Macmillan's Reading Books. Book V
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Title: Macmillan's Reading Books. Book V
Author: Anonymous
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MACMILLAN'S READING BOOKS. BOOK V ***
MACMILLAN'S
READING BOOKS.
Book V.
STANDARD V.
ENGLISH CODE.
_For Ordinary Pass_.
Improved reading, and recitation of not less than seventy-five lines of
poetry.
N.B.--The passages for recitation may be taken from one or more standard
authors, previously approved by the Inspector. Meaning and allusions to
be known, and, if well known, to atone for deficiencies of memory.
_For Special Grant (Art. 19, C. 1)._
Parsing, with analysis of a "simple" sentence.
SCOTCH CODE.
_For Ordinary Pass_.
Reading, with expression, a short passage of prose or of poetry, with
explanation, grammar, and elementary analysis of simple sentences.
Specific Subject--English literature and language, 2nd year. (_Art. 21
and Schedule IV., Scotch Code._)
Three hundred lines of poetry, not before brought up, repeated; with
knowledge of meaning and allusions, and of the derivations of words.
PREFACE TO BOOK V.
This seems a fitting place in which to explain the general aim of
this series of Reading Books. Primarily, it is intended to provide a
systematic course for use in schools which are under State inspection;
and, with this view, each Book in the series, after the Primer, is drawn
up so as to meet the requirements, as set forth in the English and
Scotch codes issued by the Committees of Council on Education, of the
Standard to which it corresponds.
This special adaptation will not, it is hoped, render the series less
useful in other schools. The graduated arrangement of the books,
although, perhaps, one to which every teacher may not choose to conform,
may yet serve as a test by which to compare the attainments of the
pupils in any particular school with those which, according to the
codes, may be taken as the average expected from the pupils in schools
where the Standard examination is, necessarily, enforced.
The general character of the series is literary, and not technical.
Scientific extracts have been avoided. The teaching of special subjects
is separately recognised by the codes, and provided for by the numerous
special handbooks which have been published. The separation of the
reading class from such teaching will prove a gain to both. The former
must aim chiefly at giving to the pupils the power of accurate, and,
if possible, apt and skilful expression; at cultivating in them a good
literary taste, and at arousing a desire of further reading. All
this, it is believed, can best be done where no special or technical
information has to be extracted from the passages read.
In the earlier Books the subject, the language, and the moral are all
as direct and simple as possible. As they advance, the language becomes
rather more intricate, because a studied simplicity, when detected
by the pupil, repels rather than attracts him. The subjects are more
miscellaneous; but still, as far as possible, kept to those which can
appeal to the minds of scholars of eleven or twelve years of age,
without either calling for, or encouraging, precocity. In Books II.,
III., and IV., a few old ballads and other pieces have been purposely
introduced; as nothing so readily expands the mind and lifts it out of
habitual and sluggish modes of thought, as forcing upon the attention
the expressions and the thoughts of an entirely different time.
The last, or Sixth Book, may be thought too advanced for its purpose.
But, in the first place, many of the pieces given in it, though selected
for their special excellence, do not involve any special difficulties;
and, in the second place, it will be seen that the requirements of the
English Code of 1875 in the Sixth Standard really correspond in some
degree to those of the special subject of English literature, formerly
recognised by the English, and still recognised by the Scotch Code.
Besides this, the Sixth Book is intended to supply the needs of pupil
teachers and of higher classes; and to be of interest enough to be read
by the scholar out of school-hours, perhaps even after school is done
with altogether. To such it may supply the bare outlines of English
literature; and may, at least, introduce them to the best English
authors. The aim of all the extracts in the book may not be fully
caught, as their beauty certainly cannot be fully appreciated, by
youths; but they may, at least, serve the purpose of all education--that
of stimulating the pupil to know more.
The editor has to return his thanks for the kindness by which certain
extracts have been placed at his disposal by the following authors
and publishers:--Mr. Ruskin and Mr. William Allingham; Mr. Nimmo (for
extract from Hugh Miller's works); Mr. Nelson (for poems by Mr. and Mrs.
Howitt); Messrs. Edmonston and Douglas (for extract from Dasent's "Tales
from the Norse"); Messrs. Chapman and Hall (for extracts from the works
of Charles Dickens and Mr. Carlyle); Messrs. Longmans, Green, and Co.
(for extracts from the works of Macaulay and Mr. Froude); Messrs.
Routledge and Co. (for extracts from Miss Martineau's works); Mr. Murray
(for extracts from the works of Dean Stanley); and many others.
BOOK V.
CONTENTS.
_Prose._
PREFACE
INTRODUCTION
INCIDENT IN THE LIFE OF DR. JOHNSON _Warner's Tour in the Northern
Counties._
THE OLD PHILOSOPHER AND THE YOUNG LADY _Jane Taylor_
BARBARA S---- _Charles Lamb_
DR. ARNOLD _Tom Brown's School Days_
BOYHOOD'S WORK [ditto]
WORK IN THE WORLD [ditto]
CASTLES IN THE AIR _Addison_
THE DEATH OF NELSON _Southey_
LEARNING TO RIDE _T. Hughes_
MOSES AT THE FAIR _Goldsmith_
WHANG THE MILLER [ditto]
AN ESCAPE _Defoe's Robinson Crusoe_
NECESSITY THE MOTHER OF INVENTION [ditto]
LABRADOR _Southey's Omniana_
GROWTH OF EUROPEAN CIVILIZATION IN THE TWELFTH CENTURY _Robertson_
A WHALE HUNT _Scott_
A SHIPWRECK _Charles Kingsley_
THE BLACK PRINCE _Dean Stanley_
THE ASSEMBLY OF URI _E.A. Freeman_
MY WINTER GARDEN _Charles Kingsley_
ASPECTS OF NORTHERN AND SOUTHERN COUNTRIES _John Ruskin_
COLUMBUS IN SIGHT OF LAND _Washington Irving_
COLUMBUS SHIPWRECKED [ditto]
ROBBED IN THE DESERT _Mungo Park_
ARISTIDES _Plutarch's Lives_
THE VENERABLE BEDE _J.R. Green_
THE DEATH OF ANSELM _Dean Church_
THE MURDER OF BECKET _Dean Stanley_
THE DEATH OF ELIZABETH _J.R. Green_
THE BATTLE OF NASEBY _Defoe_
THE PILGRIMS AND GIANT DESPAIR _Bunyan_
A HARD WINTER _Rev. Gilbert White_
A PORTENTOUS SUMMER [ditto]
A THUNDERSTORM [ditto]
CHARACTER OF SIR WALTER SCOTT _J. Lockhart_
MUMPS'S HALL _Scott_
THE PORTEOUS MOB [ditto]
THE PORTEOUS MOB (_continued_) [ditto]
JOSIAH WEDGWOOD _Speech by Mr. Gladstone_
THE CRIMEAN WAR _Speech by Mr. Disraeli_
NATIONAL MORALITY _Speech by Mr. Bright_
THE PLEASURES OF A LIFE OF LABOUR _Hugh Miller_
THE FLIGHT OF BIRDS _Rev. Gilbert White_
THE BATTLE OF CORUNNA _Napier_
BATTLE OF ALBUERA _Napier_
CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE AT BALAKLAVA _The "Times" Correspondent
AFRICAN HOSPITALITY _Mungo Park_
ACROSS THE DESERT OF NUBIA _Bruce's Travels_
A SHIPWRECK ON THE ARABIAN COAST _W.G. Palgrave_
AN ARABIAN TOWN _W.G. Palgrave_
THE QUEST OF THE HOLY GRAIL _Sir Thomas Malory_
VISIT TO SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY'S COUNTRY SEAT _Addison_
THE DEAD ASS _Sterne_
_Poetry_.
THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH _H.W. Longfellow_
MEN OF ENGLAND _Campbell_
A BALLAD _Goldsmith_
MARTYRS _Cowper_
A PSALM OF LIFE _H.W. Longfellow_
THE ANT AND THE CATERPILLAR _Cunningham_
REPORT OF AN ADJUDGED CASE _Couper_
THE INCHCAPE BELL _Southey_
BATTLE OF THE BALME _Campbell_
LOCHINVAR _Scott_
THE CHAMELEON _Merrick_
A WISH _Pope_
A SEA SONG _Cunningham_
ON THE LOSS OF THE 'ROYAL GEORGE' _Cowper_
RULE BRITANNIA _Thomson_
WATERLOO _Byron_
IVRY _Macaulay_
ANCIENT GREECE _Byron_
THE TEMPLE OF FAME _Pope_
A HAPPY LIFE _Sir Henry Wotton_
MAN'S SERVANTS _George Herbert_
VIRTUE _George Herbert_
DEATH THE CONQUEROR _James Shirley_
THE PASSIONS _Collins_
THE VISION OF BELSHAZZAR _Byron_
YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND _Campbell_
A SHIPWRECK _Byron_
THE HAPPY WARRIOR _Wordsworth_
LIBERTY _Cowper_
THE TROSACHS _Scott_
LOCHIEL'S WARNING _Campbell_
REST FROM BATTLE _Pope_
THE SAXON AND THE GAEL _Scott_
THE SAXON AND THE GAEL _(continued)_ _Scott_
THE WINTER EVENING _Cowper_
MAZEPPA _Byron_
HYMN TO DIANA _Ben Jonson_
L'ALLEGRO _Milton_
THE VILLAGE _Goldsmith_
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE _Shakespeare_
IL PENSEROSO _Milton_
COURTESY _Spenser_
NOTES
BOOK V.
INTRODUCTION.
Throughout this book, and the next, you will find passages taken from
the writings of the best English authors. But the passages are not all
equal, nor are they all such as we would call "the best," and the more
you read and are able to judge them for yourselves, the better you will
be able to see what is the difference between the best and those that
are not so good.
By the best authors are meant those who have written most skilfully
in prose and verse. Some of these have written in prose, because they
wished to tell us something more fully and freely than they could do if
they tied themselves to lines of an equal number of syllables, or ending
with the same sound, as men do when they write poetry. Others have
written in verse, because they wished rather to make us think over
and over again about the same thing, and, by doing so, to teach
us, gradually, how much we could learn from one thing; if we think
sufficiently long and carefully about it; and, besides this, they knew
that rhythmical or musical language would keep longest in our memory
anything which they wished to remain there; and by being stored up in
our mind, would enrich us in all our lives after.
In these books you will find pieces taken from authors both in prose and
verse. But of the authors who have made themselves famous by the books
which they have written in our language, many had to be set aside.
Because many writers, though their books are famous, have written so
long ago, that the language which they use, though it is really the same
language as our own, is yet so old-fashioned that it is not readily
understood. By and by, when you are older, you may read these books, and
find it interesting to notice how the language is gradually changing; so
that, though we can easily understand what our grandfathers or our great
grandfathers wrote, yet we cannot understand, without carefully studying
it, what was written by our own ancestors a thousand, or even five
hundred, years ago.
The first thing, however, that you have to do--and, perhaps, this book
may help you to do it--is to learn what is the best way of writing or
speaking our own language of the present day. You cannot learn this
better than by reading and remembering what has been written by men,
who, because they were very great, or because they laboured very hard,
have obtained a great command over the language. When we speak of
obtaining a command over language we mean that they have been able to
say, in simple, plain words, exactly what they mean. This is not so easy
a matter as you may at first think it to be. Those who write well do not
use roundabout ways of saying a thing, or they might weary us; they
do not use words or expressions which might mean one or other of two
things, or they might confuse us; they do not use bombastic language, or
language which is like a vulgar and too gaudy dress, or they might make
us laugh at them; they do not use exaggerated language, or, worse than
all, they might deceive us. If you look at many books which are written
at the present day, or at many of the newspapers which appear every
morning, you will find that those who write them often forget these
rules; and after we have read for a short time what they have written,
we are doubtful about what they mean, and only sure that they are trying
to attract foolish people, who like bombastic language as they like too
gaudy dress, and are caring little whether what they write is strictly
true or not.
It is, therefore, very important that you should take as your examples
those who have written very well and very carefully, and who have been
afraid lest by any idle or careless expression they might either lead
people to lose sight of what is true, or might injure our language,
which has grown up so slowly, which is so dear to us, and the beauty of
which we might, nevertheless, so easily throw away.
As you read specimens of what these authors have written, you will find
that they excel chiefly in the following ways:
First. They tell us just what they mean; neither more nor less.
Secondly. They never leave us doubtful as to anything we ought to know
in order to understand them. If they tell us a story, they make us feel
as if we saw all that they tell us, actually taking place.
Thirdly. They are very careful never to use a word unless it is
necessary; never to think a word so worthless a thing that it can be
dragged in only because it sounds well.
Fourthly. When they rouse our feelings, they do so, not that they may
merely excite or amuse us, but that they may make us sympathise more
fully with what they have to tell.
In these matters they are mostly alike; but in other matters you will
find that they differ from each other greatly. Our language has come
from two sources. One of these is the English language as talked by our
remote ancestors, the other is the Latin language, which came to us
through French, and from which we borrowed a great deal when our
language was getting into the form it now has. Many of our words and
expressions, therefore, are Old English, while others are borrowed from
Latin. Some authors prefer to use, where they can, old English words and
expressions, which are shorter, plainer, and more direct; others prefer
the Latin words, which are more ornamental and elaborate, and perhaps
fit for explaining what is obscure, and for showing us the difference
between things that are very like. This is one great contrast; and there
are others which you will see for yourselves as you go on. And while
you notice carefully what is good in each, you should be careful not to
imitate too exactly the peculiarities, which may be the faults, in any
one.
* * * * *
INCIDENT IN THE LIFE OF DR. JOHNSON.
During the last visit Dr. Johnson paid to Lichfield, the friends with
whom he was staying missed him one morning at the breakfast-table. On
inquiring after him of the servants, they understood he had set off from
Lichfield at a very early hour, without mentioning to any of the
family whither he was going. The day passed without the return of the
illustrious guest, and the party began to be very uneasy on his account,
when, just before the supper-hour, the door opened, and the doctor
stalked into the room. A solemn silence of a few minutes ensued, nobody
daring to inquire the cause of his absence, which was at last
relieved by Johnson addressing the lady of the house in the following
manner:--"Madam, I beg your pardon for the abruptness of my departure
from your house this morning, but I was constrained to it by my
conscience. Fifty years ago, madam, on this day, I committed a breach of
filial piety, which has ever since lain heavy on my mind, and has
not till this day been expiated. My father, as you recollect, was a
bookseller, and had long been in the habit of attending Lichfield
market, and opening a stall for the sale of his books during that day.
Confined to his bed by indisposition, he requested me, this time fifty
years ago, to visit the market, and attend the stall in his place. But,
madam, my pride prevented me from doing my duty, and I gave my father a
refusal. To do away the sin of this disobedience, I this day went in a
post-chaise to Lichfield, and going into the market at the time of high
business, uncovered my head, and stood with it bare an hour before the
stall which my father had formerly used, exposed to the sneers of the
standers-by and the inclemency of the weather--a penance by which I
hope I have propitiated Heaven for this only instance, I believe, of
contumacy towards my father."
Warner's _Tour in the Northern
Counties_.
[Notes: _Dr. Samuel Johnson_, born 1709, died 1784 By hard and unaided
toil he won his way to the front rank among the literary men of his day.
He deserves the honour of having been the first to free literature from
the thraldom of patronage.
_Filial piety_. Piety is used here not in a religious sense, but in its
stricter sense of dutifulness. In Virgil "the Pious Aneas" means "Aneas
who showed dutifulness to his father."]
* * * * *
THE OLD PHILOSOPHER AND THE YOUNG LADY.
"Alas!" exclaimed a silver-headed sage, "how narrow is the
utmost extent of human knowledge! I have spent my life in acquiring
knowledge, but how little do I know! The farther I attempt to penetrate
the secrets of nature, the more I am bewildered and benighted. Beyond
a certain limit all is but conjecture: so that the advantage of the
learned over the ignorant consists greatly in having ascertained how
little is to be known.
"It is true that I can measure the sun, and compute the distances of the
planets; I can calculate their periodical movements, and even ascertain
the laws by which they perform their sublime revolutions; but with
regard to their construction, to the beings which inhabit them, their
condition and circumstances, what do I know more than the clown?--
Delighting to examine the economy of nature in our own world, I have
analyzed the elements, and given names to their component parts. And
yet, should I not be as much at a loss to explain the burning of fire,
or to account for the liquid quality of water, as the vulgar, who use
and enjoy them without thought or examination?--I remark, that all
bodies, unsupported, fall to the ground, and I am taught to account for
this by the law of gravitation. But what have I gained here more than
a term? Does it convey to my mind any idea of the nature of that
mysterious and invisible chain which draws all things to a common
centre?--Pursuing the track of the naturalist, I have learned to
distinguish the animal, the vegetable, and the mineral kingdoms, and to
divide these into their distinct tribes and families;--but can I
tell, after all this toil, whence a single blade of grass derives its
vitality?--Could the most minute researches enable me to discover the
exquisite pencil that paints the flower of the field? and have I ever
detected the secret that gives their brilliant dye to the ruby and the
emerald, or the art that enamels the delicate shell?--I observe the
sagacity of animals--I call it instinct, and speculate upon its various
degrees of approximation to the reason of man; but, after all, I know as
little of the cogitations of the brute as he does of mine. When I see a
flight of birds overhead, performing their evolutions, or steering
their course to some distant settlement, their signals and cries are
as unintelligible to me as are the learned languages to an unlettered
mechanic: I understand as little of their policy and laws as they do of
'Blackstone's Commentaries.'
"Alas! then, what have I gained by my laborious researches but an
humbling conviction of my weakness and ignorance! Of how little has
man, at his best estate, to boast! What folly in him to glory in his
contracted powers, or to value himself upon his imperfect acquisitions!"
* * * * *
"Well!" exclaimed a young lady, just returned from school, "my education
is at last finished: indeed, it would be strange if, after five years'
hard application, anything were left incomplete. Happily, it is all over
now, and I have nothing to do but exercise my various accomplishments.
"Let me see!--as to French, I am mistress of that, and speak it, if
possible, with more fluency than English. Italian I can read with ease,
and pronounce very well, as well at least, and better, than any of my
friends; and that is all one need wish for in Italian. Music I have
learned till I am perfectly sick of it. But, now that we have a grand
piano, it will be delightful to play when we have company. And then
there are my Italian songs, which everybody allows I sing with taste,
and as it is what so few people can pretend to, I am particularly glad
that I can. My drawings are universally admired, especially the shells
and flowers, which are beautiful, certainly: besides this, I have a
decided taste in all kinds of fancy ornaments. And then, my dancing and
waltzing, in which our master himself owned that he could take me no
farther;--just the figure for it certainly! it would be unpardonable
if I did not excel. As to common things, geography, and history, and
poetry, and philosophy, thank my stars, I have got through them all! so
that I may consider myself not only perfectly accomplished, but also
thoroughly well informed.
"Well, to be sure, how much I have fagged through; the only wonder is
that one head can contain it all!"
JANE TAYLOR.
[Note: "_Blackstone's Commentaries_" The great standard work on
the theory and practice of the English law; written by Sir William
Blackstone (1723-1780).]
* * * * *
THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.
Under a spreading chestnut tree,
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.
His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns whate'er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.
Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.
And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing-floor.
He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach,
He hears his daughter's voice
Singing in the village choir,
And it makes his heart rejoice.
It sounds to him like her mother's voice,
Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.
Toiling,--rejoicing,--sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close;
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night's repose.
Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought!
H.W. LONGFLLLOW.
[Notes: _Henry Wadsworth Longfellow_, one of the foremost among
contemporary American poets. Born in 1807. His chief poems are
'Evangeline' and 'Hiawatha.'
