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The Knickerbocker, or New-York Monthly Magazine, May 1844

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Title: The Knickerbocker, or New-York Monthly Magazine, May 1844

Author: Various

Editor: Lewis Gaylord Clark


        
Release date: July 30, 2007 [eBook #22172]

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE KNICKERBOCKER, OR NEW-YORK MONTHLY MAGAZINE, MAY 1844 ***




Produced by Barbara Tozier, Bill Tozier and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net









    T H E  K N I C K E R B O C K E R.

VOL. XXIII.      MAY, 1844.       NO. 5.




NAPOLEON BONAPARTE.

BY THOMAS CARLYLE.


The following article has been compiled from the different works of THOMAS
CARLYLE, and embodies all he has written, or at least published, about
Napoleon Bonaparte. We offer it in the absence of a more elaborate work on
this subject, which we hope one day to see from the pen of this gifted and
earnest writer. It is a glimpse of the insight of the clearest-headed Seer
of our age, into the noisiest great man of the last, about whom we listen
with pleasure to each new voice, perhaps critically and doubtingly, yet
for our own part colored by that absorbing, painful interest, which
induced us when a boy to close the book which first told us of his doings,
after having traced his meteoric flight to the 'monster meeting' at
Moscow, unable to proceed to the catastrophe; and it was months before we
could bring ourselves to read on, of the heroism which charmed, or the
glitter which dazzled us, to its final chaos and night. On Napoleon's
right to the title great, the character of his greatness, and what would
be left if the smoke-clouds, battle-glory and so on were torn away, we
will offer but a few words. Of the title in its best sense but few now
believe him worthy, perhaps no thinker or reflecting man. He is a volcano
rather than a sun, a destroyer more than a creator; and our sympathy is
mingled with little of that which we feel for the martyr; who dies rather
than sell his birthright, heaven, for any mess of earth's pottage, or for
him who spends his life in the search for truth, and in speaking it to
mankind, taking no heed for himself what he shall eat and wherewithal he
shall be clad. No! the feeling is far more akin to that which we have for
a deep-playing gambler, whom we know to have some noble impulses. How
eagerly, yet sorrowingly we watch his movements! The dice rattle, they are
thrown, and again thrown; thousands after thousands he wins and lays
aside; and at last, in the madness of the game, stakes the whole sum, with
his house, estate, all on the hazard of one cast. With beating heart we
listen to the rattling of the dice, and with strained gaze watch the blow.
The box is lifted--all is lost. Now we are excited by the daring of this
being, and feel deeply, more so if we know him to have something of a
better nature, some nobler impulses, but the interest is still in the
great gambler, not in the great _man_; and though his boldness startles,
and for the moment carries us away, yet ever with our admiration comes a
still small voice from the 'inner sanctuary,' which whispers of those whom
his winnings ruined, or the dependents who were reduced to beggary by his
loss. Would the _great_ man have played the game at all?

We have always felt that Napoleon stepped down from his greatness when he
let them hurry him away alive to that island-prison; and there is
reasoning in this feeling itself, which most persons feel on reading of
his career, which his worshippers would do well to consider in its various
bearings; for if Napoleon, (when the royal guard, his last hope, was cut
to pieces at Waterloo, and crying to Bertrand, 'It is finished,' he turned
and fled,) had placed himself before the last cannon which sent
destruction to his foes, and let its ball end his career and life
together, who is there but would feel that he was acting truer to his
greatness, than to 'eat his heart away' a captive? If throughout his
career we had seen the brave fighter for country, for principle, for
right, instead of for self, this feeling would never arise. Place
WASHINGTON in a similar situation; imagine him to have believed it best to
gather all his country could give him of hardy defenders, and on the
result of one battle let his country's fate be decided. The battle is
fought and lost; his army is routed and cut to pieces; he has asked for
liberty with his whole strength, with his whole soul, and the answer is
'No!' written with bayonets in blood, and voiced by the enemy's cannon.
Would WASHINGTON have been true to _his_ greatness in placing himself
before the last cannon? No! emphatically, no! With Napoleon he might have
cried, 'It is finished,' but then with the same calm brow yet bursting
heart, he would have resigned his sword to his conquerors; and if the
scaffold were his fate, met it with quiet dignity; or if the dungeon,
there calmly await the Almighty's time when he might again raise his right
arm for his country; still as great in the prison or on the scaffold, as
when he was at the head of conquering armies. Napoleon's intellectual
character was perceptive rather than deep; and there is an intense
concentrativeness about him, a power of throwing the whole effort of his
soul into the environment of the moment, which is remarkable; and not less
so the facility with which he changes that concentration from place to
place, from subject to subject. Probably no man ever had his whole mind so
much under the control of his will, at his fingers' ends, as it were; 'the
eye to see and the will to do.' But revert we to CARLYLE.

