothing ?

Fal. I would your grace would take me with you : whom
means your grace ?

P. Hen. That villainous abominable misleader of youth,
Falstaff, that old white-bearded Satan.

Fal. My lord, the man I know.

P. Em. I know thou dost.

Fal. But to say, I know more harm in him than in myself,
were to say more than I know. If to be old and merry be
a sin, then many an old host that I know, is lost ; if to be
fat be to be hated, then Pharaoh's lean kine are to be loved.
No, my good lord ; banish Peto, banish Bardolph, banish
Poins ; but, for sweet Jack Falstaff, kind Jack Falstaff, true
Jack Falstaff, valiant Jack Falstaff, and therefore more
valiant, being, as he is, old Jack Falstaff, banish not him
thy Harry's company, banish not him thy Harry's company :
— banish plump Jack, and banish all the world.

P. Em. I do, I will.

Enter Bardolph, running.

Bard. O, my lord, my lord! the sheriff, with a most
monstrous watch, is at the door.

Fal. Out, you rogue 1 Play out the play : I have much to
say in the behalf ofrthat Falstaff.

Eost. The sheriff and all the watch are at the door: they
are come to search the house. Shall I let them in ?

P. Een. Go, hide thee behind the arras : — the rest walk
up above. Now, my masters, for a true face, and good
conscience.

Fal. Both which I have had ; but their date is otit, and
therefore I'll hide me.

FROM FIRST PART OF KING HENRY IV.
Falstaff andf Bardolph.

Fal. Bardolph, get thee before to Coventry ; fill me a
bottle of sack ; our soldiers shall march through ; we'll to
Sutton-Cophill to-night.

fiard, Will you give me money, captain ?

HENRY IV.

375

Fal. Lay out, lay out.

Bard. This bottle makes an angel.

Fal. An if it do, take it for thy labour ; and if it make
twenty, take them all ; I'll answer the coinage. Bid my
lieutenant Peto meet me at the town's end.

Bard. I will, captain : farewell. [Exit.

Fal. If I be not ashamed of my soldiers, I am a soused
gurnet. I have misused the king's press confoundedly. I have
got, in exchange of a hundred and fifty soldiers, three hun-
dred and odd pounds. I press me none but good household-
ers, yeomen's sons ; enquire me out contracted bachelors,
such as had been asked twice on the bans ; such as fear the
report of a caliver, worse than a struck fowl, or a hurt wild-
duck. I pressed me none but such toasts and butter, with
hearts no bigger than pins' heads, and they have bought
out their services ; and now my whole charge consists of
ancients, corporals, lieutenants, gentlemen of companies,
slaves, as ragged as Lazarus in the painted cloth ; and such
as, indeed, were never soldiers, but discarded unjust serv-
ing men, younger sons to younger brothers, revolted tap-
sters, and ostlers trade-fallen ; the cankers of a calm world
and a long peace ; ten times more dishonourable ragged
than an old faced ancient ; and such have I, to fill up the
rooms of them that have bought out their services, that you
would think that I had a hundred and fifty tattered prodi-
gals, lately come from swine-keeping, from eating drafi'and
husk. A mad fellow met me on the way, and told me I
had unloaded all the gibbets, and pressed the dead bodies.
No eye hath seen such scarecrows. I'll not march through
Coventry with them, that's flat: — nay, and the villains
march wide betwixt the legs, as if they had gyves on: for,
indeed, I had the most of them out of prison. There's but
a shirt and a half in all my company ; and the half shirt is
two napkins tacked together, and thrown over the shoul-
ders like a herald's coat without sleeves : and the shirt, to
say the truth, stolen from my host at St. Alban's, or the
red-nose inn keeper of Daintry. But that's all one | they'U
find linen enough on every hedge.

Enter Prince Henry and Westmoreland.

P. Hen. How now, blown Jack ! how now, quilt !

Fal. What, Hal ! How now, mad wag 1 what dost thou
in Warwickshire ? — ^My good lord of Westmoreland, I cry
you mercy : I thought your honor had already been at
Shrewsbury,

.'fHii

376

SELECTIONS FROM SHAKSPEARE.

West. 'Faith, Sir John, 'tis more than time that I were
there, and you too ; but my powers are there ah'eady. The
king, I can tell you, looks for us all : we must away all
night.

Fal. Tut, never fear me : I am as vigilant as a cat to steal
cream.

P. Hen. I think, to steal cream, indeed ; for thy thefi
hath already made thee butter. But tell me, Jack, whose
fellows are these that come after.

Fal. Mine, Hal, mine.

P. Hen. I did never see such pitiful rascals.

Fal. Tut, tut ! good enough to toss ; food for powder,
food for powder, they'll fill a pit as well as better; tush,
man, mortal men, mortal men.

West. Ay, but Sir John, methinks they are exceeding
poor and bare ; too beggarly.

Fal. 'Faith, for their poverty, I know not where they
had that ; and for their bareness, I am sure, they never
learned that of me.

P. Hen. No, I'll be sworn. But, sirrah, make haste :
Percy is already in the field.

Fal. What, is the king encamped?

West. He is, Sir John : I fear we shall stay too long.

Fal. Well,
To the latter end of a fray, and the beginning of a feast.
Fits a dull fighter, and a keen guest.

G(
C(
al
nc

FROM SECOND PAKT OF HENRY IV.
Shallow and Silence, Mouldy, Shadow, Wart, Feeble,

BULJ -CALF.

Shal. Come on, come on, come on, sir; give me your
hand, sir, give me your hand, sir; an early stirrer, by tho
rood. And how doth my good cousin Silence ?

Sil. Good morrow, good cousin Shallow.

iihal. And how doth my cousin ? and your fairest daugh-
ter, and mine, my god-daughter Ellen ?

Sil. Alas, a black ouzel, cousin Shallow !

Shal. By yea and nay, sir, I dare say, my cousin William
is become a good scholar : he is at Oxford, still, is he not ?

Sil. Indeed, sir, to my cost.

Shal. He must, then, to the inns of court shortly. I was
once of Clement's-inn ; where, I think, they will talk of mad
Shallow yet.

HENRY IT.

377

Sil. You were called lusty Shallow then, cousin.