_His face is like the tan. Tan_ is the bark of the oak, bruised and
broken for tanning leather.
_Thus at the flaming forge of life, &c._ = As iron is softened at
the forge and beaten into shape on the anvil, so by the trials and
circumstances of life, our thoughts and actions are influenced and our
characters and destinies decided. The metaphor is made more complicated
by being broken up.]
* * * * *
MEN OF ENGLAND.
Men of England! who inherit
Rights that cost your sires their blood!
Men whose undegenerate spirit
Has been proved on land and flood:
By the foes ye've fought uncounted,
By the glorious deeds ye've done,
Trophies captured--breaches mounted,
Navies conquer'd--kingdoms won!
Yet remember, England gathers
Hence but fruitless wreaths of fame,
If the virtues of your fathers
Glow not in your hearts the same.
What are monuments of bravery,
Where no public virtues bloom?
What avail in lands of slavery
Trophied temples, arch, and tomb?
Pageants!--let the world revere us
For our people's rights and laws,
And the breasts of civic heroes
Bared in Freedom's holy cause.
Yours are Hampden's Russell's glory,
Sydney's matchless shade is your,--
Martyrs in heroic story,
Worth a thousand Agincourts!
We're the sons of sires that baffled
Crown'd and mitred tyranny:
They defied the field and scaffold,
For their birthrights--so will we.
CAMPBELL.
[Notes: _Thomas Campbell_, born 1777, died 1844. Author of the
'Pleasures of Hope,' 'Gertrude of Wyoming,' and many lyrics. His poetry
is careful, scholarlike and polished. _Men whose undegenerate spirit,
&c._ In prose, this would run, "(Ye) men whose spirit has been proved
(to be) undegenerate," &c. The word "undegenerate," which is introduced
only as an epithet, is the real predicate of the sentence.
_By the foes ye've fought uncounted_. "Uncounted" agreeing with "foes."
_Fruitless wreaths of fame_. A poetical figure, taken from the wreaths
of laurel given as prizes in the ancient games of Greece. "Past history
will give fame to a country, but nothing more fruitful than fame, unless
its virtues are kept alive."
_Trophied temples, i.e.,_ Temples hung (after the fashion of the
ancients) with trophies.
_Arch, i.e_., the triumphal arch erected by the Romans in honour of
victorious generals.
_Pageants_ = "these are nought but pageants."
_And_ (for) _the beasts of civic heroes_. Civic heroes, those who have
striven for the rights of their fellow citizens.
_Hampden, i.e_., John Hampden (born 1594, died 1643), the maintainer
of the rights of the people in the reign of Charles I. He resisted the
imposition of ship-money, and died in a skirmish at Chalgrove during the
Civil War.
_Russell, i.e_., Lord William Russell, beheaded in 1683, in the reign
of Charles II. on a charge of treason. He had resisted the Court in its
aims at establishing the doctrine of passive obedience.
_Sydney, i.e.,_ Algernon Sydney. The friend of Russell, who met with the
same fate in the same year.
_Sydney's matchless shade_. Shade = spirit or memory.
_Agincourt_. The victory won by Henry V. in France, in 1415.
_Crown'd and mitred tyranny_. Explain this.]
* * * * *
BARBABA S----.
On the noon of the 14th of November, 1743, just as the clock had struck
one, Barbara S----, with her accustomed punctuality, ascended the long,
rabbling staircase, with awkward interposed landing-places, which led to
the office, or rather a sort of box with a desk in it, whereat sat the
then Treasurer of the Old Bath Theatre. All over the island it was the
custom, and remains so I believe to this day, for the players to receive
their weekly stipend on the Saturday. It was not much that Barbara had
to claim.
This little maid had just entered her eleventh year; but her important
station at the theatre, as it seemed to her, with the benefits which she
felt to accrue from her pious application of her small earnings, had
given an air of womanhood her steps and to her behaviour. You would have
taken her to have been at least five years older. Till latterly she had
merely been employed in choruses, or where children were wanted to fill
up the scene. But the manager, observing a diligence and adroitness in
her above her age, had for some few months past intrusted to her the
performance of whole parts. You may guess the self-consequence of the
promoted Barbara.
* * * * *
The parents of Barbara had been in reputable circumstances. The father
had practised, I believe, as an apothecary in the town. But his
practice, from causes for which he was himself to blame, or perhaps from
that pure infelicity which accompanies some people in their walk through
life, and which it is impossible to lay at the door of imprudence,
was now reduced to nothing. They were, in fact, in the very teeth of
starvation, when the manager, who knew and respected them in better
days, took the little Barbara into his company.
At the period I commenced with, her slender earnings were the sole
support of the family, including two younger sisters. I must throw
a veil over some mortifying circumstances. Enough to say, that her
Saturday's pittance was the only chance of a Sunday's meal of meat.
This was the little starved, meritorious maid, stood before old
Ravenscroft, the treasurer, for her Saturday's payment. Ravenscroft was
a man, I have heard many old theatrical people besides herself say, of
all men least calculated for a treasurer. He had no head for accounts,
paid away at random, kept scarce any books, and summing up at the week's
end, if he found himself a pound or so deficient, blest himself that it
was no more.
Now Barbara's weekly stipend was a bare half-guinea. By mistake he
popped into her hand a whole one.
Barbara tripped away.
She was entirely unconscious at first of the mistake: God knows,
Ravenscroft would never have discovered it.
But when she had got down to the first of those uncouth landing-places
she became sensible of an unusual weight of metal pressing her little
hand.
Now, mark the dilemma.
She was by nature a good child. From her parents and those about her she
had imbibed no contrary influence. But then they had taught her nothing.
Poor men's smoky cabins are not always porticoes of moral philosophy.
This little maid had no instinct to evil, but then she might be said
to have no fixed principle. She had heard honesty commended, but never
dreamed of its application to herself. She thought of it as something
which concerned grown-up people, men and women. She had never known
temptation, or thought of preparing resistance against it.
Her first impulse was to go back to the old treasurer, and explain to
him his blunder. He was already so confused with age, besides a natural
want of punctuality, that she would have had some difficulty in making
him understand it. She saw _that_ in an instant. And then it was such a
bit of money: and then the image of a larger allowance of butcher's meat
on their table next day came across her, till her little eyes glistened,
and her mouth moistened. But then Mr. Ravenscroft had always been
so good-natured, had stood her friend behind the scenes, and even
recommended her promotion to some of her little parts. But again the old
man was reputed to be worth a world of money. He was supposed to have
fifty pounds a year clear of the theatre. And then came staring upon her
the figures of her little stockingless and shoeless sisters. And when
she looked at her own neat white cotton stockings, which her situation
at the theatre had made it indispensable for her mother to provide for
her, with hard straining and pinching from the family stock, and thought
how glad she should be to cover their poor feet with the same, and how
then they could accompany her to rehearsals, which they had hitherto
been precluded from doing, by reason of their unfashionable attire,--in
these thoughts she reached the second landing-place--the second, I mean,
from the top--for there was still another left to traverse.
Now, virtue, support Barbara!
And that never-failing friend did step in; for at that moment a strength
not her own, I have heard her say, was revealed to her--a reason above
reasoning--and without her own agency, as it seemed (for she never felt
her feet to move), she found herself transported back to the individual
desk she had just quitted, and her hand in the old hand of Ravenscroft,
who in silence took back the refunded treasure, and who had been sitting
(good man) insensible to the lapse of minutes, which to her were anxious
ages; and from that moment a deep peace fell upon her heart, and she
knew the quality of honesty.
A year or two's unrepining application to her profession brightened up
the feet and the prospects of her little sisters, set the whole
family upon their legs again, and released her from the difficulty of
discussing moral dogmas upon a landing-place.
_Essays of Elia_, by CHARLES LAMB.
* * * * *
A BALLAD.
"Turn, gentle Hermit of the dale,
And guide my lonely way
To where yon taper cheers the vale
With hospitable ray.
"For here forlorn and lost I tread,
With fainting steps and slow,
Where wilds, immeasurably spread,
Seem lengthening as I go."
"Forbear, my son," the Hermit cries,
"To tempt the dangerous gloom;
For yonder faithless phantom flies
To lure thee to thy doom.
"Here to the houseless child of want
My door is open still;
And, though my portion is but scant,
I give it with good will.
"Then turn to-night, and freely share
Whate'er my cell bestows;
My rushy couch and frugal fare,
My blessing and repose.
"No flocks that range the valley free
To slaughter I condemn;
Taught by that Power that pities me,
I learn to pity them:
"But from the mountain's grassy side
A guiltless feast I bring;
A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied,
And water from the spring.
"Then, pilgrim turn; thy cares forego;
All earth-born cares are wrong:
Man wants but little here below,
Nor wants that little long."
Soft as the dew from heaven descends
His gentle accents fell:
The modest stranger lowly bends,
And follows to the cell.
Far in a wilderness obscure
The lonely mansion lay,
A refuge to the neighbouring poor,
And strangers led astray.
No stores beneath its humble thatch
Required a master's care;
The wicket, opening with a latch,
Received the harmless pair.
And now, when busy crowds retire
To take their evening rest,
The Hermit trimm'd his little fire,
And cheer'd his pensive guest;
And spread his vegetable store,
And gaily pressed, and smiled;
And, skill'd in legendary lore,
The lingering hours beguiled.
Around, in sympathetic mirth,
Its tricks the kitten tries,
The cricket chirrups on the hearth,
The crackling faggot flies.
But nothing could a charm impart
To soothe the stranger's woe;
For grief was heavy at his heart,
And tears began to flow.
His rising cares the Hermit spied,
With answering care oppress'd;
And, "Whence, unhappy youth," he cried,
"The sorrows of thy breast?"
"From better habitations spurn'd,
Reluctant dost thou rove?
Or grieve for friendship unreturn'd,
Or unregarded love?"
"Alas! the joys that fortune brings
Are trifling, and decay;
And those who prize the paltry things,
More trifling still are they."
"And what is friendship but a name,
A charm that lulls to sleep;
A shade that follows wealth or fame,
But leaves the wretch to weep?"
"And love is still an emptier sound,
The modern fair one's jest;
On earth unseen, or only found
To warm the turtle's nest."
"For shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush,
And spurn the sex," he said;
But while he spoke, a rising blush
His love-lorn guest betray'd.
Surprised he sees new beauties rise,
Swift mantling to the view;
Like colours o'er the morning skies,
As bright, as transient too.
The bashful look, the rising breast,
Alternate spread alarms:
The lovely stranger stands confess'd
A maid in all her charms.
And, "Ah! forgive a stranger rude--
A wretch forlorn," she cried;
"Whose feet unhallow'd thus intrude
Where Heaven and you reside."
"But let a maid thy pity share,
Whom love has taught to stray;
Who seeks for rest, but finds despair
Companion of her way."
"My father lived beside the Tyne,
A wealthy lord was he;
And all his wealth was mark'd as mine,
He had but only me."
"To win me from his tender arms
Unnumber'd suitors came,
Who praised me for imputed charms,
And felt, or feign'd, a flame."
"Each hour a mercenary crowd
With richest proffers strove:
Amongst the rest, young Edwin bow'd,
But never talk'd of love."
"In humble, simple habit clad,
No wealth nor power had he:
Wisdom and worth were all he had,
But these were all to me.
"And when, beside me in the dale,
He caroll'd lays of love,
His breath lent fragrance to the gale,
And music to the grove.
"The blossom opening to the day,
The dews of heaven refined,
Could nought of purity display
To emulate his mind.
"The dew, the blossom on the tree,
With charms inconstant shine:
Their charms were his, but, woe to me,
Their constancy was mine.
"For still I tried each fickle art,
Importunate and vain;
And, while his passion touch'd my heart,
I triumph'd in his pain:
"Till, quite dejected with my scorn,
He left me to my pride;
And sought a solitude forlorn,
In secret, where he died.
"But mine the sorrow, mine the fault,
And well my life shall pay:
I'll seek the solitude he sought,
And stretch me where he lay.
"And there, forlorn, despairing, hid,
I'll lay me down and die;
'Twas so for me that Edwin did,
And so for him will I."
"Forbid it, Heaven!" the Hermit cried,
And clasp'd her to his breast:
The wondering fair one turn'd to chide--
'Twas Edwin's self that press'd!
"Turn, Angelina, ever dear,
My charmer, turn to see
Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here,
Restored to love and thee.
"Thus let me hold thee to my heart,
And every care resign:
And shall we never, never part,
My life--my all that's mine?
"No, never from this hour to part,
We'll live and love so true,
The sigh that rends thy constant heart
Shall break thy Edwin's too."
GOLDSMITH.
[Notes: _Oliver Goldsmith_, poet and novelist. The friend and
contemporary of Johnson, Burke, and Reynolds. Born 1728, died 1774.
This poem is introduced into 'The Vicar of Wakefield,' and Goldsmith
there says of it, "It is at least free from the false taste of loading
the lines with epithets;" or as he puts it more fully "a string of
epithets that improve the sound without carrying on the sense."
"_Immeasurably spread_" = spread to an immeasurable length.
_No flocks that range the valleys free_. "Free" may be joined either
with flocks or with valley.
Note the position of the negative, "No flocks that range," &c. = I do
not condemn the flocks that range.
_Guiltless feast_. Because it does not involve the death of a
fellow-creature.
_Scrip_. A purse or wallet; a word of Teutonic origin.
Distinguish from scrip, a writing or certificate, from the Latin word
_scribo_, I write.
_Far in a wilderness obscure_. Obscure goes with mansion, not with
wilderness.
_And gaily pressed_ (him to eat).
_With answering care_, i.e., with sympathetic care.
_A charm that lulls to sleep_. Charm is here in its proper
sense: that of a thing pleasing to the fancy is derivative.
_A shade that follows wealth or fame_. A shade = a ghost or phantom.
_Swift mantling_, &c. Spreading quickly over, like a cloak or mantle.
_Where heaven and you reside_ = where you, whose only thoughts are of
Heaven, reside.
_Whom love has taught to stray_. This use of the word "taught" for
"made" or "forced," is taken from a Latin idiom, as in Virgil, "He
_teaches_ the woods to ring with the name of Amaryllis." It is stronger
than "made" or "forced," and implies, as here, that she had forgotten
all but the wandering life that is now hers.
_He had but only me_. But or only is redundant.
_To emulate his mind_ = to be equal to his mind in purity.
_Their constancy was mine_. This verse has often been accused of
violating sense; but, however artificial the expression may be, neither
the sense is obscure, nor the way of expressing it inaccurate. It
is evidently only another way of saying "in the little they had of
constancy they resembled me as they resembled him in their charms."]
* * * * *
DR. ARNOLD.
We listened, as all boys in their better moods will listen (ay, and men
too, for the matter of that), to a man whom we felt to be, with all his
heart and soul and strength, striving against whatever was mean and
unmanly and unrighteous in our little world. It was not the cold, clear
voice of one giving advice and warning from serene heights to those who
were struggling and sinning below, but the warm, living voice of one who
was fighting for us, and by our sides, and calling on us to help him and
ourselves and one another. And so, wearily and little by little, but
surely and steadily on the whole, was brought home to the young boy,
for the first time, the meaning of his life: that it was no fool's
or sluggard's paradise into which he had wandered by chance, but a
battle-field ordained from of old, where there are no spectators, but
the youngest must take his side, and the stakes are life and death. And
he who roused this consciousness in them showed them, at the same time,
by every word he spoke in the pulpit, and by his whole daily life,
how that battle was to be fought; and stood there before them, their
fellow-soldier and the captain of their band. The true sort of captain,
too, for a boy's army, one who had no misgivings, and gave no uncertain
word of command, and, let who would yield or make truce, would fight
the fight out (so every boy felt) to the last gasp and the last drop of
blood. Other sides of his character might take hold of and influence
boys here and there, but it was this thoroughness and undaunted courage
which more than anything else won his way to the hearts of the great
mass of those on whom he left his mark, and made them believe first in
him, and then in his Master.
It was this quality, above all others, which moved such boys as Tom
Brown, who had nothing whatever remarkable about him except excess of
boyishness; by which I mean animal life in its fullest measure; good
nature and honest impulses, hatred of injustice and meanness, and
thoughtlessness enough to sink a three-decker. And so, during the next
two years, in which it was more than doubtful whether he would get good
or evil from the school, and before any steady purpose or principle grew
up in him, whatever his week's sins and shortcomings might have been, he
hardly ever left the chapel on Sunday evenings without a serious resolve
to stand by and follow the doctor, and a feeling that it was only
cowardice (the incarnation of all other sins in such a boy's mind) which
hindered him from doing so with all his heart.
_Tom Brown's School Days_.
[Note: _Dr. Arnold_, the head-master of Rugby School, died 1842.
His life, which gives an account of the work done by him to promote
education, has been written by Dean Stanley.]
* * * * *
MARTYRS
Patriots have toil'd, and in their country's cause
Bled nobly; and their deeds, as they deserve,
Receive proud recompense. We give in charge
Their names to the sweet lyre. The Historic Muse,
Proud of the treasure, marches with it down
To latest times; and Sculpture, in her turn,
Gives bond in stone and ever-during brass
To guard them, and to immortalize her trust.
But fairer wreaths are due--though never paid--
To those who, posted at the shrine of Truth,
Have fallen in her defence. A patriot's blood,
Well spent in such a strife, may earn indeed,
And for a time ensure, to his loved land
The sweets of liberty and equal laws;
But martyrs struggle for a brighter prize,
And win it with more pain. Their blood is shed
In confirmation of the noblest claim,--
Our claim to feed upon immortal truth,
To walk with God, to be divinely free,
To soar and to anticipate the skies.--
Yet few remember them! They lived unknown,
Till persecution dragged them into fame,
And chased them up to Heaven. Their ashes flew--
No marble tells us whither. With their names
No bard embalms and sanctifies his song;
And History, so warm on meaner themes,
Is cold on this. She execrates indeed
The tyranny that doom'd them to the fire,
But gives the glorious sufferers little praise.
COWPER.
[Notes:_William Cowper_ (born 1731, died 1800), the author of 'The
Task,' 'Progress of Error,' 'Truth,' and many other poems; all marked by
the same pure thought and chaste language.
This poem is written in what is called "blank verse," i.e., verse in
which the lines do not rhyme, the rhythm depending on the measure of the
verse.
_To the sweet lyre_ = To the poet, whose lyre (or poetry) is to keep
their names alive.
_The Historic Muse_. The ancients held that there were nine Muses or
Goddesses who presided over the arts and sciences; and of these, one was
the Muse of History.
_Gives bond in stone, &c._ = Pledges herself. The pith of the phrase is
in its almost homely simplicity, the more striking in its contrast with
the classical allusions by which it is surrounded.
_Her trust_, i.e., what is trusted to her.
_To anticipate the skies_ = to ennoble our life and so approach that
higher life we hope for after death.
_Till persecution dragged them into fame_ = forced them by its cruelty
to become famous against their will.
_No marble tells us whither_. Because they have no tombstone and no
epitaph.]
* * * * *
A PSALM OF LIFE.
Tell me not in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.
Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
"Dust thou art, to dust returnest;"
Was not spoken of the soul.
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act that each to-morrow
Finds us farther than to-day.
Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still like muffled drums are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.
In the world's broad field of battle,
In the Bivouac of life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!
Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act--act in the living Present!
Heart within, and God o'erhead!
Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time;--
Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.
Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labour and to wait.
H.W. LONGFELLOW.
[Notes:_Art is long, and time is fleeting_. A translation from the
Latin, _Ars longa, vita brevis est._
The metaphor in the last two stanzas in this page is strangely mixed.
Footprints could hardly be seen by those sailing over the main.]
* * * * *
BOYHOOD'S WORK.