       *       *       *       *       *

Some call for Barras to be made commandant; he conquered in Thermidor.
Some, what is more to the purpose, bethink them of the Citizen BONAPARTE,
unemployed artillery officer who took Toulon. A man of head, a man of
action: Barras is named Commandant's Cloak; this young artillery officer
is named Commandant. He was in the gallery at the moment, and heard it; he
withdrew some half hour to consider with himself: after a half-hour of
grim compressed considering, to be or not to be, he answers _yea_. And
now, a man of head being at the head of it, the whole matter gets vital.
Swift to camp of Sablon, to secure the artillery; there are not twenty men
guarding it! A swift adjutant, Murat is the name of him, gallops, gets
thither some minutes within time, for Lepelletier was also on march that
way: the cannon are ours. And now beset this post and beset that; rapid
and firm; at Wicket of the Louvre, in Cul-de-sac Dauphin, in Rue St.
Honoré, from Pont Neuf all along the North Quays, southward to the Pont
_ci-devant_ Royal, rank round the sanctuary of the Tuilleries, a ring of
steel discipline; let every gunner have his match burning, and all men
stand to their arms. Lepelletier has seized the Church of Saint Roche; has
seized the Pont Neuf, our piquet there retreating thence without fire.
Stray shots fall from Lepelletier, rattle down on the very Tuilleries'
stair-case. On the other hand, women advance dishevelled, shrieking peace;
Lepelletier behind them waving his hat in sign that we shall fraternize.
Steady! The artillery officer is steady as bronze; can, if need were, be
quick as lightning. Lepelletier making nothing by messengers by fraternity
or hat-waving, bursts out, along the southern Quai Voltaire, along streets
and passages, treble-quick in huge veritable onslaught! Whereupon thou
bronze artillery officer--? 'Fire'! say the bronze lips. And roar and
thunder, roar and again roar, continual, volcano-like, goes his great gun,
in the Cul-de-sac Dauphin against the Church of Saint Roch; go his great
guns on the Pont Royal; go all his great guns--blow to air some two
hundred men, mainly about the Church of Saint Roch! Lepelletier cannot
stand such harsh play; no sectioner can stand it; the forty thousand yield
on all sides scour toward covert. The ship is over the bar; free she
bounds shoreward--amid shouting and vivats! Citizen Bonaparte is 'named
General of the Interior by acclamation;' quelled sections have to disarm
in such humor as they may; sacred right of insurrection is gone forever!
'It is false,' says Napoleon, 'that we fired first with blank charge; it
had been a waste of life to do that.' Most false; the firing was with
sharp and sharpest shot: to all men it was plain that here was no sport;
the rabbits and plinths of Saint Roch Church show splintered by it to this
hour. Singular: in old Broglie's time, six years ago, this whiff of grape
shot was promised; but it could not be given then; could not have profited
then. Now, however, the time has come for it and the man; and behold you
have it; and the thing we specifically call _French Revolution_ is blown
into space by it and become a thing that was!

The French revolution did disclose original men: among the twenty-five
millions, at least one or two units. Some reckon in the present stage of
the business, as many as three: Napoleon, Danton, Mirabeau. Whether more
will come to light, or of what sort, when the computation is quite
liquidated, one cannot say. Meanwhile, let the world be thankful for these
three; as indeed, the world is; loving original men, without limit, were
they never so questionable, well knowing how rare they are! To us,
accordingly, it is rather interesting to observe how on these three also,
questionable as they surely are, the old process is repeating itself; how
these also are getting known in their true likeness. A second generation,
relieved in some measure from the spectral hallucinations, hysterical
ophthalmia, and natural panic-delirium of the first contemporary one, is
gradually coming to discern and measure what its predecessor could only
execrate and shriek over; for, as our proverb said, the dust is sinking,
the rubbish-heaps disappear; the built house, such as it is, and was
appointed to be, stands visible, better or worse. Of Napoleon Bonaparte,
with so many bulletins, and such self-proclamation from artillery and
battle-thunder, loud enough to ring through the deafest brain, in the
remotest nook of this earth, and now, in consequence, with so many
biographies, histories and historical arguments for and against, it may be
said he can now shift for himself; that his true figure is in a fair way
of being ascertained. Doubtless it will be found one day, what
significance was in him; how, (we quote from a New-England book,) 'the man
was a divine missionary, though unconscious of it; and preached through
the cannon's throat that great doctrine, _La carrière ouverte aux talens_,
(the tools to him who can handle them,) which is our ultimate Political
Evangel, wherein alone can Liberty lie. Madly enough he preached it is
true, as enthusiasts and first missionaries are wont; with imperfect
utterance, amid much frothy rant; yet as articulately, perhaps, as the
case admitted. Or call him if you will, an American backwoodsman, who had
to fell unpenetrated forests, and battle with innumerable wolves, and did
not entirely forbear strong liquor, rioting, and even theft; whom,
nevertheless, the peaceful sower will follow, and, as he cuts the
boundless harvest, bless.' From 'the incarnate Moloch,' which the world
once was, onward to to this quiet version, there is a considerable
progress.