Shal. By the mass, I was called any thing ; and I would
have done any thing indeeil too, and roundly too. There
was I, and little John Eoit of Staffordshire, and black
George Bare, and Francis Pickbone, and Will Squele a
Cots wold man ; you had not four such swinge-bucklers in
all the inns of court again. And there was Jack Falstaff)
now Sir John, a boy, and page to Thomas Mowbray, duke
of Nurfolk.

Sil. This Sir John, cousin, that comes hither anon about
soldiers? •

Shal. The same Sir John, the very same. I saw him break
Skogan's head at the court gate, when he was a crack not
thus high-, and the very same day did I fight with one
Sampson Stocktish, a fruiterer, behind Gray's-inn. 0, the
mad days that I have spent ! and to see how many of mine
old acquaintance are dead 1

Sil. We shall all follow, cousin.

Shal. Certain, 'tis certain; very sure, very sure : death,
as the Psalmist saith, is certain to all ; all shall die. How
a good yoke of bullocks at Stamfoj'd fair ?

Sil. Truly, cousin, I was not there.

Shal. Death is certain. Is old Double of your town living
yet?

Sil. Dead, sir.

Shal. Dead I — See, see I— he drew a good bow ; — and
dead 1 — ho shot a fine shoot : — John of Gaunt loved him
well, and betted much money on his head. Dead ! he
would have clapped in the clout at twelve score ; and car-
ried you a forehand shaft a fourteen and fourteen and a half,
that it would have done a man's heart good to see. How a
score of ewes now?

Sil. Thereafter as they be : a score of good ewes may bo
worth ten pounds.

Shal. And is old Double dead I lEiiter Falstaff. — Look,
here comes good Sir John. Give me your good hand, give
me your worship's good hand : by my troth, you look well,
and boar your years very well : welcome, good Sir John.

Fal. lam glad to see you weli, good master Robert Shal-
low : — Good master Silence, it well befits you should be of
the peace.

Sil. Your good worship is welcome.

Fid. Fie I this isliot weather.— Gentlemen, have you pro-
vided me here half a dozen sufficient men ?

378

SELECTIONS FROM SHAKSrEARB.

Shal. Marry, have we, sir. Will you sit sir ?

Fal. Let me see them, I beseech you.

Shal. Where's the roll ? where's the roll ? where's

the

roll ? Let me see, let me see, let me see. So, so, so so.
Yea, marry, sir : — Ealph Mouldy ! — let them appear as I
call ; let them do so, let them do so. Let me see ; where
is Mouldy ?

Moul. [Advancing. '\ Here, an't please you.

Shal. What think you. Sir John ? a good limbed fellow j
young, strong, and of good friends.

Fal. Is thy name Mouldy?

Moul. Yea, an't please you.

Fal. 'Tis the more time thou wert used.

Shal. Ha, ha, ha 1 most excellent, i' faith ! things that
are mouldy lack use: very singular good ! — In faith, well
said. Sir John 5 very well said.

Fal. [To Shallow.] Prick him.

Moul. I was pricked well enough before, an you could
have let me alone : there are other men fitter to go out
than I.

Fal. Go to ; peace. Mouldy 1 you shall go. Mouldy, it is
time you were spent.

Moul. Spent !

Shal. Peace, fellow, peace I stand aside : know you where
you are? — For the other, Sir John : — let me see; — Simon
Shadow.

Fal. Yea, marry, let me have him to sit under: he's like
to be a cold soldier.

SJial. Where's Shadow?

Shad. [ Advancing. "^ Here, sir.

Fal. Shadow, whose son art thou 7

Shad. My mother's son, sir.

Fal. Thy mother's son I like enough; and thy father's
shadow : so the son of the female is the shadow of the male ;
it is often so, indeed.

Shal. Do you like him, Sir John ?

Fal. Shadow will serve for summer, — prick him ; for we
have a number of shadows to fill up the muster-book.

Shal. Thomas Wart!

Fal. Where's he ?

Wart. [Advancing'^ Here sir.

i^a?. Is thy name Wart?

Wart. Yes, sir.

Fal. Thou art a very ragged wart.

Shal. Shall I prick him. Sir John I

HENRY IV.

379

Fal, It were superfluous ; for his apparel is built upon
his back, and the whole frame stands upon pins : prick him
no more.

Shot. Ha, ha, ha ! — you can do it, sir ; you can do it : I
commend you well Francis Feeble !

Fee. [Advancing. "[ Here, sir.

Fal. What trade art thou, Feeble?

Fee. A woman's tailor, sir.

Shal. Shall I prick him, sir ?

Fal. You may.

Fee. I will do my good will, sir : you can have no more.

Fal. Well said, good woman's tailor I well said, courage-
ous Feeble ? Thou wilt be as valiant as the wrathful dove,
or most magnanimous mouse. Prick the woman's tailor
well, master Shallow ; deep, master Shallow.

Fee. I would Wart might have gone, sir.

Fal. I would thou wert a man's tailor, that thou mightst
mend him, and make him fit to go. I cannot put him to a
private soldier, that is the leader of so many thousands :
let that suffice, most forcible Feeble.

Fee. It shall suffice, sir.

Fal. i am bound to thee, reverend Feeble. Who is next ?

Shal. PeterBull-calf of the green 1

Fal. Yea, marry. Ictus see Bull- calf.

Bull. [Advancing "] Here, sir.

Fal. Ah! ha! a likely fellow !— Come, prick me Bull-
calf till he roar again.

Bull. 1 good my lord captain. —

Fal. What, dost thou roar before thou art pricked?

Bull. O sir I I am a diseased man.

Fal. What disease hast thou?

Bull. A cold, sir, — a cough, sir, — which I caught with
ringing in the King's affiiirs upon his coronation day, sir.

Fal. Come, thou shalt go to the wars in a gown ; we will
have away thy cold, and I will take such order that thy
friends shall ring for thee. Is here all ?

Shal. Here is two more called than your number, you
must have but four here,^8ir : — Come, Sir John, which four
will you have ?

Fal. Do you choose for me.

Shal. Marry, then. — Mouldy, Bull-calf, Feeble, and Sha-

[dow.

Fal. Mouldy, and Bull-calf j for you. Mouldy, stay at
home till you are past service : — and for your part, Bull calf,
grow till you come uiito it ;•— I will none of you.