In no place in the world has individual character more weight than at
a public school. Remember this, I beseech you, all you boys who are
getting into the upper forms. Now is the time in all your lives,
probably, when you may have more wide influence for good or evil in the
society you live in than you ever can have again. Quit yourselves like
men, then; speak up, and strike out, if necessary, for whatsoever
is true, and manly, and lovely, and of good report; never try to be
popular, but only to do your duty, and help others to do theirs, and you
may leave the tone of feeling in the school higher than you found it,
and so be doing good, which no living soul can measure, to generations
of your countrymen yet unborn. For boys follow one another in herds like
sheep, for good or evil; they hate thinking, and have rarely any settled
principles. Every school, indeed, has its own traditionary standard of
right and wrong, which cannot be transgressed with impunity, marking
certain things as low and blackguard, and certain others as lawful and
right. This standard is ever varying, though it changes only slowly, and
little by little; and, subject only to such standard, it is the leading
boys for the time being who give the tone to all the rest, and make
the school either a noble institution for the training of Christian
Englishmen, or a place where a young boy will get more evil than he
would if he were turned out to make his way in London streets, or
anything between these two extremes.
* * * * *
WORK IN THE WORLD.
"I want to be at work in the world," said Tom, "and not dawdling away
three years at Oxford."
"What do you mean by 'at work in the world?'" said the master, pausing,
with his lips close to his saucerful of tea, and peering at Tom over it.
"Well, I mean real work; one's profession, whatever one will have really
to do, and make one's living by. I want to be doing some real good,
feeling that I am not only at play in the world," answered Tom, rather
puzzled to find out himself what he really did mean.
"You are mixing up two very different things in your head, I think,
Brown," said the master, putting down the empty saucer, "and you ought
to get clear about them. You talk of 'working to get your living,' and
'doing some real good in the world,' in the same breath. Now, you may be
getting a very good living in a profession, and yet doing no good at all
in the world, but quite the contrary, at the same time. Keep the latter
before you as your one object, and you will be right, whether you make
a living or not; but if you dwell on the other, you'll very likely drop
into mere money-making, and let the world take care of itself, for good
or evil. Don't be in a hurry about finding your work in the world for
yourself; you are not old enough to judge for yourself yet, but just
look about you in the place you find yourself in, and try to make things
a little better and honester there. You'll find plenty to keep your hand
in at Oxford, or wherever else you go. And don't be led away to think
this part of the world important, and that unimportant. Every corner of
the world is important. No man knows whether this part or that is most
so, but every man may do some honest work in his own corner."
_Tom Brown's School Days_.
* * * * *
THE ANT AND THE CATERPILLAR
As an ant, of his talents superiorly vain,
Was trotting, with consequence, over the plain,
A worm, in his progress remarkably slow,
Cried--"Bless your good worship wherever you go;
I hope your great mightiness won't take it ill,
I pay my respects with a hearty good-will."
With a look of contempt, and impertinent pride,
"Begone, you vile reptile," his antship replied;
"Go--go, and lament your contemptible state,
But first--look at me--see my limbs how complete;
I guide all my motions with freedom and ease,
Run backward and forward, and turn when I please;
Of nature (grown weary) you shocking essay!
I spurn you thus from me--crawl out of my way."
The reptile, insulted and vex'd to the soul,
Crept onwards, and hid himself close in his hole;
But nature, determined to end his distress,
Soon sent him abroad in a butterfly's dress.
Erelong the proud ant, as repassing the road,
(Fatigued from the harvest, and tugging his load),
The beau on a violet-bank he beheld,
Whose vesture, in glory, a monarch's excelled;
His plumage expanded--'twas rare to behold
So lovely a mixture of purple and gold.
The ant, quite amazed at a figure so gay,
Bow'd low with respect, and was trudging away.
"Stop, friend," says the butterfly; "don't be surprised,
I once was the reptile you spurn'd and despised;
But now I can mount, in the sunbeams I play,
While you must for ever drudge on in your way."
CUNNINGHAM.
[Note: _Of nature (grown weary) you shocking essay_ = you wretched
attempt (= essay) by nature, when she had grown weary.]
* * * * *
REPORT
OF AN ADJUDGED CASE, NOT TO BE FOUND IN
ANY OF THE BOOKS.
Between Nose and Eyes a strange contest arose.
The spectacles set them unhappily wrong;
The point in dispute was, as all the world knows,
To which the said spectacles ought to belong.
So Tongue was the lawyer, and argued the cause,
With a great deal of skill, and a wig full of learning,
While chief baron Ear sat to balance the laws,
So fam'd for his talent in nicely discerning.
In behalf of the Nose it will quickly appear,
And your lordship, he said, will undoubtedly find,
That the nose has had spectacles always in wear,
Which amounts to possession time out of mind.
Then holding the spectacles up to the court--
Your lordship observes they are made with a straddle,
As wide as the ridge of the nose is; in short,
Designed to sit close to it, just like a saddle.
Again, would your lordship a moment suppose
('Tis a case that has happen'd, and may be again)
That the visage or countenance had not a nose,
Pray who would, or who could, wear spectacles then?
On the whole it appears, and my argument shows,
With a reasoning the court will never condemn,
That the spectacles plainly were made for the Nose,
And the Nose was as plainly intended for them.
Then shifting his side as a lawyer knows how,
He pleaded again in behalf of the Eyes;
But what were his arguments few people know,
For the court did not think they were equally wise.
So his lordship decreed, with a grave, solemn tone,
Decisive and clear, without one _if_ or _but_--
That, whenever the Nose put his Spectacles on,
By daylight or candlelight--Eyes should be shut!
COWPER.
* * * * *
CASTLES IN THE AIR.
Alnaschar was a very idle fellow, that never would set his hand to any
business during his father's life. When his father died he left him to
the value of a hundred drachmas in Persian money. Alnaschar, in order
to make the best of it, laid it out in bottles, glasses, and the finest
earthenware. These he piled up in a large open basket; and, having made
choice of a very little shop, placed the basket at his feet, and leaned
his back upon the wall in expectation of customers. As he sat in this
posture, with his eyes upon the basket, he fell into a most amusing
train of thought, and was overheard by one of his neighbours, as he
talked to himself in the following manner:--"This basket," says he,
"cost me at the wholesale merchant's a hundred drachmas, which is all I
had in the world. I shall quickly make two hundred of it by selling it
in retail. These two hundred drachmas will in a very little while rise
to four hundred; which, of course, will amount in time to four thousand.
Four thousand drachmas cannot fail of making eight thousand. As soon as
by these means I am master of ten thousand, I will lay aside my trade of
a glass-man and turn jeweller. I shall then deal in diamonds, pearls,
and all sorts of rich stones. When I have got together as much wealth
as I can well desire, I will make a purchase of the finest house I can
find, with lands, slaves, and horses. I shall then begin to enjoy myself
and make a noise in the world. I will not, however, stop there; but
still continue my traffic until I have got together a hundred thousand
drachmas. When I have thus made myself master of a hundred thousand
drachmas, I shall naturally set myself on the footing of a prince,
and will demand the grand vizier's daughter in marriage, after having
represented to that minister the information which I have received of
the beauty, wit, discretion, and other high qualities which his daughter
possesses. I will let him know at the same time that it is my intention
to make him a present of a thousand pieces of gold on our marriage day.
As soon as I have married the grand vizier's daughter, I must make my
father-in-law a visit, with a great train and equipage. And when I am
placed at his right hand, which he will do of course, if it be only to
honour his daughter, I will give him the thousand pieces of gold which
I promised him; and afterwards, to his great surprise, will present him
with another purse of the same value, with some short speech: as, 'Sir,
you see I am a man of my word: I always give more than I promise.'"
"When I have brought the princess to my house, I shall take particular
care to breed her in due respect for me. To this end I shall confine her
to her own apartments, make her a short visit, and talk but little to
her. Her women will represent to me that she is inconsolable by reason
of my unkindness; but I shall still remain inexorable. Her mother will
then come and bring her daughter to me, as I am seated on a sofa. The
daughter, with tears in her eyes, will fling herself at my feet, and beg
me to receive her into my favour. Then will I, to imprint her with a
thorough veneration for my person, draw up my legs, and spurn her from
me with my foot in such a manner that she shall fall down several paces
from the sofa."
Alnaschar was entirely swallowed up in his vision, and could not forbear
acting with his foot what he had in his thoughts: so that, unluckily
striking his basket of brittle ware, which was the foundation of all his
grandeur, he kicked his glasses to a great distance from him into the
street, and broke them into ten thousand pieces.
ADDISON.
[Note: _Joseph Addison_, born 1672, died 1719. Chiefly famous as a
critic and essayist. His calm sense and judgment, and the attraction of
his style, have rendered his writings favourites from his own time to
ours.]
* * * * *
THE INCHCAPE BELL.
No stir on the air, no swell on the sea,
The ship was still as she might be:
The sails from heaven received no motion;
The keel was steady in the ocean.
With neither sign nor sound of shock,
The waves flow'd o'er the Inchcape Rock;
So little they rose, so little they fell,
They did not move the Inchcape Bell.
The pious abbot of Aberbrothock
Had placed that bell on the Inchcape Rock;
On the waves of the storm it floated and swung,
And louder and louder its warning rung.
When the rock was hid by the tempest swell,
The mariners heard the warning bell,
And then they knew the perilous rock,
And blessed the abbot of Aberbrothock.
The float of the Inchcape Bell was seen,
A darker spot on the ocean green.
Sir Ralph the Rover walked the deck,
And he fix'd his eye on the darker speck.
His eye was on the bell and float,--
Quoth he, "My men, put down the boat,
And row me to the Inchcape Rock,--
I'll plague the priest of Aberbrothock!".
The boat was lower'd, the boatmen row,
And to the Inchcape Rock they go.
Sir Ralph leant over from the boat,
And cut the bell from off the float.
Down sunk the bell with a gurgling sound;
The bubbles rose, and burst around.
Quoth he, "Who next comes to the rock
Won't bless the priest of Aberbrothock!"
Sir Ralph the Rover sail'd away;
He scour'd the sea for many a day;
And now, grown rich with plunder'd store,
He steers his way for Scotland's shore.
So thick a haze o'erspread the sky,
They could not see the sun on high;
The wind had blown a gale all day;
At evening it hath died away.
"Canst hear," said one, "the breakers roar?
For yonder, methinks, should be the shore.
Now, where we are, I cannot tell,--
I wish we heard the Inchcape Bell."
They heard no sound--the swell is strong,
Though the wind hath fallen they drift along:
Till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock,
"Oh heavens! it is the Inchcape Rock!"
Sir Ralph the Rover tore his hair,
And cursed himself in his despair;
And waves rush in on every side,
The ship sinks fast beneath the tide.
SOUTHEY.
[Notes: _Robert Southey_, born 1774, died 1848. Poet Laureate and author
of numerous works in prose and verse.]
_Quoth_. Saxon _Cwaethan_, to say. A Perfect now used only in the first
and third persons singular of the present indicative; the nominative
following the verb.
_Till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock_. Notice the effective
use of alliteration (_i.e_., the recurrence of words beginning with the
same letter), which is the basis of old-English rhythm.]
* * * * *
THE DEATH OF NELSON.
It had been part of Nelson's prayer that the British fleet might be
distinguished by humanity in the victory he expected. Setting an example
himself, he twice gave orders to cease firing upon the 'Redoubtable,'
supposing that she had struck because her great guns were silent; for,
as she carried no flag, there was no means of instantly ascertaining the
fact. From this ship, which he had thus twice spared, he received his
death. A ball, fired from her mizen-top, which, in the then situation of
the two vessels, was not more than fifteen yards from that part of the
deck where he was standing, struck the epaulette on his left shoulder,
about a quarter after one, just in the heat of action. He fell upon his
face, on the spot which was covered with his poor secretary's blood.
Hardy (his captain), who was a few steps from him, turning round, saw
three men raising him up.
"They have done for me at last, Hardy," said he.
"I hope not," cried Hardy. "Yes," he replied, "my backbone is shot
through."
Yet even now, not for a moment losing his presence of mind, he observed,
as they were carrying him down the ladder, that the tiller ropes, which
had been shot away, were not yet replaced, and ordered that new ones
should be rove immediately; then, that he might not be seen by the crew,
he took out his handkerchief, and covered his face and his stars. Had he
but concealed these badges of honour from the enemy, England, perhaps,
would not have had cause to receive with sorrow the news of the battle
of Trafalgar. The cockpit was crowded with wounded and dying men, over
whose bodies he was with some difficulty conveyed, and laid upon
a pallet in the midshipmen's berth. It was soon perceived, upon
examination, that the wound was mortal. This, however, was concealed
from all except Captain Hardy, the chaplain, and the medical attendants.
He himself being certain, from the sensation in his back, and the gush
of blood he felt momently within his breast, that no human care could
avail him, insisted that the surgeon should leave him, and attend to
those to whom he might be useful; "For," said he, "you can do nothing
for me." All that could be done was to fan him with paper, and
frequently to give him lemonade to alleviate his intense thirst. He was
in great pain, and expressed much anxiety for the event of the action,
which now began to declare itself. As often as a ship struck, the crew
of the 'Victory' hurrahed, and at every hurrah a visible expression of
joy gleamed in the eyes and marked the countenance of the dying hero.
But he became impatient to see Captain Hardy; and as that officer,
though often sent for, could not leave the deck, Nelson feared some
fatal cause prevented him, and repeatedly cried, "Will no one bring
Hardy to me? He must be killed! He is surely dead!"
An hour and ten minutes elapsed from the time when Nelson received his
wound before Hardy could come to him. They shook hands in silence, Hardy
in vain struggling to suppress the feelings of that most painful yet
sublimest moment. "Well, Hardy," said Nelson, "how goes the day with
us?" "Very well," replied Hardy; "ten ships have struck, but five of the
van have tacked, and show an intention to bear down upon the 'Victory.'
I have called two or three of our fresh ships round, and have no doubt
of giving them a drubbing." "I hope," said Nelson, "none of our ships
have struck?" Hardy answered, "There was no fear of that." Then, and not
till then, Nelson spoke of himself. "I am a dead man, Hardy," said he;
"I am going fast; it will be all over with me soon; come nearer to me."
Hardy observed that he hoped Mr. Beattie (the surgeon) could yet hold
out some prospect of life. "Oh no," he replied, "it is impossible; my
back is shot through--Beattie will tell you so." Captain Hardy then once
more shook hands with him, and, with a heart almost bursting, hastened
upon deck.
By this time all feeling below the breast was gone; and Nelson, having
made the surgeon ascertain this, said to him, "You know I am gone; I
know it--I feel something rising in my breast (putting his hand on his
left side) which tells me so." And upon Beattie's inquiring whether
his pain was very great, he replied, "So great, that he wished he were
dead." "Yet," said he, in a lower voice, "one would like to live a
little longer too!"
Captain Hardy, some fifty minutes after he had left the cockpit,
returned, and again taking the hand of his dying friend and commander,
congratulated him on having gained a complete victory. How many of the
enemy were taken, he did not know, as it was impossible to perceive
them distinctly, but fourteen or fifteen at least. "That's well," cried
Nelson, "but I bargained for twenty." And then, in a stronger voice,
he said, "Anchor,! Hardy, anchor." Hardy upon this hinted that Admiral
Collingwood would take upon himself the direction of affairs. "Not while
I live, Hardy," said the dying Nelson, ineffectually endeavouring to
raise himself from the bed; "do you anchor." His previous order for
preparing to anchor had shown how clearly he foresaw the necessity of
this. Presently, calling Hardy back, he said to him in a low voice,
"Don't throw me overboard," and he desired that he might be buried by
his parents, unless it should please the king to order otherwise. "Kiss
me, Hardy," said he. Hardy knelt down and kissed his cheek, and Nelson
said, "Now, I am satisfied. Thank God, I have done my duty." Hardy stood
over him in silence for a moment or two, then knelt again and kissed his
forehead. "Who is that?" said Nelson; and being informed, he replied,
"God bless you, Hardy." And Hardy then left him for ever.
SOUTHEY.
[Note:_The death of Nelson_ took place at the Battle of Trafalgar,
1805.]
* * * * *
BATTLE OF THE BALTIC.
I.
Of Nelson and the North,
Sing the glorious day's renown,
When to battle fierce came forth
All the might of Denmark's crown,
And her arms along the deep proudly shone;
By each gun the lighted brand,
In a bold, determined hand,
And the Prince of all the land
Led them on.
II.
Like leviathans afloat,
Lay their bulwarks on the brine;
While the sign of battle flew
On the lofty British line:
It was ten of April morn by the chime:
As they drifted on their path,
There was silence deep as death;
And the boldest held his breath
For a time.
III.
But the might of England flushed
To anticipate the scene;
And her van the fleeter rushed
O'er the deadly space between.
"Hearts of oak!" our captains cried; when each gun
From its adamantine lips
Spread a death-shade round the ships.
Like the hurricane eclipse
Of the sun.
IV.
Again! again! again!
And the havoc did not slack,
Till a feebler cheer the Dane
To our cheering sent us back;--
Their shots along the deep slowly boom;--
Then cease--and all is wail,
As they strike the shattered sail;
Or, in conflagration pale,
Light the gloom.
V.
Out spoke the victor then,
As he hailed them o'er the wave,
"Ye are brothers! ye are men!
And we conquer but to save:--
So peace instead of death let us bring;
But yield, proud foe, thy fleet,
With the crews, at England's feet,
And make submission meet
To our king."
VI.
Then Denmark blest our chief
That he gave her wounds repose;
And the sounds of joy and grief
From her people wildly rose,
As Death withdrew his shades from the day
While the sun looked smiling bright
O'er a wide and woeful sight,
Where the fires of funeral light
Died away.
VII.
Now joy, Old England, raise!
For the tidings of thy might,
By the festal cities' blaze,
Whilst the wine-cup shines in light;
And yet amidst that joy and uproar,
Let us think of them that sleep,
Full many a fathom deep,
By thy wild and stormy steep,
Elsinore!
VIII.
Brave hearts! to Britain's pride
Once so faithful and so true,
On the deck of fame that died;--
With the gallant good Riou;--
Soft sigh the winds of heaven o'er their grave!
While the billow mournful rolls,
And the mermaid's song condoles;
Singing glory to the souls
Of the brave!
CAMPBELL
[Notes: This is the first specimen of the "ode" in this book. Notice the
variety in length between the lines, and draw up a scheme of the rhymes
in each stanza. The battle was fought, and Copenhagen bombarded, in
April, 1801.
_It was ten of April morn by the chime_. It was ten o'clock on the
morning in April.
_Like the hurricane eclipse_. The eclipse of the sun in storm.]
* * * * *
LOCHINVAR.
Oh, young Lochinvar is come out of the west,
Through all the wide border his steed is the best;
And, save his good broad-sword, he weapon had none;
He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone!
So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,
There never was knight like the young Lochinvar!
He stay'd not for brake, and he stopped not for stone,
He swam the Eske river where ford there was none--
But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate,
The bride had consented, the gallant came late;
For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war,
Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar!
So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall,
Among bridesmen, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all!--
Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword--
For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word--
"Oh come ye in peace here, or come ye in war?--
Or to dance at our bridal? young Lord Lochinvar!"
"I long woo'd your daughter, my suit you denied:
Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide!
And now am I come, with this lost love of mine,
To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine!
There be maidens in Scotland, more lovely by far,
That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar!"
The bride kissed the goblet, the knight took it up,
He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup!
She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh--
With a smile on her lip, and a tear in her eye.
He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar--
"Now tread we a measure!" said young Lochinvar,
So stately his form, and so lovely her face,
That never a hall such a galliard did grace!
While her mother did fret, and her father did fume,
And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume,
And the bride-maidens whispered, "'Twere better by far
To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar!"