What are the conquests and expeditions of the whole corporation of
captains, from Walter the Pennyless to Napoleon Bonaparte, compared with
these 'moveable types' of Johannes Faust? Truly, it is a mortifying thing
for your conqueror to reflect, how perishable is the metal which he
hammers with such violence; how the kind earth will soon shroud up his
bloody foot-prints; and all which he achieved and skilfully piled
together, will be but like his own 'canvass city' of a camp; this evening
loud with life, to-morrow all struck and vanished, 'a few earth-pits and
heaps of straw!' For here, as always, it continues true, that the deepest
force is the stillest; that, as in the fable, the mild shining of the sun
shall accomplish what the fierce blustering of the tempest has in vain
essayed. Above all, it is ever to be kept in mind, that not by material
but by mental power, are men and their actions governed. How noiseless is
thought! No rolling of drums, no tramp of squadrons or immeasurable tumult
of baggage-wagons, attends its movements; in what obscure and sequestered
places may the head be meditating which is one day to be crowned with more
than imperial authority; for kings and emperors will be among its
ministering servants; it will rule not over, but _in_ all heads, and with
these, its solitary combinations of ideas, as with magic formulas, bend
the world to its will! The time may come, when Napoleon himself will be
better known for his laws than for his battles; and the victory of
Waterloo prove less momentous than the opening of the first mechanic's
institute.

Brother Ringletule, the missionary, inquired of Ram-Dass, a Hindoo
man-god, who had set up for godhead lately, what he meant to do then with
the sins of mankind? To which Ram-Dass at once answers, he had _fire
enough in his belly_ to burn up all the sins in the world. Ram-Dass was
right so far, and had a spice of sense in him; for surely it is the test
of every divine man this same, and without it he is not divine or great;
that he _have_ fire in him to burn up somewhat of the sins of the world,
of the miseries and errors of the world: why else is he there! Far be it
from us to say that a great man must needs with benevolence prepense,
become a 'friend of humanity;' nay, that such professional self-conscious
friends are not the fatalest kind of persons to be met with in our day.
All greatness is unconscious or it is little and naught. And yet a great
man without _such_ fire in him, burning dim or developed as a divine
behest in his heart of hearts, never resting till it be fulfilled, were a
solecism in nature. A great man is ever, as the transcendentalists speak,
possessed with an _idea_. Napoleon, himself not the superfinest of great
men, and balanced sufficiently with prudence and egoisms, had
nevertheless, as is clear enough, an idea to start with; the idea that
democracy was the cause of man, the right and infinite cause. Nay, to the
very last, he had a kind of idea, that, namely, of 'the tools to him that
can handle them;' really one of the best ideas yet promulgated on that
matter, or rather the one true central idea, toward which all the others,
if they tend any whither, must tend. Unhappily, it was only in the
military province that Napoleon could realize this idea of his, being
forced to fight for himself the while; before he got it tried to any
extent in the civil province of things, his head by much victory grew
light, (no head can stand more than its quantity,) and he lost head, as
they say, and became a selfish ambitionist and quack, and was hurled out,
leaving his idea to be realized, in the civil province of things, by
others! Thus was Napoleon; thus are all great men: children of the idea;
or, in Ram-Dass' phraseology, furnished with fire to burn up the miseries
of men.

Napoleon, Danton, Mirabeau, with fire-words (of public speaking) and fire
whirlwinds (of cannon and musketry,) which for a season darkened the air,
are perhaps at bottom but superficial phenomena.