380

SELECTIONS FROM SHAJLSPBARE.

Shal. Sir John, Sir John, do not yourself wrong j they are
your likeliest men, and I would have you served with the
best.

Fal. Will you tell mo, master Shallow, how to choose a
man ? Care 1 for the limb, the thews, the stature, bulk,
and big assemblance of a man ? Give me the spirit, master
Shallow. — Here's Wart; — you see what a ragged appear-
ance it is : he shall charge you, and discharge you, with the
motion of a pewterer's hammer ; come off, and on, swifter
than he that gibbets on the brewer's bucket. And this
same half-faced fellow. Shadow — give me this man : he
presents no mark to the enemy ; the foeman may with as
great aim level at the edge of a penknife. And, for a
retreat, — how swiftly will this Feeble, the woman's tailor,
run off ! 0, give me the spare men, and spare me the
great ones.

FROM HENRY V.

King Hknry, disguised as a common soldier.

Bates, Court, Williams, Soldiers.
l^he night before the battle of Agincouri.

Court. Brother John Bates, is not that the morning which
breaks yonder ?

Bates. I think it be; but we have no great cause to
desire the approach of day.

Will. We see yonder the beginning of the day, but I
think we shall never see the end of it. — Who goes there ?

K. Hen. A friend.

Will. Under what captain serve you ?

A". Hen. Under Sir Thomas Erpingham.

Will. A good old commander, and a most kind gentle-
man: I pray you, what thinks he of our estate ?

K. Hen. Even as men wrecked upon a sand, that look to
be washed off the next tide.

Bates. He hath not told his thought to the king ?

K. Hen. No ; nor is it not meet he should. For, though
I speak it to you, I think the king is but a man as I ain :
the violet smells to him, as it doth to me ; the element
shews to him, as it doth to me; all his senses have but
human conditions : his ceremonies laid by, in his naked-
ness he appears but a man ; and though his affections art)

tiiSKRY V.

381

higher mounted than ours, yet, when they stoop, they .
stoop with the like wing. Therefore, when he sees reason
of fears, as we do, his fears, out of doubt, be of the same
relish as ours are : yet, in reason, no man should possess
him with any appearance of fear, lest he, by showing it,
should dishearten his army.

Bates. He may show what outward courage he will j but
I believe, as cold a night as 'tis, he could wish himself m the
Thames up to the neck ; — and so I would he were, and I
by him, at all adventures, so we were quit here.

K. Hen. By my troth, I will speak my conscience of the
king : I think he would not wish himself anywhere but
where he is.

Bates. Then I would he were here alone ; so should he
be sure to be ransomed, and a many poor men's Uves
saved.

K. Hen. I dare say you love him not so ill, to wish him
here alone, howsoever you speak this, to feel other men's
minds : me thinks I could not die anywhere so contented
as in the king's company, — his cause being just, and his
quarrel honourable.

Will. That's more than we know.

Bates, Ay, or more than we should seek after ; for we
know enough, if we know we are the king's subjects : if
his cause be wrong, our obedience to the king wipes the
crime of it out of us.

Will. But if the cause be not good, the king himself
hath a heavy reckoning to make, when all those legs, and
arms, and heads, chopped off in a battle, shall join together
at the latter day, and cry all — We died at such a place;
some swearing ; some crying for a surgeon ; some, upon
their wives left poor behind them ; some, upon the
the debts they owe ; some, upon their children rawly left.
I am afear'^ there are few die well, that die in a battle : for
how can they charitably dispose of anything, when blood
is their argument? Now, if the-e men do not die well, it
will be a black matter for the king that led them to it ;
whom to disobey were against all proportion of subjection.

K. Hen. So, if a son, that is by his father sent about
merchandize, do sinfully miscarry upon the sea, the impu-
tation of his wickedness, by your rule, should be imposed
upon his father that ienit him : or if a servant, under his
master's command, transporting a sum of money, be
assailed by robbers, and die in many irreconciled iniquities,
you may call the business of tho master the author of the

382

Selections f rojc sHAKspfiARfi.

H ...

a -.

servant's damnation : — but this is not so : the king is tiot
bound to answer the pnvticular endings of his soldiers, the
lather ol" his son, nor the mfister of his servant; for they
purpose not their death, when they purpose their services.

WIJI. 'lis certain, every man that dies ill, the ill is upon
his own head, the king is not to answer it.

Balc^. I do not desire he should answer for me ; and yet
I determine to fight lustily for him,

K. Hen. I myself heard the king say, he would not be
ransomed.

Will. Ay, he said so, to make^uslfight cheerfully ; but
when our throats are cut, he may be ransomed, and we
ne'er the wiser.

K. Hen. If I live to see it, I will never trust his word
after.

Will. You pay him then f That's a perilous shot out of
an elder gun, that a poor and a private displeasure can do
against a monarch ! You may as well go about to turn the
sun to ice with fanning in his face with a peacock's feather.
You'll never trust his word after 1 come, 'tis a foolish
saying.

K. Hen. Your rej)roof is something too round : I should
be angry with you, if the time were convenient.

Will. Let it be a quarrel between us, if you live.

K. Hen. I embrace it.

Will. How shall I know theefagain ?

K. Hen. Give me any gage of thine, and I will wear it
in my bonnet : then, if ever thou darest acknowledge it, 1
will make it my quarrel.

Will. Here's my glove : give me another of thine.

K. Hen. There.

Will. This will I also wear in my cap : if ever thou come
to me and say, after to-morrow, "This is my glove," by
this hand, I will take thee a box on the ear.

K. Hen. If ever 1 live to see it, I will challenge it.

Will. Thou darest as well be hanged.

K. Hen. Well, I will do it, though I take thee in the
king's company.

Will. Keep thy word : fare thee well.

Bates. Be friends, you English fools, be friends : we have
French quarrels enough, if you could tell how to reckon.

K. Hen. Indeed the French may lay twenty crowns to
one, they will beat us ; for they bear them on their shoul-
ders ; but it ia no English treason to cut French orowns;
and to-morrow the king himself will h% a clipper.

jtJstcmi Soldiers.

tiENRr V.