One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear,
When they reached the hall door, and the charger stood
near:
So light to the croup the fair lady he swung,
So light to the saddle before her he sprung!
"She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur;
They'll have fleet steeds that follow!" cried young
Lochinvar.
There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the Netherby clan;
Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran;
There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lea,
But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see!
So daring in love, and so dauntless in war,
Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?
SCOTT.
[Notes: _Lochinvar_. The song sung by Dame Heron in 'Marmion,' one of
Scott's longest and most famous poems. The fame of Scott (1771-1832)
rests partly on these poems, but much more on the novels, in which he is
excelled by no one.
_He stay'd not for brake_. Brake, a word of Scandinavian origin, means a
place overgrown with brambles; from the crackling noise they make as one
passes over them.
_Love swells like the Solway_. For a scene in which the rapid advance
of the Solway tide is described, see the beginning of Scott's novel of
'Redgauntlet.'
_Galliard_. A gay rollicker. Used also in Chaucer.
_Scaur_. A rough, broken ground. The same word as scar.]
* * * * *
LEARNING TO RIDE.
Some time before my father had bought a small Shetland pony for us,
Moggy by name, upon which we were to complete our own education in
riding, we had already mastered the rudiments under the care of our
grandfather's coachman. He had been in our family thirty years, and we
were as fond of him as if he had been a relation. He had taught us to
sit up and hold the bridle, while he led a quiet old cob up and down
with a leading rein. But, now that Moggy was come, we were to make quite
a new step in horsemanship. Our parents had a theory that boys must
teach themselves, and that a saddle (except for propriety, when we rode
to a neighbour's house to carry a message, or had to appear otherwise
in public) was a hindrance rather than a help. So, after our morning's
lessons, the coachman used to take us to the paddock in which Moggy
lived, put her bridle on, and leave us to our own devices. I could see
that that moment was from the first one of keen enjoyment to my brother.
He would scramble up on her back, while she went on grazing--without
caring to bring her to the elm stool in the corner of the field, which
was our mounting place--pull her head up, kick his heels into her sides,
and go scampering away round the paddock with the keenest delight. He
was Moggy's master from the first day, though she not unfrequently
managed to get rid of him by sharp turns, or stopping dead short in her
gallop. She knew it quite well; and, just as well, that she was mistress
as soon as I was on her back. For weeks it never came to my turn,
without my wishing myself anywhere else. George would give me a lift
up, and start her. She would trot a few yards, and then begin grazing,
notwithstanding my timid expostulations and gentle pullings at her
bridle. Then he would run up, and pull up her head, and start her again,
and she would bolt off with a flirt of her head, and never be content
till I was safely on the grass. The moment that was effected she took to
grazing again, and I believe enjoyed the whole performance as much as
George, and certainly far more than I did. We always brought her a
carrot, or bit of sugar, in our pockets, and she was much more like a
great good-tempered dog with us than a pony.
_Memoir of a Brother_. T. HUGHES.
* * * * *
THE CHAMELEON.
Oft has it been my lot to mark
A proud, conceited, talking spark,
With eyes that hardly served at most
To guard their master 'gainst a post:
Yet round the world the blade has been
To see whatever can be seen.
Returning from his finished tour,
Grown ten times perter than before.
Whatever word you chance to drop,
The travelled fool your mouth will stop:
"Sir, if my judgment you'll allow--
I've seen--and sure I ought to know."
So begs you'd pay a due submission
And acquiesce in his decision.
Two travellers of such a cast,
As o'er Arabia's wilds they passed,
And on their way in friendly chat,
Now talked of this, and now of that:
Discoursed a while, 'mongst other matter,
Of the chameleon's form and nature.
"A stranger animal," cries one,
"Sure never lived beneath the sun;
A lizard's body, lean and long,
A fish's head, a serpent's tongue,
Its foot with triple claw disjoined;
And what a length of tail behind!
How slow its pace! And then its hue--
Who ever saw so fine a blue?"--
"Hold there," the other quick replies,
"'Tis green; I saw it with these eyes
As late with open mouth it lay,
And warmed it in the sunny ray;
Stretched at its ease the beast I viewed,
And saw it eat the air for food."
"I've seen it, sir, as well as you,
And must again affirm it blue:
At leisure I the beast surveyed
Extended in the cooling shade."
"'Tis green, 'tis green, sir, I assure you."
"Green!" cried the other in a fury:
"Why, do you think I've lost my eyes?"
"'Twere no great loss," the friend replies,
"For if they always serve you thus,
You'll find them of but little use."
So high at last the contest rose,
From words they almost came to blows,
When luckily came by a third:
To him the question they referred,
And begged he'd tell them if he knew,
Whether the thing was green or blue?
"Sirs," cries the umpire, "cease your pother,
The creature's neither one nor t'other.
I caught the animal last night,
And view'd it o'er by candle-light:
I marked it well--'twas black as jet.
You stare; but, sirs, I've got it yet:
And can produce it"--"Pray, sir, do:
I'll lay my life the thing is blue."
"And I'll be sworn, that when you've seen
The reptile you'll pronounce him green!"
"Well, then, at once to ease the doubt,"
Replies the man, "I'll turn him out:
And when before your eyes I've set him,
If you don't find him black, I'll eat him,"
He said, and full before their sight,
Produced the beast, and lo!--'twas white.
Both stared: the man looked wondrous wise:
"My children," the chameleon cries
(Then first the creature found a tongue),
"You all are right, and all are wrong;
When next you tell of what you view,
Think others see as well as you!
Nor wonder if you find that none
Prefers your eyesight to his own."
MERRICK.
* * * * *
MOSES AT THE FAIR
All this conversation, however, was only preparatory to another scheme;
and indeed I dreaded as much. This was nothing less than that, as we
were now to hold up our heads a little higher in the world, it would be
proper to sell the colt, which was grown old, at a neighbouring fair,
and buy us a horse that would carry us single or double upon an
occasion, and make a pretty appearance at church, or upon a visit. This
at first I opposed stoutly; but it was stoutly defended. However, as I
weakened, my antagonist gained strength, till at last it was resolved
to part with him. As the fair happened on the following day, I had
intentions of going myself; but my wife persuaded me that I had got a
cold, and nothing could prevail upon her to permit me from home. "No, my
dear," said she, "our son Moses is a discreet boy, and can buy and sell
to a very good advantage: you know all our great bargains are of his
purchasing. He always stands out and higgles, and actually tires them
till he gets a bargain."
As I had some opinion of my son's prudence, I was willing enough to
entrust him with this commission; and the next morning I perceived his
sisters mighty busy in fitting out Moses for the fair; trimming his
hair, brushing his buckles, and cocking his hat with pins. The business
of the toilet being over, we had at last the satisfaction of seeing
him mounted upon the colt, with a deal box before him to bring
home groceries in. He had on a coat made of that cloth they call
"thunder-and-lightning," which, though grown too short, was much too
good to be thrown away. His waistcoat was of gosling green, and his
sisters had tied his hair with a broad black riband. We all followed him
several paces from the door, bawling after him, "Good luck! good luck!"
till we could see him no longer. ***
I changed the subject by seeming to wonder what could keep our son so
long at the fair, as it was now almost nightfall. "Never mind our son,"
cried my wife; "depend upon it, he knows what he is about. I'll warrant
we'll never see him sell his hen of a rainy day. I have seen him bring
such bargains as would amaze one. I'll tell you a good story about that,
that will make you split your sides with laughing. But, as I live,
yonder comes Moses, without a horse, and the box on his back."
As she spoke, Moses came slowly on foot, and sweating under the deal
box, which he had strapped round his shoulders like a pedlar. "Welcome,
welcome, Moses! Well, my boy, what have you brought us from the fair?"
"I have brought you myself," cried Moses, with a sly look, and resting
the box on the dresser. "Ay, Moses," cried my wife, "that we know; but
where is the horse?" "I have sold him," cried Moses, "for three pounds
five shillings and twopence." "Well done, my good boy," returned she;
"I knew you would touch them off. Between ourselves, three pounds five
shillings and twopence is no bad day's work. Come, let us have it then."
"I have brought back no money," cried Moses again. "I have laid it all
out in a bargain, and here it is," pulling out a bundle from his breast;
"here they are; a gross of green spectacles, with silver rims and
shagreen cases." "A gross of green spectacles!" repeated my wife, in a
faint voice. "And you have parted with the colt, and brought us back
nothing but a gross of green paltry spectacles!" "Dear mother," cried
the boy, "why won't you listen to reason? I had them a dead bargain,
or I should not have brought them. The silver rims alone will sell for
double the money." "A fig for the silver rims," cried my wife, in a
passion: "I dare swear they won't sell for above half the money at the
rate of broken silver, five shillings an ounce." "You need be under no
uneasiness," cried I, "about selling the rims, for they are not worth
sixpence; for I perceive they are only copper varnished over." "What!"
cried my wife, "not silver! the rims not silver?" "No," cried I, "no
more silver than your saucepan." "And so," returned she, "we have parted
with the colt, and have only got a gross of green spectacles, with
copper rims and shagreen cases? A murrain take such trumpery! The
blockhead has been imposed upon, and should have known his company
better." "There, my dear," cried I, "you are wrong; he should not have
known them at all." "Marry, hang the idiot!" returned she, "to bring me
such stuff: if I had them I would throw them in the fire." "There again
you are wrong, my dear," cried I, "for though they be copper, we will
keep them by us, as copper spectacles, you know, are better than
nothing."
By this time the unfortunate Moses was undeceived. He now saw that he
had been imposed upon by a prowling sharper, who, observing his figure,
had marked him for an easy prey. I therefore asked the circumstances
of his deception. He sold the horse, it seems, and walked the fair in
search of another. A reverend-looking man brought him to a tent, under
pretence of having one to sell. "Here," continued Moses, "we met another
man, very well dressed, who desired to borrow twenty pounds upon these,
saying that he wanted money, and would dispose of them for a third of
the value. The first gentleman, who pretended to be my friend, whispered
me to buy them, and cautioned me not to let so good an offer pass. I
sent for Mr. Flamborough, and they talked him up as finely as they did
me; and so at last we were persuaded to buy the two gross between us."
GOLDSMITH.
[Note: _Moses at the fair_. This is an incident taken from Goldsmith's
novel, 'The Vicar of Wakefield.' The narrator throughout is the Vicar
himself, who tells us the simple joys and sorrows of his family, and the
foibles of each member of it.]
* * * * *
A WISH.
Happy the man whose wish and care
A few paternal acres bound,
Content to breathe his native air
In his own ground.
Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,
Whose flocks supply him with attire;
Whose trees in summer yield him shade,
In winter, fire.
Blest who can unconcernedly find
Hours, days, and years, glide soft away
In health of body, peace of mind,
Quiet by day,
Sound sleep by night; study and ease
Together mixed; sweet recreation,
And innocence, which most does please,
With meditation.
Thus let me live, unseen, unknown;
Thus unlamented let me die;
Steal from the world, and not a stone
Tell where I lie.
POPE.
[Notes: _Alexander Pope_, born 1688, died 1744. The author of numerous
poems and translations, all of them marked by the same lucid thought and
polished versification. The Essay on Man, the Satires and Epistles, and
the translations of Homer's Iliad and Odyssey, are amongst the most
important.
Write a paraphrase of the first two stanzas.]
* * * * *
WHANG THE MILLER.
Whang, the miller, was naturally avaricious; nobody loved money better
than he, or more respected those that had it. When people would talk of
a rich man in company, Whang would say, "I know him very well; he and I
are intimate; he stood for a child of mine." But if ever a poor man was
mentioned, he had not the least knowledge of the man; he might be very
well for aught he knew; but he was not fond of many acquaintances, and
loved to choose his company.
Whang, however, with all his eagerness for riches, was in reality poor;
he had nothing but the profits of his mill to support him; but though
these were small, they were certain; while his mill stood and went, he
was sure of eating; and his frugality was such that he every day laid
some money by, which he would at intervals count and contemplate with
much satisfaction. Yet still his acquisitions were not equal to his
desires; he only found himself above want, whereas he desired to be
possessed of affluence.
One day, as he was indulging these wishes, he was informed that a
neighbour of his had found a pan of money under ground, having dreamed
of it three nights running before. These tidings were daggers to the
heart of poor Whang. "Here am I," says he, "toiling and moiling from
morning till night for a few paltry farthings, while neighbour Hunks
only goes quietly to bed, and dreams himself into thousands before
morning. Oh that I could dream like him! with what pleasure would I dig
round the pan; how slily would I carry it home; not even nay wife should
see me; and then, oh, the pleasure of thrusting one's hand into a heap
of gold up to the elbow!"
Such reflections only served to make the miller unhappy; he discontinued
his former assiduity; he was quite disgusted with small gains, and his
customers began to forsake him. Every day he repeated the wish, and
every night laid himself down in order to dream. Fortune, that was for a
long time unkind, at last, however, seemed to smile upon his distresses,
and indulged him with the wished-for vision. He dreamed that under
a certain part of the foundation of his mill there was concealed a
monstrous pan of gold and diamonds, buried deep in the ground, and
covered with a large flat stone. He rose up, thanked the stars that were
at last pleased to take pity on his sufferings, and concealed his good
luck from every person, as is usual in money dreams, in order to have
the vision repeated the two succeeding nights, by which he should be
certain of its veracity. His wishes in this also were answered; he still
dreamed of the same pan of money, in the very same place.
Now, therefore, it was past a doubt; so, getting up early the third
morning, he repairs alone, with a mattock in his hand, to the mill, and
began to undermine that part of the wall which the vision directed.
The first omen of success that he met was a broken mug; digging still
deeper, he turns up a house tile, quite new and entire. At last, after
much digging, he came to the broad flat stone, but then so large, that
it was beyond one man's strength to remove it. "Here," cried he, in
raptures, to himself, "here it is! under this stone there is room for a
very large pan of diamonds indeed! I must e'en go home to my wife, and
tell her the whole affair, and get her to assist me in turning it up."
Away, therefore, he goes, and acquaints his wife with every circumstance
of their good fortune. Her raptures on this occasion may easily be
imagined; she flew round his neck, and embraced him in an agony of joy:
but those transports, however, did not delay their eagerness to know the
exact sum; returning, therefore, speedily together to the place where
Whang had been digging, there they found--not indeed the expected
treasure, but the mill, their only support, undermined and fallen.
GOLDSMITH.
[Note: _He stood for a child of mine_, i.e., stood as godfather for a
child of mine.]
* * * * *
A SEA SONG.
A wet sheet and a flowing sea,
A wind that follows fast,
And fills the white and rustling sail
And bends the gallant mast.
And bends the gallant mast, my boys,
While, like the eagle free,
Away the good ship flies, and leaves
Old England on the lee.
Oh, for a soft and gentle wind,
I heard a fair one cry:
But give to me the snoring breeze
And white waves heaving high.
And white waves heaving high, my lads,
A good ship, tight and free,
The world of waters is our home,
And merry men are we.
There's tempest in yon horned moon,
And lightning in yon cloud;
And hark the music, mariners!
The wind is piping loud.
The wind is piping loud, my boys,
The lightning flashes free;
While the hollow oak our palace is,
Our heritage the sea.
CUNNINGHAM.
[Note: _A wet sheet_. The _sheet_ is the rope fastened to the lower
corner of a sail to retain it in position.]
* * * * *
ON THE LOSS OF THE 'ROYAL GEORGE.'
Toll for the brave!
The brave that are no more;
All sunk beneath the wave,
Fast by their native shore!
Eight hundred of the brave,
Whose courage well was tried,
Had made the vessel heel,
And laid her on her side.
A land breeze shook the shrouds,
And she was overset;
Down went the 'Royal George,'
With all her crew complete.
Toll for the brave!
Brave Kempenfeldt is gone;
His last sea-fight is fought;
His work of glory done.
It was not in the battle;
No tempest gave the shock;
She sprang no fatal leak;
She ran upon no rock.
His sword was in its sheath;
His fingers held the pen,
When Kempenfeldt went down,
With twice four hundred men.
Weigh the vessel up,
Once dreaded by our foes!
And mingle with our cup,
The tear that England owes.
Her timbers yet are sound,
And she may float again,
Full-charged with England's thunder,
And plough the distant main.
But Kempenfeldt is gone,
His victories are o'er;
And he and his eight hundred
Shall plough the wave no more.
COWPER.
[Note: _The Royal George_. A ship of war, which went down with Admiral
Kempenfeldt and her crew off Spithead in 1782, while undergoing a
partial careening.]
* * * * *
AN ESCAPE.
After we had rowed, or rather driven, about a league and a half, as we
reckoned it, a raging wave, mountain-like, came rolling astern of us,
and plainly bade us expect our end. In a word, it took us with such a
fury that it overset the boat at once; and, separating us as well from
the boat as from one another, gave us not time hardly to say, "O God!"
for we were all swallowed up in a moment.
Nothing can describe the confusion of thought which I felt when I sunk
into the water; for though I swam very well, yet I could not deliver
myself from the waves, so as to draw breath, till that wave having
driven me, or rather carried me a vast way on towards the shore, and
having spent itself, went back, and left me upon the land almost dry,
but half dead from the water I took in. I had so much presence of mind
as well as breath left, that, seeing myself nearer the mainland than I
expected, I got upon my feet, and endeavoured to make on towards the
land as fast as I could, before another wave should return, and take me
up again. But I soon found it was impossible to avoid it; for I saw the
sea come after me as high as a great hill, and as furious as an enemy,
which I had no means or strength to contend with; my business was to
hold my breath, and raise myself upon the water, if I could: and so by
swimming to preserve my breathing, and pilot myself towards the shore,
if possible; my greatest concern now being, that the sea, as it would
carry me a great way towards the shore when it came on, might not carry
me back again with it when it gave back towards the sea.
The wave that came upon me again, buried me at once twenty or thirty
feet deep in its own body; and I could feel myself carried with a mighty
force and swiftness towards the shore a very great way; but I held my
breath, and assisted myself to swim still forward with all my might. I
was ready to burst with holding my breath, when, as I felt myself rising
up, so, to my immediate relief, I found my head and hands shoot out
above the surface of the water; and though it was not two seconds of
time that I could keep myself so, yet it relieved me greatly, gave me
breath and new courage. I was covered again with water a good while, but
not so long but I held it out; and finding the water had spent itself,
and began to return, I struck forward against the return of the waves,
and felt ground again with my feet. I stood still a few moments to
recover breath, and till the water went from me, and then took to my
heels, and run with what strength I had farther towards the shore. But
neither would this deliver me from the fury of the sea, which came
pouring in after me again, and twice more I was lifted up by the waves,
and carried forwards as before, the shore being very flat.
The last time of these two had well near been fatal to me; for the
sea having hurried me along as before, landed me, or rather dashed
me against a piece of a rock, and that with such force as it left me
senseless, and indeed helpless, as to my own deliverance; for the blow
taking my side and breast, beat the breath, as it were, quite out of my
body; and had it returned again immediately, I must have been strangled
in the water; but I recovered a little before the return of the waves,
and seeing I should be covered again with the water, I resolved to hold
fast by a piece of the rock, and so to hold my breath, if possible, till
the wave went back; now as the waves were not so high as at first, being
near land, I held my hold till the wave abated, and then fetched another
run, which brought me so near the shore that the next wave, though it
went over me, yet did not so swallow me up as to carry me away, and the
next run I took, I got to the main land, where, to my great comfort, I
clambered up the clifts of the shore, and sat me down upon the grass,
free from danger, and quite out of the reach of the water.
DEFOE'S _Robinson Crusoe_.
[Notes: _Daniel Defoe_, born 1663, died 1731. He was prominent as a
political writer, but his later fame has rested chiefly on his works of
fiction, of which 'Robinson Crusoe' (from which this extract is taken)
is the most important.