Napoleon was the 'armed soldier of democracy,' invincible while he
continued true to that. · · · He does by no means seem to me so great a
man as Cromwell. His enormous victories, which reached over all Europe,
while Cromwell abode mainly in our little England, are but as high
_stilts_ on which the man is seen standing; the stature of the man is not
altered thereby. I find in him no such sincerity as in Cromwell; only a
far inferior sort. No silent walking, through long years, with the Awful,
Unnameable, of this universe; 'walking with God' as he called it; and
faith and strength in that alone: _latent_ thought and valor, content to
lie latent, then burst out as in a blaze of heaven's lightning! Napoleon
lived in an age when God was no longer believed; the meaning of all
Silence, Latency, was thought to be Nonentity: he had to begin not out of
the Puritan Bible, but out of poor, sceptical encyclopedias. This was the
length the man carried it. Meritorious to get so far. His compact, prompt,
every way articulate character, is in itself perhaps small compared with
our great chaotic inarticulate Cromwell's. Instead of 'dumb prophet
struggling to speak,' we have a portentious mixture of the Quack! Hume's
notion of the Fanatic-Hypocrite, with such truth as it has, will apply
much better to Napoleon than it did to Cromwell, to Mahomet or the like,
where indeed, taken strictly, it has hardly any truth at all. An element
of blameable ambition shows itself from the first in this man; gets the
victory over him at last, and involves him and his work in ruin.

'False as a bulletin' became a proverb in Napoleon's time. He makes what
excuse he could for it: that it was necessary to mislead the enemy, to
keep up his own men's courage, etc. On the whole these are no excuses. A
man in no case has any liberty to tell lies. It had been in the long run
better for Napoleon too if he had not told any. In fact, if a man have any
purpose beyond the hour and day, meant to be found extant next day, what
good can it ever be to promulgate lies? The lies are found out; ruinous
penalty is exacted for them. No man will believe the liar next time, even
when he speaks truth, when it is of the last importance that he be
believed. The old cry of the 'wolf!' A lie is _no_-thing; you cannot of
nothing make something; you make _nothing_ at last, and lose your labour
in the bargain.

Yet Napoleon _had_ a sincerity: we are to distinguish between what is
superficial and what is fundamental insincerity. Across these outer
manoeuvrings and quackeries of his, which were many and most blameable,
let us discern withal that the man had a certain instinctive ineradicable
feeling for reality; and did base himself upon fact so long as he had any
basis. He has an instinct of nature better than his culture was. His
_savans_, Bourrienne tells us, in that voyage to Egypt were one evening
busily occupied arguing that there could be no God. They had proved it to
their satisfaction by all manner of logic. Napoleon, looking up into the
stars, answers, 'Very ingenious, Messieurs; but _who made_ all that?' The
Atheistic logic runs off from him like water; the great Fact stares him in
the face. 'Who made all that?' So too in practice; he, as every man that
can be great, or have victory in this world, sees through all
entanglements, the practical heart of the matter; drives straight toward
that. When the steward of his Tuilleries Palace was exhibiting the new
upholstery, with praises and demonstrations, how glorious it was and how
cheap withal, Napoleon, making little answer, asked for a pair of
scissors, clipped one of the gold tassels from a window-curtain, put it in
his pocket, and walked on. Some days afterward he produced it at the right
moment, to the horror of the upholstery functionary: it was not gold but
tinsel! In Saint Helena, it is notable how he still, to his last days,
insists on the practical, the real. 'Why talk and complain? Above all, why
quarrel with one another? There is no _resultat_ in it; it comes to
nothing that we can _do_. Say nothing if one can do nothing!' He speaks
often so to his poor, discontented followers; he is like a piece of silent
Strength in the middle of their morbid querulousness there.

And accordingly, was there not what we can call a _faith_ in him, genuine
as far as it went? That this new enormous Democracy, asserting itself here
in the French revolution is an insuppressible fact, which the whole world,
with its old forces and institutions cannot put down: this was a true
insight of his, and took his conscience along with it--a _faith_. And did
he not interpret the dim purport of it well? 'The implements to him who
can handle them.' This actually is the truth, and even the whole truth; it
includes whatever the French revolution, or any revolution could mean.
Napoleon, in his first period, was a true Democrat. And yet by the nature
of him, fastened too by his military trade, he knew that democracy, if it
were a true thing at all, could not be an anarchy: the man had a
heart-hatred for anarchy. On that twentieth of June, (1792,) Bourrienne
and he sat in a coffee-house as the mail rolled by. Napoleon expresses the
deepest contempt for persons in authority that they do not restrain this
rabble. On the tenth of August he wonders there is no one to command these
poor Swiss; they could conquer if there were. Such a faith in democracy,
yet hatred of anarchy it is, that carries Napoleon through all his great
work. Through his brilliant Italian campaigns, onward to the peace of
Luben, one would say his inspiration is: 'Triumph to the French
revolution; assertion of it against these Austrian Simulacra that pretend
to call it a simulacrum!' Withal, however, he feels, and has a right to
feel, how necessary a strong authority is; how the revolution cannot
prosper at all without such. To bridle in that great devouring,
self-devouring French revolution; to _tame_ it, so that its intrinsic
purpose can be made good; that it may become organic, and be able to live
amongst other organisms and _formed_ things, not as a wasting destruction
alone; is not this still what he partly aimed at, as the true purport of
his life; nay, what he actually managed to do? Through Wagrams,
Austerlitzes; triumph after triumph; he triumphed so far. There was an eye
to see in this man, a soul to dare and do. He rose naturally to be the
king. All men saw that he _was_ such. The common soldiers used to say on
the march: 'These babbling _avocats_ up at Paris: all talk and no work?
What wonder it runs all wrong! We shall have to go and put our _petit
corporal_ there!' They went and put him there; they and France at large.
Chief-consulship, emperorship, victory over Europe; till the poor
lieutenant of _La Fère_, not unnaturally, might seem to himself the
greatest of all men that had been in the world for some ages.