383

; IS not
ers, the
or they
ei'vices.
is upon

and yet

not be

ly; but
and we

lis word

>t out of
> can do
;urn the
feather,
foolish

[ should

wear it
geit, 1

>u come
ire," by

in the

ve hare
ckon.
)wn8 to
ehoul-
orownsi

oldiers.

Upon the king ! — let us our lives, our souls,

Our debts, our cnrel'ul wives, our children, and

Our sins, lay on the king.

We must bear all.

O hard condition! twin-born with greatness.

Subject to the breatli of every Ibol, whose sense

No more can feel but his own wringing !

What infinite heart's ease must kings neglect,

That private men enjoy !

And what have kings, that privates have not too.

Save ceremony, save general ceremony?

And what art thou, thou idle ceremony?

What kind of god art thou that suffer' st more

Of mortal griefs, than do thy worshippers?

What are thy rents ? what are thy comings in ?

ceremony, show me but thy worth 1
What is the soul of adoration ?

Art thou aught else but place, degree and form,

Creating awe and fear in other men ?

Wherein thou art less happy, being fear'd.

Than they in fearing.

What drink' st thou oft, instead of homage sweet,

But poison'd flattery ? O, be sick, great greatness

And bid thy ceremony give thee cure 1

Think' st thou the fiery fever will go out

With titles blown from adulation?

Will it give place to flexure and low bending ?

Can'st thou, when thou command'st the beggar's knee

Command the health of it ? No, thou proud dream,

That play'd so subtly with a king's repose :

1 am a king, that find thee ; and I know
'Tis not the balm, the sceptre, and the ball,
The sword, the mace, the crown imperial,
The intertissu'd robe of gold and pearl,
The farced title running fore the king,

The throne he sits on, nor the pride of pomp
That beats upon the high shore of this world, —
No, not all these, tlu*ice-gorgeous ceremony.
Not all these, laid in bed majestical.
Can sleep so soundly as the wretched slave.
Who, with a body fill'd, and vacant mind,
Gets him to rest, oramm'd with distressful bread ;
Never sees horrid night, the child of hell ;
But, like a lackey, from the rise to> set.
Sweats in the eye of Pho»bus, and all night

I fl

'Pt

384

gELEOTIONS FROM SHAKSPEAR^!.

Sleeps in Elysium ; ,

And but for ceremony, such a wretch

Winding up days with toil, and nights with sleep,

Had the forehand and vantage of a king.

The slave, a member of the country's peace,

Enjoys it ; but in gross brain little wots.

What watch the king keeps to maintain the peace.

Whose hours the peasant best advantages.

FEOM THIRD PART OF HENRY VI.
^3^ King Henry.

Sf. Hen. This battle fares like to the morning's war.

When dying clouds contend with growing light,

What time the shepherd, blowing of his nails,

Can neither call it perfect day, nor night.

Now sways it this way, like a mighty sea

Foro'd by the tide to combat with the wind ;

Now sways it that way, like the self-same sea

Forc'd to retire by fury of the wind :

Sometime the flood preivails, and then the wind ;

Now one the better, then another best ;

Both tugging to be victors, breast to breast,

Yet neither conqueror, nor conquered:

So is the equal poise of this fell war.

Here on this molehill will I sit me down.

To whom God will, there be the victory !

For Margaret my queen, and Clifford too,
Have chid me from the battle : swearing both.

They prosper best of all when I am thence.
Would I were dead I if God's good will were so ;
For what is in this world but grief and woe ?
God 1 methinks it were a happy life,
To bo no better than a homely swain ;
To sit upon a hill as I do now,
To carve out dials quaintly, point by point
Thereby to see the minutes how they run : —
How many make the hour full complete ;
How many hours bring about the day |
How many days will finish up the year j
How many years a mortal man may live.
When this is known then to divide the times, —
So many hours must I tend my flock ^

Pas

Ah,

Giv<

Tha

o,:

And
His
His
AU^
Is fa
His
His I
Whej

RIOHABD III.

So many hours must I take my rest ;

So many hours must I contemplate ;

So many hours must I sport myself j

So many days my ewes have been with young ;

So many weeks ere the poor fools will yean ;

So many years ere I shall shear the fleece ;

So minutes, hours, days, months and years,

Pass'd over to the end they were created.

Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave.

Ah, what a life were this 1 how sweet ! how lovely I

Gives not the hawthorn bush a sweeter shade

To shepherds, looking on their silly sheep,

I'han doth a rich embroider'd canopy

To kings, that fear their subjects' treachery 7

0, yes, it doth ; a thousand fold it doth.

And to conclude,— the shepherd's homely curds,

His cold thin di^ink out of his leather bottle,

His wonted sleep under a fresh tree's shade,

All which secure and sweetly he enjoys,

Is far beyond a prince's delicates,

His viands sparkling in a golden cup.

His body couched in a curious bed.

When care, mistrust, and treason wait on him.

385

FKOM KICHARD III.
Duke of Cla.renoe and Braeenburt.

Brak. Why looks your grace so heavily to-day ?

Clar. 0, I have pass'd a miserable night,
So full of fearful dreads, of ugly sights,
That, as I am a Christian faithful man,
I would not spend another such a night,
Though it were to buy a world of happy days j
So full of dismal terror was the time 1

Brak. What was your dream, my lord? 1 pray
tell me.

C/ar. Methought that I had broken from the Tower
And was embark' d to cross to Burgundy ; '

And, in my company, my brother Gloster :
Who from my cabin tempted me to walk
Upon the hatches : thence we look'd toward Eng.and,
And cited up a thousand heavy times,
During the wars of York and Lancaster,

you

386

lELKOTIONI FROM IHAUPIARB. ,

That had befall'n us. As we pac'd along
Upon the giddy footing of the hatches,
Methought that Gloster stumbled ^ and, in falling.
Struck me, that thought to stay him^ over-board,
Into the tumbling billows of the mam.

Lord I methought what pain it was to drown I
What dreadful noise of water in mine ears 1
What sights of ugly death within mine eyes I
Methought I saw a thousand fearful wrecks ;

A thousand men that fishes gnaw'd upon ;

Wedges of gold, great anchors, heaps of pearl,

Inestimable stonet*, unvalu'd jewels,

All scatter'd in the bottom of the sea :

Some lay in dead men's skulls : and in those holes

Where eyes did once inhabit, there were crept

(As 'twere in scorn of eyes) reflecting gems,

That woo'd the slimy bottom of the deep,

And mock'd the dead bones that lay scatter'd by.