"_Gave us not time hardly to say_." This to us has the effect of a
double negative. But if we take "hardly" in its strict sense, the
sentence is clear: "did not give us time, even with difficulty, to say."
(_at foot_)."_As_ I felt myself rising up, _so_ to my
immediate relief." Note this use of _as_ and _so_, in a way which now
sounds archaic.
_Run_. The older form, for which we would use _ran_.
"That with such force, _as_ it left me," &c. For _as_, we would now use
_that_.
_Clifts of the shore_. Like clefts, broken openings in the shore.]
* * * * *
RULE BRITANNIA.
When Britain first, at Heaven's command,
Arose from out the azure main,
This was the charter of the land,
And guardian angels sung this strain:
Rule, Britannia, rule the waves,
Britons never will be slaves!
The nations, not so blessed as thee,
Must in their turn to tyrants fall;
While thou shalt flourish great and free,
The dread and envy of them all.
Still more majestic shalt thou rise,
More dreadful from each foreign stroke;
As the loud blast that tears the skies,
Serves but to root thy native oak.
Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame:
All their attempts to bend thee down
Will but arouse thy generous flame;
But work their woe and thy renown.
To thee belongs the rural reign;
Thy cities shall with commerce shine;
All thine shall be the subject main:
And every shore it circles thine.
The Muses, still with freedom found,
Shall to thy happy coast repair:
Blessed isle! with matchless beauty crowned,
And manly hearts to guard the fair:
Rule, Britannia, rule the waves,
Britons never will be slaves!
THOMSON.
[Notes: _James Thomson_, born 1700, died 1748. He was educated for the
Scotch ministry, but came to London, and commenced his career as a poet
by the series of poems called the 'Seasons,' descriptive of scenes in
nature.
_The Muses, i.e._, the Sciences and Arts, which flourish best
where there are free institutions.]
* * * * *
WATERLOO.
There was a sound of revelry by night,
And Belgium's capital had gathered then
Her Beauty and her Chivalry; and bright
The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men;
A thousand hearts beat happily; and when
Music arose with its voluptuous swell,
Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which spake again,
And all went merry as a marriage-bell;--
But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising
knell!
Did ye not hear it?--No; 'twas but the wind,
Or the car rattling o'er the stony street:
On with the dance! let joy be unconfined;
No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet
To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet--
But hark!--That heavy sound breaks in once more,
As if the clouds its echo would repeat;
And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before!
Arm! arm! it is--it is--the cannon's opening roar!
Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro,
And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress,
And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago
Blush'd at the praise of their own loveliness:
And there were sudden partings, such as press
The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs
Which ne'er might be repeated; who could guess
If ever more should meet those mutual eyes,
Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise?
And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed,
The mustering squadron, and the clattering car,
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,
And swiftly forming in the ranks of war;
And the deep thunder peal on peal afar;
And near, the beat of the alarming drum
Roused up the soldier ere the morning-star;
While throng'd the citizens, with terror dumb,
Or whispering, with white lips,--"The foe! they come!
they come!"
And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves,
Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pass,
Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves,
Over the unreturning brave,--alas!
Ere evening to be trodden like the grass,
Which now beneath them, but above shall grow
In its next verdure; when this fiery mass
Of living valour, rolling on the foe
And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low!
Last noon beheld them full of lusty life,
Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay,
The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife,
The morn the marshalling in arms,--the day
Battle's magnificently stern array!
The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent
The earth is cover'd thick with other clay,
Which her own clay shall cover--heap'd and pent,
Rider and horse,--friend, foe,--in one red burial blent!
BYRON.
[Notes:_Waterloo_. Fought, 1815, between Napoleon on one side, and
Wellington and Blucher (the Prussian General) on the other. Its result
was the defeat of Napoleon, and his imprisonment by the Allies in St.
Helena. The festivities held at Brussels, the headquarters of the
British Army, on the eve of the battle, were rudely disturbed by the
news that the action had already begun.
_Ardennes_. A district on the frontier of France, bordering on Belgium.
_Ivry_. The battle in which Henry IV., in the struggle for the crown of
France, completely routed the forces of the Catholic League (1590).
_My white plume shine_. The white plume was the distinctive mark of the
House of Bourbon.
_Oriflamme_, or Auriflamme (lit. Flame of Gold), originally the banner
of the Abbey of St. Denis, afterwards appropriated by the crown of
France. "Let the helmet of Navarre (Henry's own country) be to-day the
Royal Standard of France."
_Culverin_. A piece of artillery of long range.
_The fiery Duke_ (of Mayenne).
_Pricking fast_. Cf. "a gentle knight was pricking o'er the plain"
(Spencer).
_With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Almayne_. The
allies of the League. Almayne or Almen, a district in the Netherlands.
* * * * *
IVRY.
The King is come to marshal us, in all his armour drest,
And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant crest.
He look'd upon his people, and a tear was in his eye:
He look'd upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and
high,
Right graciously he smiled on us, as roll'd from wing to
wing,
Down all our line a deafening shout, "God save our Lord the
King!"
"And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he may,
For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray,
Press where ye see my white plume shine, amidst the ranks
of war,
And be your Oriflamme to-day the helmet of Navarre."
Hurrah! the foes are moving. Hark to the mingled din
Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring
culverin!
The fiery Duke is pricking fast across St. André's plain,
With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Almayne.
Now by the lips of those we love, fair gentlemen of France,
Charge for the Golden Lilies,--upon them with the lance!
A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in
rest,
A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snow-white
crest;
And in they burst, and on they rush'd, while, like a
guiding star,
Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of Navarre.
Now, God be praised, the day is ours! Mayenne hath turned
his rein.
D'Aumale hath cried for quarter. The Flemish Count is
slain.
Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before a Biscay
gale.
The field is heap'd with bleeding steeds, and flags, and
cloven mail.
And then we thought on vengeance, and, all along our van,
"Remember St. Bartholomew!" was pass'd from man to man:
But out spake gentle Henry, "No Frenchman is my foe;
Down, down, with every foreigner! but let your brethren
go."
Oh! was there ever such a knight, in friendship or in war,
As our Sovereign Lord, King Henry, the soldier of Navarre!
Ho! maidens of Vienna; ho! matrons of Lucerne;
Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who never shall
return.
Ho! Philip, send, for charity, thy Mexican pistoles,
That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor spearmen's
souls.
Ho! gallant nobles of the League, look that your arms be
bright:
Ho! burghers of St. Genevieve, keep watch and ward to-
night,
For our God hath crush'd the tyrant, our God hath raised
the slave,
And mock'd the counsel of the wise, and the valour of the
brave.
Then glory to His holy name, from whom all glories are;
And glory to our Sovereign Lord, King Henry of Navarre!
MACAULAY.
[Notes: _D'Aumale_, The Duke of; another leader of the League.
_The Flemish Court_. Count Egmont, the son of the Count Egmont, whose
death on the scaffold in 1568, in consequence of the resistance he
offered to the tyranny of Philip II. of Spain, has made the name famous.
The son, on the other hand, was the attached servant of Philip II.; and
was unnatural enough to say, when reminded of his father, "Talk not of
him, he deserved his death."
_Remember St. Bartholomew_, i.e., the massacre of the Protestants on St.
Bartholomew's day, 1572.
_Maidens of Vienna: matrons of Lucerne_. In reference to the Austrian
and Swiss Allies of the League.
_Thy Mexican pistoles_. Alluding to the riches gained by the Spanish
monarchy from her American colonies.
_Ho! burghers of St. Genevieve_ = citizens of Paris, of which St.
Genevieve was held to be the patron saint.]
* * * * *
NECESSITY THE MOTHER OF INVENTION.
And now I began to apply myself to make such necessary things as I found
I most wanted, as particularly a chair or a table; for without these I
was not able to enjoy the few comforts I had in the world; I could not
write or eat, or do several things with so much pleasure without a
table.
So I went to work; and here I must needs observe that, as reason is the
substance and original of the mathematics, so by stating and squaring
everything by reason, and by making the most rational judgment of
things, every man may be in time master of every mechanic art. I
had never handled a tool in my life, and yet in time, by labour,
application, and contrivance, I found at last that I wanted nothing but
I could have made it, especially if I had had tools; however, I made
abundance of things, even without tools, and some with no more tools
than an adze and a hatchet, which perhaps were never made that way
before, and that with infinite labour; for example, if I wanted a board,
I had no other way but to cut down a tree, set it on an edge before me,
and hew it flat on either side with my axe, till I had brought it to be
as thin as a plank, and then dubb it smooth with my adze. It is true, by
this method, I could make but one board out of a whole tree, but this I
had no remedy for but patience, any more than I had for the prodigious
deal of time and labour which it took me up to make a plank or board;
but my time or labour was little worth, and so it was as well employed
one way as another.
However, I made me a table and a chair, as I observed above, in the
first place, and this I did out of the short pieces of boards that
I brought on my raft from the ship: but when I had wrought out some
boards, as above, I made large shelves of the breadth of a foot and a
half one over another, all along one side of my cave, to lay all my
tools, nails, and iron-work, and in a word, to separate everything at
large in their places, that I might come easily at them; I knocked
pieces into the wall of the rock to hang my guns and all things that
would hang up. So that had my cave been to be seen, it looked like a
general magazine of all necessary things, and I had everything so ready
at my hand, that it was a great pleasure to me to see all my goods in
such order, and especially to find my stock of all necessaries so great.
DEFOE'S _Robinson Crusoe._
[Notes: _Reason is the substance and original of the mathematics_.
Original here = origin or foundation.]
_The most rational judgment_ = the judgment most in accordance with
reason.]
* * * * *
ANCIENT GREECE.
Clime of the unforgotten brave!
Whose land from plain to mountain-cave
Was Freedom's home or Glory's grave!
Shrine of the mighty! can it be
That this is all remains of thee?
Approach, thou craven crouching slave:
Say, is not this Thermopylae?
These waters blue that round you lave,--
Oh servile offspring of the free!--
Pronounce what sea, what shore is this?
The gulf, the rock of Salamis!
These scenes, their story not unknown,
Arise, and make again your own;
Snatch from the ashes of your sires
The embers of their former fires;
And he who in the strife expires
Will add to theirs a name of fear
That Tyranny shall quake to hear,
And leave his sons a hope, a fame,
They too will rather die than shame:
For Freedom's battle once begun,
Bequeathed by bleeding Sire to Son,
Though baffled oft is ever won.
Bear witness, Greece, thy living page!
Attest it many a deathless age!
While kings, in dusty darkness hid,
Have left a nameless pyramid,
Thy heroes, though the general doom
Hath swept the column from their tomb,
A mightier monument command,
The mountains of their native land!
There points thy Muse to stranger's eye
The graves of those that cannot die!
'Twere long to tell, and sad to trace,
Each step from splendour to disgrace,
Enough--no foreign foe could quell
Thy soul, till from itself it fell;
Yes! Self-abasement paved the way
To villain-bonds and despot sway.
BYRON.
[Notes: _Lord Byron_, born 1788, died 1824. The most powerful English
poet of the early part of this century.
_Thermapylae._ The pass at which Leonidas and his Spartans resisted the
approach of the Persians (B.C. 480).
_Salamis_. Where the Athenians fought the great naval battle which
destroyed the Persian fleet, and secured the liberties of Greece.]
* * * * *
THE TEMPLE OF FAME.
The Temple shakes, the sounding gates unfold,
Wide vaults appear, and roofs of fretted gold,
Raised on a thousand pillars wreathed around
With laurel-foliage and with eagles crowned;
Of bright transparent beryl were the walls,
The friezes gold, and gold the capitals:
As heaven with stars, the roof with jewels glows,
And ever-living lamps depend in rows.
Full in the passage of each spacious gate
The sage historians in white garments wait:
Graved o'er their seats, the form of Time was found,
His scythe reversed, and both his pinions bound.
Within stood heroes, who through loud alarms
In bloody fields pursued renown in arms.
High on a throne, with trophies charged, I viewed
The youth that all things but himself subdued;
His feet on sceptres and tiaras trode,
And his horned head belied the Libyan god.
There Caesar, graced with both Minervas, shone;
Caesar, the world's great master, and his own;
Unmoved, superior still in every state,
And scarce detested in his country's fate.
But chief were those, who not for empire fought,
But with their toils their people's safety bought:
High o'er the rest Epaminondas stood:
Timoleon, glorious in his brother's blood:
Bold Scipio, saviour of the Roman state,
Great in his triumphs, in retirement great;
And wise Aurelius, in whose well-taught mind
With boundless power unbounded virtue joined,
His own strict judge, and patron of mankind.
Much-suffering heroes next their honours claim,
Those of less noisy and less guilty fame,
Fair Virtue's silent train: supreme of these
Here ever shines the godlike Socrates;
He whom ungrateful Athens could expel,
At all times just but when he signed the shell:
Here his abode the martyred Phocion claims,
With Agis, not the last of Spartan names:
Unconquered Cato shows the wound he tore,
And Brutus his ill Genius meets no more.
But in the centre of the hallowed choir,
Six pompous columns o'er the rest aspire;
Around the shrine itself of Fame they stand,
Hold the chief honours, and the Fane command.
High on the first the mighty Homer shone;
Eternal adamant composed his throne;
Father of verse! in holy fillets drest,
His silver beard waved gently o'er his breast:
Though blind, a boldness in his looks appears;
In years he seemed, but not impaired by years.
The wars of Troy were round the pillar seen:
Here fierce Tydides wounds the Cyprian Queen;
Here Hector glorious from Patroclus' fall,
Here dragged in triumph round the Trojan wall.
Motion and life did every part inspire,
Bold was the work, and proved the master's fire.
A strong expression most he seemed t' affect,
And here and there disclosed a brave neglect.
A golden column next in rank appeared,
On which a shrine of purest gold was reared;
Finished the whole, and laboured every part,
With patient touches of unwearied art;
The Mantuan there in sober triumph sate,
Composed his posture, and his look sedate:
On Homer still he fixed a reverent eye,
Great without pride, in modest majesty,
In living sculpture on the sides were spread
The Latian wars, and haughty Turnus dead:
Eliza stretched upon the funeral pyre,
Aeneas bending with his aged sire:
Troy flamed in burning gold, and o'er the throne
_Arms and the Man_ in golden ciphers shone.
Four swans sustain a car of silver bright,
With heads advanced, and pinions stretched for flight,
Here, like some furious prophet, Pindar rode,
And seemed to labour with the inspiring God.
Across the harp a careless hand he flings,
And boldly sinks into the sounding strings.
The figured games of Greece the column grace,
Neptune and Jove survey the rapid race.
The youths hang o'er their chariots as they run;
The fiery steeds seem starting from the stone:
The champions in distorted postures threat;
And all appeared irregularly great.
Here happy Horace tuned th' Ausonian lyre
To sweeter sounds, and tempered Pindar's fire;
Pleased with Alcaeus' manly rage t' infuse
The softer spirit of the Sapphic Muse.
The polished pillar different sculptures grace;
A work outlasting monumental brass.
Here smiling Loves and Bacchanals appear,
The Julian star, and great Augustus here:
The Doves, that round the infant Poet spread
Myrtles and bays, hang hov'ring o'er his head.
Here, in a shrine that cast a dazzling light,
Sate, fixed in thought, the mighty Stagyrite:
His sacred head a radiant zodiac crowned,
And various animals his sides surround:
His piercing eyes, erect, appear to view
Superior worlds, and look all Nature through.
With equal rays immortal Tully shone;
The Roman rostra decked the Consul's throne:
Gathering his flowing robe, he seemed to stand
In act to speak, and graceful stretched his hand.
Behind, Rome's Genius waits with civic crowns,
And the great Father of his country owns.
These massy columns in a circle rise,
O'er which a pompous dome invades the skies:
Scarce to the top I stretched my aching sight,
So large it spread, and swelled to such a height.
Full in the midst proud Fame's imperial seat
With jewels blazed magnificently great:
The vivid emeralds there revive the eye,
The flaming rubies show their sanguine dye,
Bright azure rays from lively sapphires stream,
And lucid amber casts a golden gleam,
With various coloured light the pavement shone,
And all on fire appeared the glowing throne;
The dome's high arch reflects the mingled blaze,
And forms a rainbow of alternate rays.
When on the Goddess first I cast my sight,
Scarce seemed her stature of a cubit's height;
But swelled to larger size the more I gazed,
Till to the roof her towering front she raised;
With her the Temple every moment grew,
And ampler vistas opened to my view:
Upward the columns shoot, the roofs ascend,
And arches widen, and long aisles extend,
Such was her form, as ancient Bards have told,
Wings raise her arms, and wings her feet infold;
A thousand busy tongues the Goddess bears,
A thousand open eyes, a thousand listening ears.
Beneath, in order ranged, the tuneful Nine
(Her virgin handmaids) still attend the shrine:
With eyes on Fame for ever fixed, they sing;
For Fame they raise the voice, and tune the string:
With Time's first birth began the heavenly lays,
And last eternal through the length of days.
Around these wonders, as I cast a look,
The trumpet sounded, and the temple shook,
And all the nations, summoned at the call,
From diff'rent quarters, fill the crowded hall:
Of various tongues the mingled sounds were heard;
In various garbs promiscuous throngs appeared;
Thick as the bees that with the spring renew
Their flow'ry toils, and sip the fragrant dew,
When the winged colonies first tempt the sky,
O'er dusky fields and shaded waters fly;
Or, settling, seize the sweets the blossoms yield,
And a low murmur runs along the field.
Millions of suppliant crowds the shrine attend,
And all degrees before the Goddess bend;
The poor, the rich, the valiant, and the sage,
And boasting youth, and narrative old age.
Their pleas were diff'rent, their request the same:
For good and bad alike are fond of Fame.
Some she disgraced, and some with honours crowned;
Unlike successes equal merits found.
Thus her blind sister, fickle Fortune, reigns,
And, undiscerning, scatters crowns and chains.
First at the shrine the Learned world appear,
And to the Goddess thus prefer their pray'r:
"Long have we sought t' instruct and please mankind,
With studies pale, with midnight vigils blind;
But thanked by few, rewarded yet by none.
We here appeal to thy superior throne:
On wit and learning the just prize bestow,
For fame is all we must expect below."
The Goddess heard, and bade the Muses raise
The golden Trumpet of eternal Praise:
From pole to pole the winds diffuse the sound
That fills the circuit of the world around.
Not all at once, as thunder breaks the cloud:
The notes, at first, were rather sweet than loud.
By just degrees they ev'ry moment rise,
Fill the wide earth, and gain upon the skies.
At ev'ry breath were balmy odours shed,
Which still grew sweeter as they wider spread;
Less fragrant scents th' unfolding rose exhales,
Or spices breathing in Arabian gales.
Next these, the good and just, an awful train,
Thus, on their knees, address the sacred fane:
"Since living virtue is with envy cursed,
And the best men are treated like the worst,
Do thou, just Goddess, call our merits forth,
And give each deed th' exact intrinsic worth."
"Not with bare justice shall your act be crowned,"
(Said Fame,) "but high above desert renowned:
Let fuller notes th' applauding world amaze,
And the loud clarion labour in your praise."
This band dismissed, behold another crowd
Preferred the same request, and lowly bowed;
The constant tenour of whose well-spent days
No less deserved a just return of praise.
But straight the direful Trump of Slander sounds;
Through the big dome the doubling thunder bounds;
Loud as the burst of cannon rends the skies,
The dire report through ev'ry region flies;
In ev'ry ear incessant rumours rung,
And gath'ring scandals grew on ev'ry tongue.
From the black trumpet's rusty concave broke
Sulphureous flames, and clouds of rolling smoke;
The pois'nous vapour blots the purple skies,
And withers all before it as it flies.