But at this point the fatal charlatan-element got the upper-hand. He
apostatized from his old faith in facts, took to believing in semblances;
strove to connect himself with Austrian dynasties, popedoms, with the old
false feudalities which he once saw clearly to be false; considered that
_he_ would found 'his dynasty' and so forth; that the enormous French
revolution meant only that! The man was 'given up to strong delusion that
he should believe a lie;' a fearful but most sure thing. He did not know
true from false now when he looked at them; the fearfulest penalty a man
pays for yielding to untruth of heart. _Self_ and false ambition had now
become his god: _self_-deception once yielded to, _all_ other deceptions
follow naturally, more and more. What a paltry patch-work of theatrical
paper-mantles, tinsel and mummery, had this man wrapped his own reality
in, thinking to make it more real thereby! His hollow Pope's-Concordat,
pretending to be a reëstablishment of Catholicism, felt by himself to be
the method of extirpating it, '_la vaccine de la religion_;' his
ceremonial coronations, consecrations by the old Italian chimera in Notre
Dame there; 'wanting nothing to complete the pomp of it but the half
million who had died to put an end to all that!' Cromwell's inauguration
was by the sword and Bible; what we must call a genuinely _true_ one.
Sword and Bible were borne before him, without any chimera. Were not these
real emblems of Puritanism; its true decoration and insignia? It had used
them both in a very real manner, and pretended to stand by them now! But
this poor Napoleon mistook; he believed too much in the _dupeability_ of
men; saw no fact deeper in man than hunger and this. He was mistaken. Like
a man that should build upon cloud; his house and he falls down in
confused wreck, and depart out of the world.

Alas! in all of us this charlatan-element exists; and might be developed,
were the temptation strong enough. 'Lead us not into temptation!' But it
is fatal, I say, that it _be_ developed. The thing into which it enters as
a cognizable ingredient is doomed to be altogether transitory; and,
however huge it may _look_, is in itself small. Napoleon's working,
accordingly, what was it with all the noise it made? A flash as of
gunpowder wide spread; a blazing up as of dry heath. For an hour the whole
universe seems wrapt in smoke and flame; but only for an hour. It goes
out. The universe, with its old mountains and streams, its stars above and
kind soil beneath, is still there.

The Duke of Weimar told his friends always to be of courage; this
Napoleonism was unjust, a falsehood, and could not last. It is true
doctrine. The heavier this Napoleon trampled on the world, holding it
tyrannously down, the fiercer would the world's recoil against him be, one
day. Injustice pays itself with frightful compound interest. I am not sure
but he had better lost his best park of artillery, or had his best
regiment drowned in the sea, than shot that poor German bookseller, Palm!
It was a palpable, tyrannous, murderous injustice, which no man, let him
paint an inch thick, could make out to be other. It burnt deep into the
hearts of men, it and the like of it; suppressed fire flashed in the eyes
of men, as they thought of it, waiting their day! Which day _came_:
Germany rose round him. What Napoleon _did_ will amount in the long run to
what he did _justly_; what Nature with her laws will sanction. To what of
reality was in him; to that and nothing more. The rest was all smoke and
waste. _La carrière ouverte aux talens:_ that great true message, which
has yet to articulate and fulfil itself every where, he left in a most
inarticulate state. He was a great _ébauche_, rude-draught; as indeed what
great man is not? Left in too rude a state, alas!