Brak. Had you such leisure in the time of death,
To gaze upon those secrets of the deep ?

Clar. Methought I had ; and often did I strive
To yield the ghost ; but still the envious flood
Kept in my soul, and would not let it forth
To find the empty, vast, and wandering air ^
But smother' d it within my panting bulk.
Which almost burst to belch it in the sea.

Brak. Awak'd you not with this sore agony?

Clar. No, no, my dream was lengthen'd after life ;
0, then began the tempest to my soul 1

1 pass'd, methought, the melancholy flood.
With that grim ferryman which poets write of.
Unto the kingdom of perpetual night.

The first that there did greet my stranger soul.
Was my great father-in-law, renowned Warwick j
Who cried aloud : " What scourge for perjmy
Can this dark monarchy afford false Clarence?"
And so he vanish' d : then came wandering by
A shadow like an angel, with bright hair
Dabbled in blood ; and he shriek'd out aloud,
" Clarence is come, — false, fleeting, perjur'd Clarence,-
That stabb'd me in the field by Tewksbury : —
Seize on him. Furies 1 take him to your torments 1"
With that, methought, a legion of foul fiends
Environ'd me, and howled in mine ears
Such hideous cries, that, with the very noise,

HiNRT yni.

387

I trembling wak'd, and, for a season after,
Could not believe but that I was in hell,
Such terrible impression made my dream.

Brak. No marvel^ lord, though it affrighted you ;
I am afraid, methinks, to hear you tell it.

Clar. Bitikenbury, I have done these things,
That now give evidence against my soul,
For Edward's sake ; and see how he requites me I

God I if my deep prayers cannot appease thee
But thou wilt be aveng'd on my misdeeds,

Yet execute thy wrath on me alone:

0, spare my guiltless wife and my poor children !

1 pray thee, gentle keeper, stay by me;
My soul is heavy, and I fain would sleep.

Brak. I will, my lord. Give your grace good rest. —

[Clarence sleeps.
Sorrow breaks seasons and reposing hours,
Makes the night morning, and the noon-tide night.
Princes have but their titles for their glories,
An outward honour for an inward toil;
And, for unfelt imaginations,
They often feel a world of restless cares :
So that, between their titles, and low name,
There's nothing differs but the outward fame.

FROM HENRY VIII.

Cardinal Wolsbt, Cromwell, his iSecieiary.

Wol. What should this mean 7

What sudden anger's this? how have I reap'd it ?
He parted frowning from me, as if ruin
Leap'd from his eyes : so looks the chafed lion
Upon the daring huntsman that has gall'd him ;
Then makes him nothing. I must read this paper ;
I fear the story of his anger. — 'Tis so ;
This paper has undone me. — 'Tis th' account
Of all that world of wealth I have drawn together
For mine own ends ; indeed to gain the popedom,
And fee my friends in Rome. negligence.
Fit for a fool to fall by I What cross devil
Made me put this main secret in the packet
I sent the king ? Is there no way to cure this ?
No new device to beat this from his brains?

388

BELKOTIOlCa FKOU SBAKIPIARB.

I know 'twill stir^im'strongly J yet I know

A way, if it take right, in spite of fortune

Will bring me.oflf again.— What's this?— "To the Pope?"

The letter, as I live, with all the business

I writ to his holiness. Nay then, farewell I

I have touch' d the highest point of all my greatness ;

And from that full meridian of my glory,

1 haste now to myjsetting ; I shall fall

Like a bright exhalation in the evening

And no man see me more.

Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness.

This Js the,state of man : to-day he puts forth

The tender leaves of hope ; to-morrow blossoms,

And bears his blushing honours thick upon him :

The third day comes a frost, a killing frost ;

And, — when he thinks, good easy man, full surely

His greatness is a ripening, — nips his root,

And then he falls, as I do. I have ventur'd

Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders,

This many summers in a sea of glory ;

But far beyond my depth ; my high-blown pride

At length broke under me ; and now has left me,

Weary and old with service, to the mercy

Of a rude stream, that must for ever hide me.

Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye :

1 feel my heart new open'd. 0, how wretched

Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favours :

There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to,

That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin.

More pangs and fears than wars or women have ;

And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,

Never to hope again. —

^nier Cromwell, a'„%azedly.

Why, how now, Cromwell I

Crom. I have no powerlto speak, sir.

Wol. What, amaz'd

At my misfortunes ? can thy spirit wonder
A great man should decline ? Nay, an you weep,
I am fallen indeed.

Crom. How does your grace 7

Wol Why, well;

Never so truly happy my good Cromwell.
I know myself now ; and I feel within me
A peace above all earthly dignities,
A still and quiet conscience. The king has cur'd me.

tsNRt vni.

389

iwellJ
Imaz'd

1 well ;

I humbly thank his grace ; and from these shoulders,

These ruin'd pillars, out of pity, tuken

A load would sink a nav\\ too much honour :

O, 'tis a burden, CromweL, 'tis a burden

Too heavy for a man that hopes for heaven !

Crom. I am glad your grace has made that right use of it.

Wol. I hope I have : I am able now, methiuks.

(Out of a fortitude of soul I feel)

To endure more miseries, and greater far,
Than my weak-hearted enemies dare oflfer.
What news abroad ?

Crom. The heaviest and the worst,

Is your displeasure with the king.

Wol. God bless him !

Crom. The next is, that Sir 1 hom is More is chosen lord
chancellor in your place.

Wol. That's somewhat sudden ;

Bat he's a learned man. May he continue
Long in his highness' favour, and do justice
For truth's sake, and his conscience; that his bones.
When he has run his course and sleeps in blessings,
May have a tomb of orphans' tears wept on them.
W hat more ?

Crom. That Cranmer is return' d with welcome
Ins tall' d lord archbishop of Canterbury,
Wol. That's news indeed I

Crom. Last, that the lady Anne,

Whom the king hath in secrecy long married.
This day was view'd in open, as his queen,
Going to chapel ; and the voice is now
Only about her coronation.