A troop came next, who crowns and armour wore,
And proud defiance in their looks they bore:
"For thee" (they cried), "amidst alarms and strife,
We sailed in tempests down the stream of life;
For thee whole nations filled with flames and blood,
And swam to empire through the purple flood.
Those ills we dared, thy inspiration own;
What virtue seemed was done for thee alone."
"Ambitious fools!" (the Queen replied, and frowned):
"Be all your acts in dark oblivion drowned;
There sleep forgot, with mighty tyrants gone,
Your statues mouldered, and your names unknown!"
A sudden cloud straight snatched them from my sight,
And each majestic phantom sunk in night.
Then came the smallest tribe I yet had seen;
Plain was their dress, and modest was their mien.
"Great idol of mankind! we neither claim
The praise of merit, nor aspire to fame!
But safe, in deserts, from the applause of men,
Would die unheard-of, as we lived unseen.
'Tis all we beg thee, to conceal from sight
Those acts of goodness, which themselves requite.
O let us still the secret joy partake,
To follow virtue ev'n for virtue's sake."
"And live there men who slight immortal fame?
Who, then, with incense shall adore our name?
But, mortals! know, 'tis still our greatest pride
To blaze those virtues which the good would hide.
Rise! Muses, rise! add all your tuneful breath;
These must not sleep in darkness and in death,"
She said: in air the trembling music floats,
And on the winds triumphant swell the notes:
So soft, though high; so loud, and yet so clear;
Ev'n list'ning angels leaned from heaven to hear:
To farthest shores th' ambrosial spirit flies,
Sweet to the world, and grateful to the skies.
Pope.
[Notes: _Alexander Pope_. (See previous note on Pope.) The hint of this
poem is taken from one by Chaucer, called 'The House of Fame.'
_Depend in rows. Depend_ in its proper and literal meaning, "hang down."
_The youth that all things but himself subdued_ = Alexander the Great
(356-323 B.C.).
_His feet on sceptres and tiaras trod. Tiaras_, in reference to his
conquests over the Asiatic monarchies.
_His horned head belied the Libyan god_. "The desire to be thought the
son of Jupiter Ammon caused him to wear the horns of that god, and to
represent the same upon his coins." _(Pope's note_.) Libyan = African.
_Caesar graced with both Minervas, i.e.,_ by warlike and literary
genius; as the conqueror of Gaul and the writer of the 'Commentaries.'
_Scarce detested in his country's fate_. Whom even the enslaving of his
country scarce makes us detest.
_Epaminondas_ (died 362 B.C.), the maintainer of Theban independence.
_Timoleon_, of Corinth, who slew his brother when he found him aspiring
to be tyrant in the state (died 337 B.C.).
_Scipio_. The conqueror of Carthage, which was long the rival of Rome.
_Aurelius, i.e.,_ Marcus Aurelius Antoninus (121-180 A.D.), Emperor of
Rome; one of the brightest characters in Roman history.
_Socrates_. The great Greek philosopher, who, in maintaining truth,
incurred the charge of infecting the young men of Athens with impiety,
and was put to death by being made to drink hemlock. His life and
teaching are known to us through the writings of his disciple, Plato.
_He whom ungrateful Athens_, &c., i.e., Aristides (see page 171),
distinguished by the surname of _The Just_. He was unjust, Pope means,
only when he signed the shell for his own condemnation.
_Phocion_. An Athenian general and statesman (402-318 B.C.), put to
death by Polysperchon. He injured rather than helped the liberties of
Athens.
_Agis_, "King of Sparta, who endeavoured to restore his state to
greatness by a radical agrarian reform, was after a mock trial murdered
in prison, B.C. 241." _Ward_.
_Cato_, who, to escape disgrace amid the evils which befell his country,
stabbed himself in 46 B.C.
_Brutus his ill Genius meets no more_. See the account of the Eve of
Philippi in Book IV.
_The wars of Troy_. Described by Homer in his Iliad.
_Tydides (Diomede) wounds the Cyprian Queen (Venus)_. A scene described
in the Iliad.
_Hector_. Slew Patroclus, the friend of Achilles, and in revenge was
dragged by him round the walls of Troy.
_The Mantuan_, i.e., the Roman poet Virgil, author of the Aeneid, born
at Mantua (70-19 B.C.)
_Eliza_ = Elissa, or Dido, whose misfortunes are described in the
Aeneid.
_Aeneas bending with his aged sire_. Aeneas carried his father,
Anchises, from the flames of Troy on his shoulders.
_Arms and the Man_. The opening words of the Aeneid.
_Pindar_. Of Thebes, who holds the first place among the lyric poets of
Greece. The character and subjects of his poetry, of which the portions
remaining to us are the Triumphal Odes, celebrating victories gained in
the great games of Greece, are indicated by the lines that follow.
_Happy Horace_ (65-8 B.C.). The epithet is used to describe the
lightsome and genial tone of Horace's poetry. _Ausonian lyre_ = Italian
song. Ausonia is a poetical name for Italy.
_Alcoeus and Sappho_. Two of the early lyric poets of Greece.
_A work outlasting monumental brass_. This line is suggested by one of
Horace, when he describes his work as "a monument more lasting than
brass."
_The Julian star, and great Augustus here_. Referring to the Imperial
house and its representative, Augustus, Horace's chief patron.
_Stagyrite_. Aristotle, the great philosopher of Greece (384-322 B.C.),
born at Stagira. Pope here shortens the second syllable by a poetical
licence.
_Tully_. Marcus Tullius Cicero, the great orator, statesman, and writer
of Rome. For saving the city from the conspiracy of Catiline, he was
honoured with the title of "Father of his country."
_Narrative old age_. Talkative old age.
_Unlike successes equal merits found_ = The same desert found now
success, now failure.]
* * * * *
LABRADOR.
The following narrative is from the periodical account of the Moravian
Missions. It contains some of the most impressive descriptions I ever
remember to have read.
Brother Samuel Liebiseh was at the time of this occurrence entrusted
with the general care of the brethren's missions on the coast of
Labrador. The duties of his office required a visit to Okkak, the most
northern of our settlements, and about one hundred and fifty English
miles distant from Nain, the place where he resided. Brother William
Turner being appointed to accompany him, they left Nain together on
March the 11th, 1782, early in the morning, with very clear weather,
the stars shining with uncommon lustre. The sledge was driven by the
baptised Esquimaux Mark, and another sledge with Esquimaux joined
company.
An Esquimaux sledge is drawn by a species of dogs, not unlike a wolf in
shape. Like them, they never bark, but howl disagreeably. They are kept
by the Esquimaux in greater or larger packs or teams, in proportion to
the affluence of the master. They quietly submit to be harnessed for
their work, and are treated with little mercy by the heathen Esquimaux,
who make them do hard duty for the small quantity of food they allow
them. This consists chiefly in offal, old skins, entrails, such parts of
whale-flesh as are unfit for other use, rotten whale-fins, &c.; and if
they are not provided with this kind of dog's meat, they leave them to
go and seek dead fish or muscles upon the beach.
When pinched with hunger they will swallow almost anything, and on a
journey it is necessary to secure the harness within the snow-house
over night, lest, by devouring it, they should render it impossible
to proceed in the morning. When the travellers arrive at their night
quarters, and the dogs are unharnessed, they are left to burrow on the
snow, where they please, and in the morning are sure to come at their
driver's call, when they receive some food. Their strength and speed;
even with a hungry stomach, is astonishing. In fastening them to the
sledge, care is taken not to let them go abreast. They are tied by
separate thongs, of unequal lengths, to a horizontal bar in the fore
part of the sledge; an old knowing one leads the way, running ten or
twenty paces ahead, directed by the driver's whip, which is of great
length, and can be well managed only by an Esquimaux. The other dogs
follow like a flock of sheep. If one of them receives a lash, he
generally bites his neighbour, and the bite goes round.
To return to our travellers. The sledge contained five men, one woman,
and a child. All were in good spirits, and appearances being much in
their favour, they hoped to reach Okkak in safety in two or three days.
The track over the frozen sea was in the best possible order, and they
went with ease at the rate of six or seven miles an hour. After they
had passed the islands in the bay of Nain, they kept at a considerable
distance from the coast, both to gain the smoothest part of the ice, and
to weather the high rocky promontory of Kiglapeit. About eight o'clock
they met a sledge with Esquimaux turning in from the sea. After the
usual salutation, the Esquimaux, alighting, held some conversation, as
is their general practice, the result of which was, that some hints were
thrown out by the strange Esquimaux that it might be better to return.
However, as the missionaries saw no reason whatever for it, and only
suspected that the Esquimaux wished to enjoy the company of their
friends a little longer, they proceeded. After some time, their own
Esquimaux hinted that there was a ground swell under the ice. It was
then hardly perceptible, except on lying down and applying the ear close
to the ice, when a hollow, disagreeably grating and roaring noise was
heard, as if ascending from the abyss. The weather remained clear,
except towards the east, where a bank of light clouds appeared,
interspersed with some dark streaks. But the wind being strong from the
north-west, nothing less than a sudden change of weather was expected.
The sun had now reached its height, and there was as yet little or no
alteration in the appearance of the sky. But the motion of the sea
under the ice had grown more perceptible, so as rather to alarm the
travellers, and they began to think it prudent to keep closer to the
shore. The ice had cracks and large fissures in many places, some
of which formed chasms of one or two feet wide; but as they are not
uncommon even in its best state, and the dogs easily leap over them, the
sledge following without danger, they are only terrible to new comers.
As soon as the sun declined towards the west, the wind increased and
rose to a storm, the bank of clouds from the east began to ascend, and
the dark streaks to put themselves in motion against the wind. The snow
was violently driven about by partial whirlwinds, both on the ice, and
from off the peaks of the high mountains, and filled the air. At the
same time the ground-swell had increased so much that its effect upon
the ice became very extraordinary and alarming. The sledges, instead of
gliding along smoothly upon an even surface, sometimes ran with violence
after the dogs, and shortly after seemed with difficulty to ascend
the rising hill; for the elasticity of so vast a body of ice, of many
leagues square, supported by a troubled sea, though in some places
three or four yards in thickness, would, in some degree, occasion an
undulatory motion not unlike that of a sheet of paper accommodating
itself to the surface of a rippling stream. Noises were now likewise
distinctly heard in many directions, like the report of cannon, owing to
the bursting of the ice at some distance.
The Esquimaux, therefore, drove with all haste towards the shore,
intending to take up their night-quarters on the south side of the
Nivak. But as it plainly appeared that the ice would break and disperse
in the open sea, Mark advised to push forward to the north of the Nivak,
from whence he hoped the track to Okkak might still remain entire. To
this proposal the company agreed; but when the sledges approached the
coast, the prospect before them was truly terrific. The ice having
broken loose from the rocks, was forced up and down, grinding and
breaking into a thousand pieces against the precipices, with a
tremendous noise, which, added to the raging of the wind, and the snow
driving about in the air, deprived the travellers almost of the power of
hearing and seeing anything distinctly.
To make the land at any risk was now the only hope left, but it was with
the utmost difficulty the frighted dogs could be forced forward, the
whole body of ice sinking frequently below the surface of the rocks,
then rising above it. As the only moment to land was when it gained
the level of the coast, the attempt was extremely nice and hazardous.
However, by God's mercy, it succeeded; both sledges gained the shore,
and were drawn up the beach with much difficulty.
The travellers had hardly time to reflect with gratitude to God on their
safety, when that part of the ice from which they had just now made good
their landing burst asunder, and the water, forcing itself from below,
covered and precipitated it into the sea. In an instant, as if by a
signal given, the whole mass of ice, extending for several miles from
the coast, and as far as the eye could reach, began to burst and be
overwhelmed by the immense waves. The sight was tremendous and awfully
grand: the large fields of ice, raising themselves out of the water,
striking against each other and plunging into the deep with a violence
not to be described, and a noise like the discharge of innumerable
batteries of heavy guns. The darkness of the night, the roaring of the
wind and sea, and the dashing of the waves and ice against the rocks,
filled the travellers with sensations of awe and horror, so as almost
to deprive them of the power of utterance. They stood overwhelmed with
astonishment at their miraculous escape, and even the heathen Esquimaux
expressed gratitude to God for their deliverance.
[Note: _But high above desert renowned_ = Let it be renowned high above
desert.]
* * * * *
A HAPPY LIFE.
How happy is he born or taught,
That serveth not another's will;
Whose armour is his honest thought,
And simple truth his highest skill.
Whose passions not his masters are;
Whose soul is still prepared for death;
Not tied unto the world with care
Of prince's ear, or vulgar breath.
Who hath his life from rumours freed;
Whose conscience is his strong retreat:
Whose state can neither flatterers feed,
Nor ruin make oppressors great.
Who envies none whom chance doth raise,
Or vice: who never understood
How deepest wounds are given with praise;
Nor rules of state, but rules of good.
Who God doth late and early pray
More of his grace than gifts to lend;
And entertains the harmless day
With a well-chosen book or friend.
This man is freed from servile bands
Of hope to rise or fear to fall;
Lord of himself, though not of lands;
And having nothing, yet hath all.
SIR HENRY WOTTON.
[Notes: _Sir Henry Wotton_ (1568-1639). A poet, ambassador, and
miscellaneous writer, in the reign of James I.
_Born or taught_ = whether from natural character or by training.
_Nor ruin make oppressors great_ = nor _his_ ruin, &c.
_How deepest wounds are given with praise_. How praise may only cover
some concealed injury.]
* * * * *
MAN'S SERVANTS.
For us the winds do blow;
The earth doth rest, heaven move, and fountains flow.
Nothing we see but means our good,
As our delight, or as our treasure:
The whole is either cupboard of our food,
Or cabinet of pleasure.
The stars have us to bed;
Night draws the curtain, which the sun withdraws;
Music and light attend our head;
All things unto our flesh are kind
In their descent and being; to our mind
In their ascent and cause.
More servants wait on Man
Than he'll take notice of. In every path
He treads down that which doth befriend him,
When sickness makes him pale and wan.
O mighty love! Man is one world, and hath
Another to attend him.
Since, then, My God, Thou hast
So brave a palace built, O dwell in it,
That it may dwell with Thee at last!
Till then afford us so much wit
That, as the world serves _us_, we may serve _Thee_,
And both thy servants be.
GEORGE HERBERT.
[Notes: _George Herbert_ (1593-1632). A clergyman of the Church of
England, the author of many religious works in prose and poetry. His
poetry is overfull of conceits, but in spite of these is eminently
graceful and rich with fancy.
_The stars have its to led, i.e.,_ conduct, or show us to bed.
_All things unto our flesh are kind, &c., i.e.,_ as they minister to the
needs of our body here below, so they minister to the mind by leading
us to think of the Higher Cause that brings them into being. The words
_descent_ and _accent_ are not to be pressed; they are rather balanced
one against the other, according to the fashion of the day.]
* * * * *
VIRTUE.
Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright,
The bridal of the earth and sky,
The dew shall weep thy fall to-night;
For thou must die.
Sweet rose, whose hue, angry and brave,
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye,
Thy root is ever in its grave,
And thou must die.
Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses,
A box where sweets compacted lie,
My music shows ye have your closes,
And all must die.
Only a sweet and virtuous soul,
Like seasoned timber, never gives;
But though the whole world turn to coal,
Then chiefly lives.
GEORGE HERBERT.
[Note:----_The bridal of the earth and sky, i.e.,_ in which all the
beauties of sky and earth are united.]
* * * * *
DEATH THE CONQUEROR.
The glories of our blood and state
Are shadows, not substantial things;
There is no armour against fate:
Death lays his icy hand on kings:
Sceptre and crown
Must tumble down,
And in the dust be equal made
With the poor crooked scythe and spade.
Some men with swords may reap the field,
And plant fresh laurels where they kill;
But their strong nerves at last must yield,
They tame but one another still.
Early or late
They stoop to fate,
And must give up their murmuring breath,
When they, pale captives, creep to death.
The garlands wither on your brow,
Then boast no more your mighty deeds;
Upon death's purple altar now
See, where the victor-victim bleeds;
All heads must come
To the cold tomb,
Only the actions of the just
Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust.
JAMES SHIRLEY.
[Notes: _James Shirley_ (1594-1666). A dramatic poet.
_And plant fresh laurels when they kill_ = even by the death they spread
around them in war, they may win new laurel-wreaths by victory.
_Purple_. As stained with blood.]
* * * * *
GROWTH OF EUROPEAN CIVILIZATION IN THE TWELFTH CENTURY.
Various improvements in the system of jurisprudence, and administration
of justice, occasioned a change in manners, of great importance and of
extensive effect. They gave rise to a distinction of professions; they
obliged men to cultivate different talents, and to aim at different
accomplishments, in order to qualify themselves for the various
departments and functions which became necessary in society. Among
uncivilized nations there is but one profession honourable, that of
arms. All the ingenuity and vigour of the human mind are exerted in
acquiring military skill or address. The functions of peace are few and
simple, and require no particular course of education or of study as a
preparation for discharging them. This was the state of Europe during
several centuries. Every gentleman, born a soldier, scorned any other
occupation; he was taught no science but that of war; even his exercises
and pastimes were feats of martial prowess. Nor did the judicial
character, which persons of noble birth were alone entitled to assume,
demand any degree of knowledge beyond that which such untutored soldiers
possessed. To recollect a few traditionary customs which time had
confirmed, and rendered respectable; to mark out the lists of battle
with due formality; to observe the issue of the combat; and to pronounce
whether it had been conducted according to the laws of arms, included
everything that a baron, who acted as a judge, found it necessary to
understand.
But when the forms of legal proceedings were fixed, when the rules of
decision were committed to writing, and collected into a body, law
became a science, the knowledge of which required a regular course of
study, together with long attention to the practice of courts. Martial
and illiterate nobles had neither leisure nor inclination to undertake a
task so laborious, as well as so foreign from all the occupations which
they deemed entertaining, or suitable to their rank. They gradually
relinquished their places in courts of justice, where their ignorance
exposed them to contempt. They became, weary of attending to the
discussion of cases, which grew too intricate for them to comprehend.
Not only the judicial determination of points which were the subject of
controversy, but the conduct of all legal business and transactions, was
committed to persons trained by previous study and application to the
knowledge of law. An order of men, to whom their fellow-citizens had
daily recourse for advice, and to whom they looked up for decision in
their most important concerns, naturally acquired consideration and
influence in society. They were advanced to honours which had been
considered hitherto as the peculiar rewards of military virtue. They
were entrusted with offices of the highest dignity and most extensive
power. Thus, another profession than that of arms came to be introduced
among the laity, and was reputed honourable. The functions of civil
life were attended to. The talents requisite for discharging them were
cultivated. A new road was opened to wealth and eminence. The arts and
virtues of peace were placed in their proper rank, and received their
due recompense.
While improvements, so important with respect to the state of society
and the administration of justice, gradually made progress in Europe,
sentiments more liberal and generous had begun to animate the nobles.
These were inspired by the spirit of chivalry, which, though considered,
commonly, as a wild institution, the effect of caprice, and the source
of extravagance, arose naturally from the state of society at that
period, and had a very serious influence in refining the manners of the
European nations. The feudal state was a state of almost perpetual war,
rapine, and anarchy, during which the weak and unarmed were exposed
to insults or injuries. The power of the sovereign was too limited to
prevent these wrongs; and the administration of justice too feeble
to redress them. The most effectual protection against violence and
oppression was often found to be that which the valour and generosity
of private persons afforded. The same spirit of enterprise which had
prompted so many gentlemen to take arms in defence of the oppressed
pilgrims in Palestine, incited others to declare themselves the patrons
and avengers of injured innocence at home. When the final reduction of
the Holy Land under the dominion of infidels put an end to these foreign
expeditions, the latter was the only employment left for the activity
and courage of adventurers. To check the insolence of overgrown
oppressors; to rescue the helpless from captivity; to protect or to
avenge women, orphans, and ecclesiastics, who could not bear arms in
their own defence; to redress wrongs, and to remove grievances, were
deemed acts of the highest prowess and merit. Valour, humanity,
courtesy, justice, honour, were the characteristic qualities of
chivalry. To these was added religion, which mingled itself with every
passion and institution during the Middle Ages, and, by infusing a large
proportion of enthusiastic zeal, gave them such force as carried them
to romantic excess. Men were trained to knighthood by a long previous
discipline; they were admitted into the order by solemnities no less
devout than pompous; every person of noble birth courted that honour; it
was deemed a distinction superior to royalty; and monarchs were proud to
receive it from the hands of private gentlemen.