His notions of the world, as he expresses them there at St. Helena, are
almost tragical to consider. He seems to feel the most unaffected surprise
that it has all gone so; that he is flung out on the rock here, and the
world is still moving on its axis. France is great, and all great; and at
bottom, he is France. England itself he says is by nature only an
appendage of France; 'another isle of Oberon to France.' So it was _by
nature_, by Napoleon-nature; and yet look how in fact--HERE AM I! He
cannot understand it; that France was not all great, that he was not
France. 'Strong delusion,' that he should believe the thing to be which
_is_ not! The compact, clear-seeing, decisive Italian nature of him,
strong, genuine, which he once had, has enveloped itself, half dissolved
itself, in a turbid atmosphere of French fanfaronade. The world was not
disposed to be trodden down under foot; to be bound into masses, and built
together as _he_ liked, for a pedestal for France and him: the world has
quite other purposes in view! Napoleon's astonishment is extreme. But
alas, what help now! He had gone that way of his; and Nature had also gone
her way. Having once parted with reality, he tumbles helpless in vacuity;
no rescue for him. He had to sink there mournfully as man seldom did; and
break his great heart and die--this poor Napoleon; a great implement too
soon wasted, till it was useless; our last Great Man!




THE FLORAL RESURRECTION.

BY THE SHEPHERD OF SHARONDALE.


  Welcome, sweet flowers! bright Summer's poetry!
    I hail your fragrant coming, and again
  With joy I read your brilliant imagery
    Written once more in nature's holiest strain:
  The lowly cottage, and the princely hall
  Your advent cherisheth--ye are all to all.

  Rising in glory from their winter graves,
    The painted Tulip comes, and Daisy fair,
  And o'er the brook the fond Narcissus waves
    Her golden cup--her image loving there.
  Those early flowers their glowing tributes bring
  To weave a chaplet round the brow of Spring.

  The sultry sun of June looks down, and then
    Comes forth the lovely rose, the garden's pride,
  To herald summer over glade and glen,
    O'er wild and waste, o'er mead and mountain side:
  Proudly she rears her crest on high, the vain
  And gay pursuivant of a brilliant train.

  And now, bright Dahlia, heartless one, appear!
    Thy time has come to join the festival:
  Come, Peru's daughter, belle of night! dost fear
    To wear in glorious day thy coronal?
  And thou, pale exile from the holy land,
  Imperial Lily! come and join the band!

  See, o'er the lattice creeps the Eglantine,
    And there the Jasmine clambers up the wall
  To twine her wreaths with Flora's blushing queen,
    Rejoicing all in summer's carnival:
  How kind of them to deck the shepherd's cot,
  And with their presence cheer his humble lot!

  I love ye, flowers; your odors ever bring
    Back visions of the past: I love ye well;
  From the lone Primrose, nursling of the Spring,
    Unto the beauteous Aster, Autumn's belle,
  Or reared on verdant field, or ruined wall,
  I love ye all, sweet flowers!--I love ye all!




THE LEGEND OF DON RODERICK.

NUMBER THREE.


The scattered fugitives of the Christian army spread terror throughout the
land. The inhabitants of the towns and villages gathered around them as
they applied at their gates for food, or laid themselves down, faint and
wounded, beside the public fountains. When they related the tale of their
defeat, old men shook their heads and groaned, and the women uttered cries
and lamentations. So strange and unlooked-for a calamity filled them with
consternation and despair; for it was long since the alarm of war had
sounded in their land: and this was a warfare that carried chains and
slavery, and all kinds of horrors, in its train.

Don Roderick was seated with his beauteous queen, Exilona, in the royal
palace which crowned the rocky summit of Toledo, when the bearer of
ill-tidings came galloping over the bridge of the Tagus. 'What tidings
from the army?' demanded the king, as the panting messenger was brought
into his presence. 'Tidings of great wo!' exclaimed the soldier. 'The
prince has fallen in battle. I saw his head and surcoat upon a Moorish
lance; and the army was overthrown and fled!'

At hearing these words, Roderick covered his face with his hands, and for
some time sat in silence; and all his courtiers stood mute and aghast, and
no one dared to speak a word. In that awful space of time passed before
his thoughts all his errors and his crimes, and all the evil that had been
predicted in the necromantic tower. His mind was filled with horror and
confusion, for the hour of his destruction seemed at hand: but he subdued
his agitation by his strong and haughty spirit; and, when he uncovered his
face, no one could read on his brow the trouble and agony of his heart.
Still, every hour brought fresh tidings of disaster. Messenger after
messenger came spurring into the city, distracting it with new alarms. The
infidels, they said, were strengthening themselves in the land; host after
host were pouring in from Africa: the sea-coast of Andalusia glittered
with spears and scimitars. Bands of turbaned horsemen had overrun the
plains of Sidonia, even to the banks of the Guadiana. Fields were laid
waste, towns and cities plundered, the inhabitants carried into captivity,
and the whole country lay in smoking desolation.