Wol. There was the weight that puU'd me down,
Crom Well,
The king has gone beyond me ; all my glorie
In that one woman I have lost for ever :
No sun shall ever usher forth mine honours,
Or gild again the noble troops that waited
Upon my smiles. Go, get thee from me, Cromwell ;
I am a poor fallen man, im worthy now
To be thy lord and master : seek the king :
(That sun, I pray, may never set I) I have told him
What, and how true thou art : he will advance thee j
Some little memory of me will stir him,
(I know his noble nature,) not to let
Thy hopeful gervice perish too ; good Cromwell,

300

IfiLSOTIOIfS FROM SHAKSPBABB.

Neglect him not ; make use now, and provide
For thine own future safety.

Crom. my lord,

Must I, then, leave you 7 must I need forego
So good, so noble, and so true a master?
Bear witness, all that have not hearts of iron,
With what 8 sorrow Cromwell leaves his lord. —
The king shall have my service ; hut my prayers.
For ever and for ever, shall be yours.

Wol. Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear
In all my miseries but thou hast forced me,
Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman.
Let's dry our eyes ; and thus far hear me, Cromwell ;
And, — when I am forgotten, as I shall be.
And sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention
Of me more must be heard of, — say, I taught thee.
Say Wolsey, — that once trod the ways of glory.
And sounded all the depths and shoals of honour, —
Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in :
A sure and safe one, though thy master miss' a it.
Mark but my fall, and that which rvn'd me.
Cromwell, I charge thee, fling awi y !,r»ibitjton :
By that sin fell the angels ; how can man, then,
The image of his Maker, hope to win by it ?
Love thyself last : cherish those hearts that hate thee :
Corruption wins not more than honesty.
Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace.
To silence envious tongues. Be just and fear not :
Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's.
Thy God's, and truth's; then if thou fall'st, Cromwell,
Thou fall'st a blessed martyr. Serve the king ;
And, — pr'thee, lead me in :
There take an inventory of all I have, ,

To the last penny ; 'tis the king's : my robe.
And my integrity to heaven, is all
I dare now call my own. O Cromwell, Cromwell 1
Had I but serv'd my God with half the zeal
I serv'd my king. He would not in mine ago
Have left me naked to mine enemies.

Orom. Good sir, have patience.

Wol. So I have. Farewell
The hopes of court I my hopes in heaven do well.

JVLITJ3 OJESAS.

FROM JULIUS CiESAR.

391

Brutus and Cassius, a throng o/Citizens.

Citizens. We will be Batisfied ; let us be satisfied.

Bru. Then follow me, and give me 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 CfEsar's death.

1 at. I will hear Brutus speak.

2 at. I will hear Cassius ; and compare their reisons,
When severally we hear them rendered.

Exit Cassius, with some of the Citizens ;
Brutus goes into the rostrum.

3 Cit. 1'he noble Brutus is ascended : silence !

Bru. Be patient till the last.

Romans, countrymen, and lovers ! hear me for my cause ;
and bo silent, that you may hear: believe me for mine
honour; and have respect to mine honour, 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 C/oesar was no less than. his. If, then, that
friend demand why Brutus rose against Ceesar, this is my
answer, — not that I loved Ceesar less, but that I love Rome
more. Had you rather Ceesar were living, and die all slaves j
than that Ceesar were dead, to live all free men ? As Ceesar
loved me, I weep for him ; as he was fortunate, I rejoice at
it I as he was valiant, I honour him ; but, as he was ambi-
tious, I slew him : there are tears for his love ; joy for his
fortune ; honour for his valour ; and death for his ambition.
Who is here so base, that would be a bondman ? If any,
speak; for him have I offended. Who is here so rude,
that would not be a Roman ? If any, speak ; for him have
I oflfended. Who is here so vile, that will not love his coun-
try? If any, speak ; for him have I offended. I pause for a
reply.

Citizens. None, Brutus, none.

Bru. Then none have I offended. I have done no more
to Ceesar, than you shall do to Brutus. The question of his
death is enrolled in the Capitol ; his glory not extenuated,

392

SBLBOTIONS FROM SHAKSPEAKfl.

wherein he was worthy ; nor his oflfencea enforced, for
which he suffered death.

Enter Antony and others with Cesar's body.

Here comes his body, mourned by Mark Antony : who
though he had no hand in his death, shall receive the
benefit of his dying, a place in the commonwealth : as which
of you shall not? With this I depart, — that as I slew my
best lover for the good of Rome, I have the same dagger for
myself, when it shall please my country to need my death.

Citizens. Live^ Brutus ! live, live !

1 at. Bring him with triumph home unto his house.

2 at. Give him a statue with his ancestors.

3 at. Let him be Csesar.

4 at.

Shall be crown'd in Brutus.
1 at. We'll bring him to
My countrymen. —

Ceesar's better parts

his house with shouts and
Bru. My countrymen. — [clamours.

2 at. Peace, silence ! Brutus speaks.
1 at. Peace, ho !

Bru. Good countrymen, let me depart alone,
And, for my sake, stay here with Antony :
Do grace to Ceesar'p corse, and grace his speech
Tending to Ceesar's glories; which Mark Antony,
By our permission, is allowed to make.
I do entreat you, not a man depart,
Save I alone, till Antony have spoke. [ Iixit.

1 at. Stay, ho 1 and let us hear Mark Antony.

3 at. Let him go up into the public chair j
We'll hear him. Noble Antony, go up.

Ant. For Brutus' sake, I am beholden to you.

[ Goes up.

4 at. What does he say of Brutus?

3 at He says, for Brutus' sake.
He finds himself beholden to us all.

4 at. 'Twere best he speak no harm of Brutus here.

1 at. This Ceesar was a tyrant.
3 at. Nay, that's certain :

We are blessed that Rome is rid of him.

2 at. Peace 1 let us hear what Antony can say.
Ant. You gentle Romans. —

atizens. Peace, ho ! let us hear him.

Ant. Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears j
I come to bury Ceesar, not to praise him.
The evil that men do lives after them j
The good is oft interred with their bones ]

JULIUS OJISAR.

393

So let it be with Ceesar. The noble Brutus

Hath told you Ceesar was ambitious ;

If it were so, it was a grievous fault ;

And grievously hath Ceesar answered it.