This singular institution, in which valour, gallantry, and religion,
were so strangely blended, was wonderfully adapted to the taste and
genius of martial nobles; and its effects were soon visible in their
manners. War was carried on with less ferocity, when humanity came to be
deemed the ornament of knighthood no less than courage. More gentle and
polished manners were introduced, when courtesy was recommended as the
most amiable of knightly virtues. Violence and oppression decreased,
when it was reckoned meritorious to check and to punish them. A
scrupulous adherence to truth, with the most religious attention to
fulfil every engagement, became the distinguishing characteristic of a
gentleman, because chivalry was regarded as the school of honour, and
inculcated the most delicate sensibility with respect to those points.
The admiration of these qualities, together with the high distinctions
and prerogatives conferred on knighthood in every part of Europe,
inspired persons of noble birth on some occasions with a species of
military fanaticism, and led them to extravagant enterprises. But they
deeply imprinted on their minds the principles of generosity and honour.
These were strengthened by everything that can affect the senses or
touch the heart. The wild exploits of those romantic knights who sallied
forth in quest of adventures are well known, and have been treated with
proper ridicule. The political and permanent effects of the spirit of
chivalry have been less observed. Perhaps the humanity which accompanies
all the operations of war, the refinements of gallantry, and the point
of honour, the three chief circumstances which distinguished modern from
ancient manners, may be ascribed in a great measure to this institution,
which has appeared whimsical to superficial observers, but by its
effects has proved of great benefit to mankind. The sentiments which
chivalry inspired had a wonderful influence on manners and conduct
during the twelfth, thirteenth, fourteenth, and fifteenth centuries.
They were so deeply rooted, that they continued to operate after the
vigour and reputation of the institution itself began to decline. Some
considerable transactions recorded in the following history resemble
the adventurous exploits of chivalry, rather than the well-regulated
operations of sound policy. Some of the most eminent personages, whose
characters will be delineated, were strongly tinctured with this
romantic spirit. Francis I. was ambitious to distinguish himself by all
the qualities of an accomplished knight, and endeavoured to imitate the
enterprising genius of chivalry in war, as well as its pomp and courtesy
during peace. The fame which the French monarch acquired by these
splendid actions, so far dazzled his more temperate rival, that he
departed on some occasions from his usual prudence and moderation, and
emulated Francis in deeds of prowess or of gallantry.
The progress of science and the cultivation of literature had
considerable effect in changing the manners of the European nations,
and introducing that civility and refinement by which they are now
distinguished. At the time when their empire was overturned, the
Romans, though they had lost that correct taste which has rendered the
productions of their ancestors standards of excellence, and models of
imitation for succeeding ages, still preserved their love of letters,
and cultivated the arts with great ardour. But rude barbarians were
so far from being struck with any admiration of these unknown
accomplishments, that they despised them. They were not arrived at that
state of society, when those faculties of the human mind which have
beauty and elegance for their objects begin to unfold themselves. They
were strangers to most of those wants and desires which are the parents
of ingenious invention; and as they did not comprehend either the merit
or utility of the Roman arts, they destroyed the monuments of them, with
an industry not inferior to that with which their posterity have since
studied to preserve or to recover them. The convulsions occasioned by
the settlement of so many unpolished tribes in the empire; the frequent
as well as violent revolutions in every kingdom which they established;
together with the interior defects in the form of government which they
introduced, banished security and leisure. They prevented the growth
of taste, or the culture of science, and kept Europe, during several
centuries, in that state of ignorance which has been already described.
But the events and institutions which I have enumerated produced great
alterations in society. As soon as their operation, in restoring liberty
and independence to one part of the community, began to be felt; as soon
as they began to communicate to all the members of society some taste
of the advantages arising from commerce, from public order, and from
personal security, the human mind became conscious of powers which it
did not formerly perceive, and fond of occupations or pursuits of which
it was formerly incapable. Towards the beginning of the twelfth century,
we discern the first symptoms of its awakening from that lethargy in
which it had been long sunk, and observe it turning with curiosity and
attention towards new objects.
ROBERTSON.
[Notes: _Francis I_. (1494-1547). King of France; the contemporary of
Henry VIII. and of Charles V., Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire. The
constant rivalry and ever recurring wars between Francis and the latter,
occupy a great part of European history during the first half of the
16th century.
_His more temperate rival, i.e.,_ Charles V.
_At the time when their empire was overturned, the_ _Romans, &c._ In 410
A.D., by the incursions of the Goths.]
* * * * *
THE PASSIONS.
(AN ODE FOR MUSIC.)
When Music, heavenly maid, was young,
While yet in early Greece she sung,
The Passions oft, to hear her shell,
Thronged around her magic cell,
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,
Possessed beyond the Muse's painting:
By turns they felt the glowing mind
Disturbed, delighted, raised, refined,--
Till once, 'tis said, when all were fired,
Filled with fury, rapt, inspired,
From the supporting myrtles round
They snatched her instruments of sound;
And, as they oft had heard, apart,
Sweet lessons of her forceful art,
Each, for Madness ruled the hour,
Would prove his own expressive power.
First Fear his hand, its skill to try,
Amid the chords bewildered laid,
And back recoiled, he knew not why,
E'en at the sound himself had made.
Next Anger rushed: his eyes on fire,
In lightnings owned his secret stings;
In one rude clash he struck the lyre,
And swept with hurried hand the strings.
With woful measures, wan Despair--
Low sullen sounds his grief beguiled:
A solemn, strange, and mingled air,
'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild.
But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair,
What was thy delighted measure?
Still it whispered promised pleasure,
And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail;
Still would her touch the scene prolong;
And from the rocks, the woods, the vale,
She called on Echo still through all the song;
And, where her sweetest theme she chose,
A soft responsive voice was heard at every close;
And hope, enchanted, smiled, and waved her golden
hair;--
And longer had she sung:--but, with a frown,
Revenge impatient rose:
He threw his blood-stained sword in thunder down,
And, with a withering look,
The war-denouncing trumpet took,
And blew a blast so loud and dread,
Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe!
And ever and anon he beat
The doubling drum with furious heat:
And though sometimes, each dreary pause between,
Dejected Pity at his side,
Her soul-subduing voice applied,
Yet still he kept his wild unaltered mien,
While each strained ball of sight seemed bursting from
his head.
Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fixed;
Sad proof of thy distressful state!
Of differing themes the veering song was mixed;
And now it courted Love, now raving called on Hate.
With eyes upraised, as one inspired,
Pale Melancholy sat retired;
And from her wild sequestered seat,
In notes by distance made more sweet,
Poured through the mellow horn her pensive soul;
And dashing soft from rocks around,
Bubbling runnels joined the sound:
Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole,
Or, o'er some haunted stream, with fond delay,
Round a holy calm diffusing,
Love of peace and lonely musing,--
In hollow murmurs died away.
But oh, how altered was its sprightlier tone!
When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue,
Her bow across her shoulder flung,
Her buskins gemmed with morning dew,
Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung,
The hunter's call to Faun and Dryad known!
The oak-crowned Sisters and their chaste-eyed Queen,
Satyrs and Sylvan boys, were seen
Peeping from forth their alleys green.
Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear,
And Sport leaped up, and seized his beechen spear.
Last came Joy's ecstatic trial;
He, with viny crown advancing,
First to the lively pipe his hand addressed;
But soon he saw the brisk awakening viol
Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best:
They would have thought, who heard the strain,
They saw in Tempe's vale her native maids,
Amidst the festal-sounding shades,
To some unwearied minstrel dancing;
While, as his flying fingers kissed the strings,
Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round;
Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound;
And he, amidst his frolic play,
As if he would the charming air repay,
Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings.
O Music! sphere-descended maid,
Friend of Pleasure, Wisdom's aid!
Why, goddess, why, to us denied,
Lay'st thou thy ancient lyre aside?
As in that loved, Athenian bower
You learned an all-commanding power.
Thy mimic soul; O nymph endeared!
Can well recall what then it heard.
Where is thy native simple heart
Devote to Virtue, Fancy, Art?
Arise, as in that elder time,
Warm, energetic, chaste, sublime!
Thy wonders in that god-like age,
Fill thy recording Sister's page;--
'Tis said, and I believe the tale,
Thy humblest reed could more prevail,
Had more of strength, diviner rage,
Than all which charms this laggard age,
E'en all at once together found
Cecilia's mingled world of sound;--
O bid our vain endeavours cease:
Revive the just designs of Greece:
Return in all thy simple state!
Confirm the tales her sons relate!
COLLINS.
[Notes: _William Collins_ (1720-1756). A poet, who throughout life
struggled with adversity, and who, though he produced little, refined
everything he wrote with a most fastidious taste and with elaborate
care.
_Shell_, according to a fashion common with the poets of the
first half of the 18th century, stands for lyre. The Latin word
_testudo_, a shell is often so used.
_Possessed beyond the Muse's painting_ = enthralled beyond what poetry
can describe.
_His own expressive power, i.e.,_ his power to express his own feelings.
_In lightnings owned his secret stings_ = in lightning-like touches
confessed the hidden fury which inspired him.
_Veering song_. The ever-changeful song.
_Her wild sequestered seat_. Sequestered properly is used of something
which, being in dispute, is deposited in a third person's hands: hence
of something set apart or in retirement.
_Round a holy calm diffusing_ = diffusing around a holy calm.
_Buskin_. A boot reaching above the ankle. _Gemmed_ = sparkling as with
gems.
Faun and Dryad_. Creatures with whom ancient mythology peopled the
woods.
_Their chaste-eyed Queen_ = Diana.
_Brown exercise_. Exercise is here personified and represented as brown
and sunburnt.
_Viol_. A stringed musical instrument.
_In Tempe's vale_. In Thessaly, especially connected with the worship of
Apollo, the god of poetry and music.
_Sphere-descended maid_. A metaphor common with the poets, and taken
from a Greek fancy most elaborately described in Plato's 'Republic,'
where the system of the universe is pictured as a series of whorls
linked in harmony.
_Thy mimic soul_. Thy soul apt to imitate.
_Devote_ = devoted. A form more close to that of the Latin participle,
from which it is derived.
_Thy recording Sister_ = the Muse of History.
_Cecilia's mingled world of sound_ = the organ. So St. Cecilia is called
in Dryden's Ode, "Inventress of the vocal frame."
_The just designs_ = the well-conceived, artistic designs.]
* * * * *
"A WHALE HUNT."
A tide of unusual height had carried the whale over a large bar of sand,
into the voe or creek in which he was now lying. So soon as he found the
water ebbing, he became sensible of his danger, and had made desperate
efforts to get over the shallow water, where the waves broke on the bar
but hitherto he had rather injured than mended his condition, having got
himself partly aground, and lying therefore particularly exposed to the
meditated attack. At this moment the enemy came down upon him. The front
ranks consisted of the young and hardy, armed in the miscellaneous
manner we have described; while, to witness and animate their efforts,
the young women, and the elderly persons of both sexes, took their place
among the rocks, which overhung the scene of action.
As the boats had to double a little headland, ere they opened the mouth
of the voe, those who came by land to the shores of the inlet had time
to make the necessary reconnaissances upon the force and situation of
the enemy, on whom they were about to commence a simultaneous attack by
land and sea.
This duty, the stout-hearted and experienced general--for so the Udaller
might be termed--would entrust to no eyes but his own; and, indeed, his
external appearance, and his sage conduct, rendered him alike qualified
for the command which he enjoyed. His gold-laced hat was exchanged for a
bearskin cap, his suit of blue broadcloth, with its scarlet lining, and
loops, and frogs of bullion, had given place to a red flannel jacket,
with buttons of black horn, over which he wore a seal-skin shirt
curiously seamed and plaited on the bosom, such as are used by the
Esquimaux, and sometimes by the Greenland whale-fishers. Sea-boots of
a formidable size completed his dress, and in his hand he held a large
whaling-knife, which he brandished, as if impatient to employ it in the
operation of _flinching_ the huge animal which lay before them,--that
is, the act of separating its flesh from its bones. Upon closer
examination, however, he was obliged to confess that the sport to which
he had conducted his friends, however much it corresponded with the
magnificent scale of his hospitality, was likely to be attended with its
own peculiar dangers and difficulties.
The animal, upwards of sixty feet in length, was lying perfectly still,
in a deep part of the voe into which it had weltered, and where it
seemed to await the return of tide, of which it was probably assured by
instinct. A council of experienced harpooners was instantly called, and
it was agreed that an effort should be made to noose the tail of this
torpid leviathan, by casting a cable around it, to be made fast by
anchors to the shore, and thus to secure against his escape, in case the
tide should make before they were able to dispatch him. Three boats were
destined to this delicate piece of service, one of which the Udaller
himself proposed to command, while Cleveland and Mertoun were to direct
the two others. This being decided, they sat down on the strand, waiting
with impatience until the naval part of the force should arrive in the
voe. It was during this interval, that Triptolemus Yellowley, after
measuring with his eyes the extraordinary size of the whale, observed,
that in his poor mind, "A wain[1] with six owsen,[2] or with sixty owsen
either, if they were the owsen of the country, could not drag siccan[3]
a huge creature from the water, where it was now lying, to the
sea-beach."
Trifling as this remark may seem to the reader, it was connected with a
subject which always fired the blood of the old Udaller, who, glancing
upon Triptolemus a quick and stern look, asked him what it signified,
supposing a hundred oxen could not drag the whale upon the beach? Mr.
Yellowley, though not much liking the tone with which the question was
put, felt that his dignity and his profit compelled him to answer as
follows:--"Nay, sir; you know yourself, Master Magnus Troil, and every
one knows that knows anything, that whales of siccan size as may not be
masterfully dragged on shore by the instrumentality of one wain with six
owsen, are the right and property of the Admiral, who is at this time
the same noble lord who is, moreover, Chamberlain of these isles."
"And I tell you, Mr. Triptolemus Yellowley," said the Udaller, "as I
would tell your master if he were here, that every man who risks his
life to bring that fish ashore, shall have an equal and partition,
according to our ancient and lovable Norse custom and wont; nay, if
there is so much as a woman looking on, that will but touch the cable,
she will be partner with us. All shall share that lend a hand, and never
a one else. So you, Master Factor, shall be busy as well as other folk,
and think yourself lucky to share like other folk. Jump into that boat"
(for the boats had by this time pulled round the headland), "and you, my
lads, make way for the factor in the stern-sheets--he shall be the first
man this day that shall strike the fish."
The three boats destined for this perilous service now approached the
dark mass, which lay like an islet in the deepest part of the voe,
and suffered them to approach without showing any sign of animation.
Silently, and with such precaution as the extreme delicacy of the
operation required, the intrepid adventurers, after the failure of their
first attempt, and the expenditure of considerable time, succeeded in
casting a cable around the body of the torpid monster, and in carrying
the ends of it ashore, when a hundred hands were instantly employed in
securing them. But ere this was accomplished, the tide began to make
fast, and the Udaller informed his assistants that either the fish must
be killed or at least greatly wounded ere the depth of water on the bar
was sufficient to float him; or that he was not unlikely to escape from
their joint prowess.
"Wherefore," said he, "we must set to work, and the factor shall have
the honour to make the first throw."
The valiant Triptolemus caught the word; and it is necessary to say that
the patience of the whale, in suffering himself to be noosed without
resistance, had abated his terrors, and very much lowered the creature
in his opinion. He protested the fish had no more wit, and scarcely more
activity, than a black snail; and, influenced by this undue contempt
of the adversary, he waited neither for a farther signal, nor a better
weapon, nor a more suitable position, but, rising in his energy, hurled
his graip with all his force against the unfortunate monster. The boats
had not yet retreated from him to the distance necessary to ensure
safety, when this injudicious commencement of the war took place.
Magnus Troil, who had only jested with the factor, and had reserved the
launching the first spear against the whale to some much more skilful
hand, had just time to exclaim, "Mind yourselves, lads, or we are all
stamped!" when the monster, roused at once from inactivity by the blow
of the factor's missile, blew, with a noise resembling the explosion of
a steam-engine, a huge shower of water into the air, and at the same
time began to lash the waves with its tail in every direction. The boat
in which Magnus presided received the shower of brine which the animal
spouted aloft; and the adventurous Triptolemus, who had a full share of
the immersion, was so much astonished and terrified by the consequences
of his own valorous deed, that he tumbled backwards amongst the feet of
the people, who, too busy to attend to him, were actively engaged in
getting the boat into shoal water, out of the whale's reach. Here he lay
for some minutes, trampled on by the feet of the boatmen, until they lay
on their oars to bale, when the Udaller ordered them to pull to
shore, and land this spare hand, who had commenced the fishing so
inauspiciously.
While this was doing, the other boats had also pulled off to safer
distance, and now, from these as well as from the shore, the unfortunate
native of the deep was overwhelmed by all kinds of missiles--harpoons
and spears flew against him on all sides--guns were fired, and each
various means of annoyance plied which could excite him to exhaust his
strength in useless rage. When the animal found that he was locked in
by shallows on all sides, and became sensible, at the same time, of the
strain of the cable on his body, the convulsive efforts which he made to
escape, accompanied with sounds resembling deep and loud groans, would
have moved the compassion of all but a practised whale-fisher. The
repeated showers which he spouted into the air began now to be mingled
with blood, and the waves which surrounded him assumed the same crimson
appearance. Meantime the attempts of the assailants were redoubled; but
Mordaunt Mertoun and Cleveland, in particular, exerted themselves to the
uttermost, contending who should display most courage in approaching the
monster, so tremendous in its agonies, and should inflict the most deep
and deadly wounds upon its huge bulk.
The contest seemed at last pretty well over; for although the animal
continued from time to time to make frantic exertions for liberty, yet
its strength appeared so much exhausted, that, even with the assistance
of the tide, which had now risen considerably, it was thought it could
scarcely extricate itself.
Magnus gave the signal to venture nearer to the whale, calling out at
the same time, "Close in, lads, she is not half so mad now--the Factor
may look for a winter's oil for the two lamps at Harfra--pull close in,
lads."
Ere his orders could be obeyed, the other two boats had anticipated
his purpose; and Mordaunt Mertoun, eager to distinguish himself above
Cleveland, had with the whole strength he possessed, plunged a half-pike
into the body of the animal. But the leviathan, like a nation whose
resources appear totally exhausted by previous losses and calamities,
collected his whole remaining force for an effort, which proved at once
desperate and successful. The wound, last received had probably reached
through his external defences of blubber, and attained some very
sensitive part of the system; for he roared loud, as he sent to the sky
a mingled sheet of brine and blood, and snapping the strong cable like a
twig, overset Mertoun's boat with a blow of his tail, shot himself, by
a mighty effort, over the bar, upon which the tide had now risen
considerably, and made out to sea, carrying with him a whole grove of
the implements which had been planted in his body, and leaving behind
him, on the waters, a dark red trace of his course.
SCOTT.
[Notes: [1] Waggon.
[2] Oxen.
[3] Such.]
* * * * *
VISION OF BELSHAZZAR.
The King was on his throne.
The Satraps throng'd the hall:
A thousand bright lamps shone
O'er that high festival.