Roderick heard all these tidings with an undaunted aspect; nor did he ever
again betray sign of consternation: but the anxiety of his soul was
evident in his warlike preparations. He issued orders that every noble and
prelate of his kingdom should put himself at the head of his retainers,
and take the field; and that every man capable of bearing arms should
hasten to his standard, bringing whatever horse, and mule, and weapon he
possessed: and he appointed the plain of Cordova for the place where the
army was to assemble. Throwing by, then, all the trappings of his late
slothful and voluptuous life, and arming himself for warlike action, he
departed from Toledo at the head of his guard, composed of the flower of
the youthful nobility. His queen, Exilona, accompanied him; for she craved
permission to remain in one of the cities of Andalusia, that she might be
near her lord in this time of peril.

Among the first who appeared to hail the arrival of the king at Cordova,
was the Bishop Oppas, the secret partisan of the traitor Julian. He
brought with him his two nephews, Evan and Siseburto, the sons of the late
king Witiza; and a great host of vassals and retainers, all well armed and
appointed, for they had been furnished, by Count Julian, with a part of
the arms sent by the king to Africa. The bishop was smooth of tongue, and
profound in his hypocrisy: his pretended zeal and devotion, and the horror
with which he spoke of the treachery of his kinsman, imposed upon the
credulous spirit of the king, and he was readily admitted into his most
secret council.

The alarm of the infidel invasion had spread throughout the land, and
roused the Gothic valor of the inhabitants. On receiving the orders of
Roderick, every town and hamlet, every mountain and valley, had sent forth
its fighting men, and the whole country was on the march toward Andalusia.
In a little while there were gathered together, on the plain of Cordova,
near fifty thousand horsemen, and a countless host of foot-soldiers. The
Gothic nobles appeared in burnished armor, curiously inlaid, and adorned
with chains and jewels of gold, and ornaments of precious stones, and
silken scarfs, and surcoats of brocade, or velvet richly embroidered;
betraying the luxury and ostentation with which they had declined from the
iron hardihood of their warlike sires. As to the common people, some had
lances and shields and swords and crossbows, but the greater part were
unarmed, or provided merely with slings, and clubs studded with nails, and
with the iron implements of husbandry; and many had made shields for
themselves from the doors and windows of their habitations. They were a
prodigious host, and appeared, say the Arabian chroniclers, like an
agitated sea; but, though brave in spirit, they possessed no knowledge of
warlike art, and were ineffectual through lack of arms and discipline.

Several of the most ancient and experienced cavaliers, beholding the state
of the army, advised Don Roderick to await the arrival of more regular
troops, which were stationed in Iberia, Cantabria, and Gallia Gothica; but
this counsel was strenuously opposed by the Bishop Oppas; who urged the
king to march immediately against the infidels. 'As yet,' said he, 'their
number is but limited; but every day new hosts arrive, like flocks of
locusts, from Africa. They will augment faster than we; they are living,
too, at our expense, and, while we pause, both armies are consuming the
substance of the land.'

King Roderick listened to the crafty counsel of the bishop, and determined
to advance without delay. He mounted his war horse, Orelia, and rode among
his troops assembled on that spacious plain, and wherever he appeared he
was received with acclamations; for nothing so arouses the spirit of the
soldier as to behold his sovereign in arms. He addressed them in words
calculated to touch their hearts and animate their courage. 'The
Saracens,' said he, 'are ravaging our land, and their object is our
conquest. Should they prevail, your very existence as a nation is at an
end. They will overturn your altars; trample on the cross; lay waste your
cities; carry off your wives and daughters, and doom yourselves and sons
to hard and cruel slavery. No safety remains for you but in the prowess of
your arms. For my own part, as I am your king, so will I be your leader,
and will be the foremost to encounter every toil and danger.'

The soldiery answered their monarch with loud acclamations, and solemnly
pledged themselves to fight to the last gasp in defence of their country
and their faith. The king then arranged the order of their march: all
those who were armed with cuirasses and coats of mail were placed in the
front and rear; the centre of the army was composed of a promiscuous
throng, without body armor, and but scantily provided with weapons.

When they were about to march, the king called to him a noble cavalier
named Ramiro, and delivering him the royal standard, charged him to guard
it well for the honor of Spain; scarcely, however, had the good knight
received it in his hand, when he fell dead from his horse, and the staff
of the standard was broken in twain. Many ancient courtiers who were
present looked upon this as an evil omen, and counselled the king not to
set forward on his march that day; but, disregarding all auguries and
portents, he ordered the royal banner to be put upon a lance, and gave it
in charge of another standard-bearer; then commanding the trumpets to be
sounded, he departed at the head of his host to seek the enemy.