Here under leave of Brutus and the rest,

(1 or Brutus is an honourable man ;

So are they all, all honourable men.)

Come I to speak in Ceesar' s funeral.

He was my friend, faithful and just to me ;

But Brutus says he was ambitious ;

And Brutus is an honorable man.

He hath brought many captives home to Rome,

Whose ransoms did the general coflfers fill :

Did this in Csesar seem ambitious ?

When that the poor have cried, Ceesar hath wept :

Ambition should bo made of sterner stuft":

Yet Brutus says he was ambitious ;

And Brutus is an honourable man.

You all did see that on the Lupercal

I thrice presented him a kingly crown,

Which he did thrice refuse : was this ambition ?

Yet Brutus says he was ambitious ;

And, sure, he is an honourable man.

I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke,

But here I am to speak what I do know.

You all did love him once, not without cause :

What cause witholdsyou, then, to mourn for him?

judgment thou art fled to brutish beasts,
And men have lost their reason 1 — Bear with me j
My heart is in the coffin there with .Ceesar,

And I must pause till it come back to me.

1 at. Methinks there is much reason in his sayings.

2 Cii. If thou consider rightly of the matter,
Ceesar has had great wrong.

3 at. Has he, masters ?

1 fear there will a worse come in his place.

4 Git. Mark'd ye his words? He would not take the

crown J
Therefore 'tis certain he was not ambitious.

1 at. If it be found so, some will dear abide it.

2 at. Poor soul I hia eyes are red as fire with weeping.

3 at. There's not a nobler man in Rome than Antony.

4 at. Now mark him, he begins again to speak.
Ant. But yesterday, the word of Cassar might

Have stood against the world : now, lies he there,

394

•BLBOnONA fBOM BHUEgPSARB.

And none so poor to do him reverence.

mastera I if I were disposed to stir
Your hearts and minds to mutiny and rage,

1 should do Brutus wrong, and Cassius wrong.
Who, you all know, are honourable men j

I will not do them wrong 5 I rather choose

To wrong the dead, to wrong myself, and you,

Than I will wrong such honourable men.

But here's a parchment with the seal of Ceesar, —

I found in his closet ; 'tis his will :

Let but i;he commons hear this testament,

(Which, pardon me, I do not mean to read,)

And they would go and kiss dead Ceesar's wounds.

And dip their napkins in his sacred blood ;

Yea, beg a hair of him for memory.

And, dying, mention it within their wills,

Bequeathing it, as a rich legacy,

Unto their issue.

4 at. We'll hear the will : read it, Mark Antony.

Citizens. The will, the will I we will hear Ceesar' s will.

Ant. Have patience, gentle friends, I must not read it ;
It is not meet you know how Ceesar loved you.
You are not wood, you are not stones, but men ;
And, being men, hearing the will of Ceesar,
It will inflame you, it will make you mad I
'Tis g.jod you know not that you are his heirs ;
For if you should, O what would come of it !

4 at. Read the will-, we'll hear it, Antony ;
You shall read us the will; Ceesar' s will.

Ant. Will you be patient? Will you stay awhile?
I have o'ershot myself to tell you of it:
I fear I wrong the honourable men.
Whose daggers have stabb'd Ceesar ; I do fear it.

4 Cit. They were traitors ; honourable men I

Citizens. The will I the testament I

2 Cit. They were villains, murderers : the will 1 read
the will.

Ant. You will compel me, then, to read the will ?
Then make a ring about the corse of Ceesar,
And let me show you him that made the will.
Shall Fdescend ?;and will you give me leave 7

Citizens. Come down.

2 Cit. Descend. [Antony comes down.

3 Cit. You shall have leave.

4 Cit. A ring } stand round.

JVLlVa OJBSAB.

395

read

)um.

1 Oit Stand from the hearse, stand from the body.

2 Cit. Eoom for Antony, most noble Antony I
Ant. Nay, press not so upon me; stand far off.
Citizens. Stand back ! room ! bear back I

Ant. If you have tears, prepare to shed them now.
You all do know this mantle : I remember
The first time ever Caesar put it on ;
'Twas on a summer's evening, in his tent,
That day he overcame the Nervii : —
Look in this place, ran Cassius dagger through :
See what a rent the envious Casca made :
Through this the well beloved Brutus stabb'd
And. as he pluck' d his cursed steel away,
Mark how the blood of Csesar follow' 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 you gods, how dearly Caesar lov'd him I
This was the unkindest cut of all ;
For when the noble Caesar saw him stab,
Ingratitude, more strong then traitors' arms.
Quite vanquish'd him : then burst his mighty heart
And, in his mantle muf&ing up his face,
Even at the base of Pompey's statue,
Which all the while ran blood, great Caesar fell .
O, what a fall was there, my countrymen !
Then 1, and you, and all of us fell down,
Whilst bloody treason flourish'd over us.
O, now you weep ; and, I perceive, you feel
The dint of pity : these are gracious drops.
Kind souls, what, weep you when you but behold
Our Caesar's vesture wounded ? Look you here.
Here is himself, marr'd as you see, with traitors.

1 Cit. O piteous spectacle I

2 Cit. O noble Caesar 1

3 Cit. O woful day I

4 Cit. O traitors, villains!

1 Cit. O most bloody sight !

2 Cit. We will be revenged : revenge, — about, — seek, —
burn, — fire,— kill, — slay, — let not a traitor Uve.

Ant. Stay, countrymen.

1 Cit. Peace there ! hear the noble Antony.

2 Cit. We'll hear him, we'll follow him, we'll die with him.
Ant. Qood friends, sweet friends, let me not atir you up

To such a Budden flood of mutiny.

396

■ILKCTIONt FROM SHiJ:iPBl.BB .

They that have done this deed are honourable ;

What private griefs they have, alas, I know not,

That made them do it I they are wise and honourable,

And will no doubt, with' reasons answer you.

I come not, friends, to steal away your hearts :

I am nr» orator, as Brutus is;

But, as you know me all, a plain blunt man,

That love my friend ; and that they know full well

That gave me public leave to speak of him :

For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth,

Action, por atterance, nor the power of speech.