A thousand cups of gold,
In Judah deem'd divine--
Jehovah's vessels hold
The godless heathen's wine!
In that same hour and hall,
The fingers of a hand
Came forth against the wall.
And wrote as if on sand:
The fingers of a man;--
A solitary hand
Along the letters ran,
And traced them like a wand.
The monarch saw, and shook,
And bade no more rejoice;
All bloodless wax'd his look,
And tremulous his voice.
"Let the men of lore appear,
The wisest of the earth,
And expound the words of fear,
Which mar our royal mirth."
Chaldea's seers are good,
But here they have no skill;
And the unknown letters stood
Untold and awful still.
And Babel's men of age
Are wise and deep in lore;
But now they were not sage,
They saw--but knew no more.
A captive in the land,
A stranger and a youth,
He heard the king's command,
He saw that writing's truth.
The lamps around were bright,
The prophecy in view;
He read it on that night,--
The morrow proved it true.
"Belshazzar's grave is made,
His kingdom pass'd away,
He, in the balance weigh'd,
Is light and worthless clay;
The shroud his robe of state,
His canopy the stone;
The Mede is at his gate!
The Persian on his throne!"
BYRON.
[Notes: _Belshazzar_, the last king of Babylon, lived probably in the
6th century B.C. He was defeated by the Medes and Persians combined.
_Satraps_. The governors or magistrates of provinces.
_A thousand cups of gold_, &c. Taken in the captivity of Judah.
_A captive in the land_ = the Prophet Daniel.]
* * * * *
YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND.
Ye mariners of England,
That guard our native seas,
Whose flag has braved a thousand years
The battle and the breeze!
Your glorious standard launch again,
To match another foe!
And sweep through the deep,
While the stormy winds do blow;
And the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy winds do blow.
The spirit of your fathers
Shall start from every wave!--
For the deck it was their field of fame,
And ocean was their grave;
Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell,
Your manly hearts shall glow,
As ye sweep through the deep
While the stormy winds do blow;
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy winds do blow.
Britannia needs no bulwarks,
No towers along the steep;
Her march is o'er the mountain-waves,
Her home is on the deep.
With thunders from her native oak,
She quells the floods below,
As they roar on the shore,
When the stormy winds do blow.
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy winds do blow.
The meteor flag of England
Shall yet terrific burn;
Till danger's troubled night depart,
And the star of peace return.
Then, then, ye ocean warriors!
Your song and feast shall flow
To the fame of your name,
When the storm has ceased to blow;
When the fiery fight is heard no more,
And the storm has ceased to blow.
CAMPBELL.
[Notes: _Blake_. Robert Blake (1598-1657), an English admiral under
Cromwell, chiefly distinguished for his victories over the Dutch.]
* * * * *
A SHIPWRECK.
One morning I can remember well, how we watched from the Hartland Cliffs
a great barque, which came drifting and rolling in before the western
gale, while we followed her up the coast, parsons and sportsmen, farmers
and Preventive men, with the Manby's mortar lumbering behind us in a
cart, through stone gaps and track-ways, from headland to headland. The
maddening excitement of expectation as she ran wildly towards the cliffs
at our feet, and then sheered off again inexplicably;--her foremast and
bowsprit, I recollect, were gone short off by the deck; a few rags of
sail fluttered from her main and mizen. But with all straining of eyes
and glasses, we could discern no sign of man on board. Well I recollect
the mingled disappointment and admiration of the Preventive men, as a
fresh set of salvors appeared in view, in the form of a boat's crew of
Clovelly fishermen; how we watched breathlessly the little black speck
crawling and struggling up in the teeth of the gale, under the shelter
of the land, till, when the ship had rounded a point into smoother
water, she seized on her like some tiny spider on a huge unwieldy
fly; and then how one still smaller black speck showed aloft on the
main-yard, and another--and then the desperate efforts to get the
topsail set--and how we saw it tear out of their hands again, and again,
and again, and almost fancied we could hear the thunder of its flappings
above the roar of the gale, and the mountains of surf which made the
rocks ring beneath our feet;--and how we stood silent, shuddering,
expecting every moment to see whirled into the sea from the plunging
yards one of those same tiny black specks, in each one of which was a
living human soul, with sad women praying for him at home! And then how
they tried to get her head round to the wind, and disappeared instantly
in a cloud of white spray--and let her head fall back again--and jammed
it round again, and disappeared again--and at last let her drive
helplessly up the bay, while we kept pace with her along the cliffs; and
how at last, when she had been mastered and fairly taken in tow, and was
within two miles of the pier, and all hearts were merry with the
hopes of a prize which would make them rich, perhaps, for years to
come--one-third, I suppose, of the whole value of her cargo--how she
broke loose from them at the last moment, and rushed frantically in upon
those huge rocks below us, leaping great banks of slate at the blow of
each breaker, tearing off masses of ironstone which lie there to this
day to tell the tale, till she drove up high and dry against the cliff,
and lay, like an enormous stranded whale, grinding and crashing herself
to pieces against the walls of her adamantine cage. And well I recollect
the sad records of the log-book which was left on board the deserted
ship; how she had been waterlogged for weeks and weeks, buoyed up by her
timber cargo, the crew clinging in the tops, and crawling down, when
they dared, for putrid biscuit-dust and drops of water, till the water
was washed overboard and gone; and then notice after notice, "On this
day such an one died," "On this day such an one was washed away"--the
log kept up to the last, even when there was only that to tell, by the
stern business-like merchant skipper, whoever he was; and how at last,
when there was neither food nor water, the strong man's heart seemed
to have quailed, or perhaps risen, into a prayer, jotted down in the
log--"The Lord have mercy on us!"--and then a blank of several pages,
and, scribbled with a famine-shaken hand, "Remember thy Creator in the
days of thy youth;"--and so the log and the ship were left to the rats,
which covered the deck when our men boarded her. And well I remember
the last act of that tragedy; for a ship has really, as sailors feel,
a personality, almost a life and soul of her own; and as long as her
timbers hold together, all is not over. You can hardly call her a
corpse, though the human beings who inhabited her, and were her soul,
may have fled into the far eternities; and so we felt that night, as we
came down along the woodland road, with the north-west wind hurling dead
branches and showers of crisp oak-leaves about our heads; till suddenly,
as we staggered out of the wood, we came upon such a picture as it would
have baffled Correggio, or Rembrandt himself, to imitate. Under a
wall was a long tent of sails and spars, filled with Preventive men,
fishermen, Lloyd's underwriters, lying about in every variety of strange
attitude and costume; while candles, stuck in bayonet-handles in the
wall, poured out a wild glare over shaggy faces and glittering weapons,
and piles of timber, and rusty iron cable, that glowed red-hot in the
light, and then streamed up the glen towards us through the salt misty
air in long fans of light, sending fiery bars over the brown transparent
oak foliage and the sad beds of withered autumn flowers, and glorifying
the wild flakes of foam, as they rushed across the light-stream, into
troops of tiny silver angels, that vanished into the night and hid
themselves among the woods from the fierce spirit of the storm. And
then, just where the glare of the lights and watch-fires was most
brilliant, there too the black shadows of the cliff had placed the point
of intensest darkness, lightening gradually upwards right and left,
between the two great jaws of the glen, into a chaos of grey mist, where
the eye could discern no form of sea or cloud, but a perpetual shifting
and quivering as if the whole atmosphere was writhing with agony in the
clutches of the wind.
The ship was breaking up; and we sat by her like hopeless physicians by
a deathbed-side, to watch the last struggle,--and "the effects of the
deceased." I recollect our literally warping ourselves down to the
beach, holding on by rocks and posts. There was a saddened awe-struck
silence, even upon the gentleman from Lloyd's with the pen behind his
ear. A sudden turn of the clouds let in a wild gleam of moonshine upon
the white leaping heads of the breakers, and on the pyramid of the
Black-church Rock, which stands in summer in such calm grandeur gazing
down on the smiling bay, with the white sand of Braunton and the red
cliffs of Portledge shining through its two vast arches; and against a
slab of rock on the right, for years afterwards discoloured with her
paint, lay the ship, rising slowly on every surge, to drop again with
a piteous crash as the wave fell back from the cliff, and dragged the
roaring pebbles back with it under the coming wall of foam. You have
heard of ships at the last moment crying aloud like living things in
agony? I heard it then, as the stumps of her masts rocked and reeled in
her, and every plank and joint strained and screamed with the dreadful
tension.
A horrible image--a human being shrieking on the rack; rose up before
me at those strange semi-human cries, and would not be put away--and I
tried to turn, and yet my eyes were riveted on the black mass, which
seemed vainly to implore the help of man against the stern ministers of
the Omnipotent.
Still she seemed to linger in the death-struggle, and we turned at last
away; when, lo! a wave, huger than all before it, rushed up the boulders
towards us. We had just time to save ourselves. A dull, thunderous
groan, as if a mountain had collapsed, rose above the roar of the
tempest; and we all turned with an instinctive knowledge of what had
happened, just in time to see the huge mass melt away into the boiling
white, and vanish for evermore. And then the very raving of the wind
seemed hushed with awe; the very breakers plunged more silently towards
the shore, with something of a sullen compunction; and as we stood and
strained our eyes into the gloom, one black plank after another crawled
up out of the darkness upon the head of the coming surge, and threw
itself at our feet like the corpse of a drowning man, too spent to
struggle more.
CHARLES KINGSLEY.
* * * * *
A SHIPWRECK.
Then rose from sea to sky the wild farewell,--
Then shrieked the timid, and stood still the brave,--
Then some leaped overboard with dreadful yell,
As eager to anticipate their grave;
And the sea yawned around her like a hell,
And down she sucked with her the whirling wave,
Like one who grapples with his enemy,
And strives to strangle him before he die.
And first one universal shriek there rushed,
Louder than the loud ocean, like a crash
Of echoing thunder; and then all was hushed,
Save the wild wind and the remorseless dash
Of billows; but at intervals there gushed,
Accompanied with a convulsive splash,
A solitary shriek, the bubbling cry
Of some strong swimmer in his agony.
BYRON.
* * * * *
THE HAPPY WARRIOR.
Who is the happy Warrior? Who is he
That every man in arms should wish to be?
--It is the generous Spirit, who when brought
Among the tasks of real life, hath wrought
Upon the plan that pleased his boyish thought:
Whose high endeavours are an inward light
That makes the path before him always bright:
Who, with a natural instinct to discern
What knowledge can perform, is diligent to learn:
Abides by this resolve, and stops not there,
But makes his moral being his prime care;
Who, doomed to go in company with Pain,
And Fear, and Bloodshed, miserable train!
Turns his necessity to glorious gain;
In face of these doth exercise a power
Which is our human nature's highest dower;
Controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves
Of their bad influence, and their good receives:
By objects, which might force the soul to abate
Her feeling, rendered more compassionate;
Is placable--because occasions rise
So often that demand such sacrifice;
More skilful in self knowledge, even more pure,
As tempted more; more able to endure,
As more exposed to suffering and distress;
Thence, also, more alive to tenderness.
--Tis he whose law is reason; who depends
Upon that law as on the best of friends;
Whence, in a state where men are tempted still
To evil for a guard against worse ill,
And what in quality or act is best
Doth seldom on a right foundation rest,
He labours good on good to fix, and owes
To virtue every triumph that he knows:
--Who, if he rise to station of command,
Rises by open means; and there will stand
On honourable terms, or else retire,
And in himself possess his own desire;
Who comprehends his trust, and to the same
Keeps faithful with a singleness of aim;
And therefore does not stoop, nor lie in wait
For wealth, or honours, or for worldly state:
Whom they must follow; on whose head must fall,
Like showers of manna, if they come at all;
Whose powers shed round him in the common strife,
Or mild concerns of ordinary life,
A constant influence, a peculiar grace;
But who, if he be called upon to face
Some awful moment to which Heaven has joined
Great issues, good or bad for human kind,
Is happy as a Lover; and attired
With sudden brightness, like a Man inspired;
And, through the heat of conflict, keeps the law
In calmness made, and sees what he foresaw:
Or if an unexpected call succeed,
Come when it will, is equal to the need:
--He who, though thus endued as with a sense
And faculty for storm and turbulence,
Is yet a Soul whose master-bias leans
To homefelt pleasures and to gentle scenes;
Sweet images! which, wheresoe'er he be,
Are at his heart; and such fidelity
It is his darling passion to approve;
More brave for this, that he hath much to love:--
'Tis, finally, the Man, who, lifted, high,
Conspicuous object in a Nation's eye,
Or left unthought of in obscurity,--
Who, with a toward or untoward lot,
Prosperous or adverse, to his wish or not--
Plays, in the many games of life, that one
Where what he most doth value must be won:
Whom neither shape of danger can dismay,
Nor thought of tender happiness betray;
Who not content that former worth stand fast,
Looks forward, persevering to the last,
From well to better, daily self-surpassed:
Who, whether praise of him must walk the earth
For ever, and to noble deeds give birth,
Or he must fall, to sleep without his fame,
And leave a dead unprofitable name--
Finds comfort in himself and in his cause;
And, while the mortal mist is gathering, draws
His breath in confidence of Heaven's applause:
This is the happy Warrior; this is he
That every Man in arms should wish to be.
Wordsworth.
[Notes: _Turns his necessity to glorious gain_. Turns the necessity
which lies on him of fellowship with pain, and fear, and bloodshed, into
glorious gain.
_More skilful in self knowledge, even more pure, as tempted more_.
"His self-knowledge and his purity are all the greater because of the
temptations he has had to withstand."
_Whose law is reason_ = whose every action is obedient to reason.
_In himself possess his own desire_. According to Aristotle, virtuous
activity is the highest reward the good man can attain; virtue has no
end beyond action; according to the modern proverb, "Virtue is its own
reward."
_More brave for this, that he hath much to love_. Here also Wordsworth
follows Aristotle in his description of the virtue of manliness. The
good man, according to Aristotle, is most brave of all in encountering
"the awful moment of great issues," in that he has the most to lose by
death.
_Not content that former worth stand fast_. Not content to rest on the
foundation of accomplished good and worthy deeds, solid though it be.
_Finds comfort in himself_. Compare: "In himself possess his own
desire."]
* * * * *
THE BLACK PRINCE.
He was the first great English captain, who showed what English soldiers
were, and what they could do against Frenchmen, and against all the
world. He was the first English Prince who showed what it was to be a
true gentleman. He was the first, but he was not the last. We have seen
how, when he died, Englishmen thought that all their hopes had died with
him. But we know that it was not so; we know that the life of a great
nation is not bound up in the life of a single man; we know that the
valour and the courtesy and the chivalry of England are not buried in
the grave of the Plantagenet Prince. It needs only a glance round the
country, to see that the high character of an English gentleman, of
which the Black Prince was the noble pattern, is still to be found
everywhere; and has since his time been spreading itself more and more
through classes, which in his time seemed incapable of reaching it. It
needs only a glance down the names of our own Cathedral (of Canterbury);
and the tablets on the walls, with their tattered flags, will tell you
in a moment that he, as he lies up there aloft, with his head resting on
his helmet, and his spurs on his feet, is but the first of a long
line of English heroes--that the brave men who fought at Sobraon and
Feroozeshah are the true descendants of those who fought at Cressy and
Poitiers.
And not to soldiers only, but to all who are engaged in the long warfare
of life, is his conduct an example. To unite in our lives the two
qualities expressed in his motto, "High spirit" and "reverent service,"
is to be, indeed, not only a true gentleman and a true soldier, but a
true Christian also. To show to all who differ from us, not only in war
but in peace, that delicate forbearance, that fear of hurting another's
feelings, that happy art of saying the right thing to the right person,
which he showed to the captive king, would indeed add a grace and a
charm to the whole course of this troublesome world, such as none can
afford to lose, whether high or low. Happy are they, who having this
gift by birth and station, use it for its highest purposes; still more
happy are they, who having it not by birth and station, have acquired
it, as it may be acquired, by Christian gentleness and Christian
charity.
And, lastly, to act in all the various difficulties of our every-day
life, with that coolness, and calmness, and faith in a higher power than
his own, which he showed when the appalling danger of his situation
burst upon him at Poitiers, would smooth a hundred difficulties, and
ensure a hundred victories. We often think that we have no power in
ourselves, no advantages of position, to help us against our many
temptations, to overcome the many obstacles we encounter. Let us take
our stand by the Black Prince's tomb, and go back once more in thought
to the distant fields of France. A slight rise in the wild upland plain,
a steep lane through vineyards and underwood, this was all that he had,
humanly speaking, on his side; but he turned it to the utmost use of
which it could be made, and won the most glorious of battles. So, in
like manner, our advantages may be slight--hardly perceptible to any
but ourselves--let us turn them to account, and the results will be a
hundredfold; we have only to adopt the Black Prince's bold and cheering
words, when first he saw his enemies, "God is my help. I must fight them
as best I can;" adding that lofty, yet resigned and humble prayer, which
he uttered when the battle was announced to be inevitable, and which has
since become a proverb, "God defend the right."
DEAN STANLEY'S _Memorials of Canterbury_.
[Notes: _The Black Prince_. Edward, the son of Edward III, and father of
Richard II. He not only won for the English the renown of conquest, but
befriended the early efforts after liberty. His untimely death plunged
England into the evils of a long minority under his son. The one stain
on his name is his massacre of the townsfolk of Limoges.
"_Reverent service_," or "I serve" (Ich dien), the motto adopted by the
Black Prince from the King of Bohemia, his defeated foe.
_Poitiers_. His victory won over the French king, John, whom he took
prisoner (1356).]
* * * * *
THE ASSEMBLY OF URI.
Let me ask you to follow me in spirit to the very home and birth-place
of freedom, to the land where we need not myth or fable to add aught to
the fresh and gladdening feeling with which we for the first time tread
the soil and drink the air of the immemorial democracy of Uri. It is one
of the opening days of May: it is the morning of Sunday; for men then
deem that the better the day the better the deed; they deem that the
Creator cannot be more truly honoured than in using, in His fear and in
His presence, the highest of the gifts which He has bestowed on man. But
deem not that, because the day of Christian worship is chosen for the
great yearly assembly of a Christian commonwealth, the more direct
sacred duties of the day are forgotten. Before we, in our luxurious
island, have lifted ourselves from our beds, the men of the mountains,
Catholic and Protestant alike, have already paid the morning's worship
in God's temple. They have heard the mass of the priest, or they have
listened to the sermon of the pastor, before some of us have awakened
to the fact that the morn of the holy day has come. And when I saw men
thronging the crowded church, or kneeling, for want of space within,
on the bare ground beside the open door, and when I saw them marching
thence to do the highest duties of men and citizens, I could hardly
forbear thinking of the saying of Holy Writ, that "Where the Spirit of
the Lord is, there is liberty." From the market-place of Altdorf, the
little capital of the Canton, the procession makes its way to the place
of meeting at Bozlingen. First marches the little army of the Canton, an
army whose weapons can never be used save to drive back an invader from
their land. Over their heads floats the banner, the bull's head of
Uri, the ensign which led men to victory on the fields of Sempach and
Morgarten. And before them all, on the shoulders of men clad in a garb
of ages past, are borne the famous horns, the spoils of the wild bull
of ancient days, the very horns whose blast struck such dread into the
fearless heart of Charles of Burgundy. Then, with their lictors before
them, come the magistrates of the commonwealth on horseback, the chief
magistrate, the Landammann, with his sword by his side. The people
follow the chiefs whom they have chosen to the place of meeting, a
circle in a green meadow with a pine forest rising above their heads and
a mighty spur of the mountain range facing them on the other side of the
valley. The multitude of the freemen take their seats around the chief
ruler of the commonwealth, whose term of office comes that day to an
end. The Assembly opens; a short space is first given t
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