Tot ^ I. ' . blood: I only speak right on :

I tell yo 'it rhich you yourselves do know ;

Show your sweet Caesar's wounds, poor, poor dumb mouths.

And bi/J them spfi.ik for me ; but were I Brutus,

And Bi'uous, *nto : . there were an Antony

Would ruflBe up yot- sp' its, and put a tongue '

In every wound of Cwsar, that should move

The stones of Rome to rise and mutiny.

INDEX.

iS,

PBACTICAL HINTS TO READERS.

PAOB.

Tables of Elementary Sounds vi,yii

Grouping ix

Accent and Emphasis xi

The Slur xviii

Management of the Breath xiz

Intonation zz

Faults of Readers zzii

MISCELLANEOUS READINGS IN PROSE.

The Great Plague in London Dqfoe .. - 1

A Happy Family Steele 4

The Story of the " Spectator " Macaulay 6

Sir Roger De Coverley. Addison 8

Partridge at the Playhouse Fielding 18

Boswell's Picture of Goldsmith BosvoeU 21

LeYaillant's Monkey Lt Vaillant 24

Blood's attempt tosteal the Crown Bayley 28

Rural Life in England Irving S3

Popular Superstitions lh\d 88

The Frigate among the Shoals Cooper 42

Battle of Chalgroye Macaulay 51

Death of Chatham Ibid 68

Pelham, Duke of Newcastle Ibid 66

Society in the Reign uf Queen Aime — Thackeray 69

English Customs in the Reign of Goo. l\ .Ibid 68

In Memoriam of Thackeray Dickem 66

398

IKDBZ.

BXADiNOB iir FKOBX— OonfintMd.

PAOB.

A Scene in the last French Revolution. . Kinglake 70

Alone in the Desert Ibid 76

The Thin Bed Line Ibid 82

A Spanish Bull Fight Disraeli 87

Tom Brown goes to School Hughet 80

Tom Brown at School Ibid M

TheBoatBaoe Ibid 99

Burial of Little Nell Diokem 106

Our Dogs John Brown, M. D 110

READINGS IN POETRY.

The Schoolmistress... Shenstone 119

The Idiot Boy Anon 121

Capys rrophesies to Romulus the J mv,-^,,;,,,, loq

i^uture Greatness of Rome J ^act^^^V 123

Edinburgh after Flodden Aytoun 126

Farrhasius Willis 180

Soliloquy of the Dying Alchemist Ibid 132.

MaudMuller WMttier 135

\'Jm*GYen^'[°".*.^!.*^^.^!'°'?.??T 139

141

146

150

151

165

167

160

166

167

170

174

177

178

183

186

188

191

Father Roach i Lover

Morte D'Arthur Tennyson. . .

The Death of the Old Year Ibid

Dora Ibid

The Grandmother Ibid

Enoch Arden's Return Ibid

The Red Fisherman Praed

The Pauper's Drive Noel

Rupert's March ThortU^ury . .

Dick o' the Diamond Ibid

The Vagabonds Trowbridge.

Malzah Heavysege...

Willie the Miner Murray ....

The Old Fisherman's Prayer Ingelow ....

The Water-Cress Qirl Sewell.

Liz Buchanan . .

WiUleBaird Ibid

UIDBX.

299

lOB.

70
76
82
87
90
94t

. 99
106

, 110

126
180
132^
13b

139

141

146
150
151
165
157
160
166
167
170
174
177
1178
1182
185
188
191

HUMOBOUS BECITATI0N8.

PAOB.

The Buffoon and tbo Country Fellow.. . Photdru* 196

The Pond Dyrom 197

The Plague in the Forest Adama 200

A Sailor's Apology for Bow Legs Hood 208

The Fall Ibid .. 205

Faithless Sally Brown Ibid 206

Evening— By a Tailor Holmes 208^

The Deacon's Masterpiece ^.Ibid 210

ASeaDlalogue Ibid 218

The Duoking-Stool Dix 214

The Declaration Willis 216

Phaethon; or the Amateur Coachman.. <Siaa;0 217

The Quaker's Meeting Lover 219

With Musical Society w, Leigh 221

The Critic Sargent 222

'I he Pied Piper of Hamelin Brouming 224

The Sailor's Consolation Pitt 281

The Owl and the Bell Macdonald 282

DIALOGUES AND DRAMATIC SCENES.

From Miles Gloriosus Plautus 284

From Every Man in his Humour Johnson 286

The Nightingale and Lu^ Ford 288

The Recruiting Officer FarquTtar 240

From The Good Natured Man Goldsmith 246

From She Stoops to Conquer Ibid

From The Rivals Sheridan.. . ,

From The School for Scandal Ibid

From The Critic Ibid

From The Country Apothecary Coleman

The Weathercock

From Ion Talfourd. . . .

From Catiline Croly

Troubles of Nervousness Bernard

From The Heir at Law Coleman . . .

From The BightfUl Heir Lord LytUm.

251

260
271
276
280
283
287
295
800
305
809

400 1N09Z.

DIALOGUES AND DRAMATIC SCENES.— Cbnfiiiued.

From Money LordLytton.

From Not bo Bad as Wo Seem Ibid

There's Nothing in it Mathevs

From London Assurance Boucicault.. .

PAOK.

... 812

816
819
821

SELECTIONS FROM SHAESrEABE.

From The Two Gentlemen ot Verona 326

From Measure for Measure 827

From Much Ado about Nothing. . ; , 331

From Midsummer Night's Dream 345

From The Merchant of Venice 3i8

From As You Like It 352

From King John King If Hubert 356

From do Hubert ^ Arthxtr iB58

From do .'Xing' ^ Hubert 362

From The Taming of tlie Slirew. . . .36^

From First Part of Henry IV Hotspur ^ Lady Percy 368

From do do Falstaff ^ Prince 371

From do do Falstc^ff'sragged regiment.... 374

From Second Part of Henry IV Falttajf recruiting 876

From HiBnry V 880

From Henry VI 384

From Richard III 385

From Henry VIII i. ... 887

From Julius Caesar 891

PAOE.
812

816

819

821

32G

.... 827

831

345

... 318

352

356

i358

362

..... 36^

368

371

nt.... 374

876

880

884

886

.\.... 387
891