The field where this great army assembled was called, from the solemn
pledge given by the nobles and the soldiery, _El campo de la verdad_; or,
The field of Truth; a name, says the sage chronicler Abul Cassim, which it
bears even to the present day.

The hopes of Andalusia revived, as this mighty host stretched in
lengthened lines along its fertile plains; from morning until night it
continued to pour along, with sound of drum and trumpet; it was led on by
the proudest nobles and bravest cavaliers of the land, and, had it
possessed arms and discipline, might have undertaken the conquest of the
world.

After a few days' march, Don Roderick arrived in sight of the Moslem army,
encamped on the banks of the Guadalete, where that beautiful stream winds
through the fertile land of Xeres. The infidel host was far inferior in
number to the Christians; but then it was composed of hardy and dexterous
troops, seasoned to war, and admirably armed. The camp shone gloriously in
the setting sun, and resounded with the clash of cymbal, the note of the
trumpet, and the neighing of fiery Arabian steeds. There were swarthy
troops from every nation of the African coast, together with legions from
Syria and Egypt, while the light Bedouins were careering about the
adjacent plain. What grieved and incensed the spirits of the Christian
warriors, however, was to behold, a little apart from the Moslem host, an
encampment of Spanish cavaliers, with the banner of Count Julian waving
above their tents. They were ten thousand in number, valiant and hardy
men, the most experienced of Spanish soldiery, most of them having served
in the African wars; they were well armed and appointed also, with the
weapons of which the count had beguiled his sovereign; and it was a
grievous sight to behold such good soldiers arrayed against their country
and their faith.

The Christians pitched their tents about the hour of vespers, at a short
league distant from the enemy, and remained gazing with anxiety and awe
upon this barbaric host that had caused such terror and desolation in the
land: for the first sight of a hostile encampment in a country disused to
war, is terrible to the newly enlisted soldier. A marvellous occurrence is
recorded by the Arabian chroniclers as having taken place in the Christian
camp; but discreet Spanish writers relate it with much modification, and
consider it a stratagem of the wily Bishop Oppas, to sound the loyalty of
the Christian cavaliers.

As several leaders of the army were seated with the bishop in his tent,
conversing on the dubious fortunes of the approaching contest, an ancient
pilgrim appeared at the entrance. He was bowed down with years, his snowy
beard descended to his girdle, and he supported his tottering steps with a
palmer's staff. The cavaliers rose and received him with great reverence
as he advanced within the tent. Holding up his withered hand, 'Wo, wo to
Spain!' exclaimed he, 'for the vial of the wrath of heaven is about to be
poured out. Listen, warriors, and take warning. Four months since, having
performed my pilgrimage to the sepulchre of our Lord in Palestine, I was
on my return toward my native land. Wearied and wayworn, I lay down one
night to sleep beneath a palm tree, by the side of a fountain, when I was
awakened by a voice saying unto me, in soft accents, 'Son of sorrow, why
sleepest thou?' I opened my eyes, and beheld one of a fair and beauteous
countenance, in shining apparel and with glorious wings, standing by the
fountain; and I said, 'Who art thou who callest upon me in this deep hour
of the night?'

''Fear not,' replied the stranger, 'I am an angel from heaven, sent to
reveal unto thee the fate of thy country. Behold the sins of Roderick have
come up before God, and his anger is kindled against him, and he has given
him up to be invaded and destroyed. Hasten then to Spain, and seek the
camp of thy countrymen. Warn them that such only shall be saved as shall
abandon Roderick; but those who adhere to him shall share his punishment,
and shall fall under the sword of the invader.''

The pilgrim ceased, and passed forth from the tent; certain of the
cavaliers followed him to detain him, that they might converse further
with him about these matters, but he was no where to be found. The
sentinel before the tent said, 'I saw no one come forth, but it was as if
a blast of wind passed by me, and there was a rustling as of dry leaves.'

The cavaliers remained looking upon each other with astonishment. The
Bishop Oppas sat with his eyes fixed upon the ground, and shadowed by his
overhanging brow. At length, breaking silence, in a low and faltering
voice, 'Doubtless,' said he, 'this message is from God; and since he has
taken compassion upon us, and given us notice of his impending judgment,
it behooves us to hold grave council, and determine how best we may
accomplish his will and avert his displeasure.'

The chiefs still remained silent, as men confounded. Among them was a
veteran noble named Pelistes. He had distinguished himself in the African
wars, fighting side by side with Count Julian, but the latter had never
dared to tamper with his faith, for he knew his stern integrity. Pelistes
had brought with him to the camp his only son, who had never drawn a sword
except in tourney. When the young man saw that the veterans held their
peace, the blood mantled in his cheek, and, overcoming his modesty, he
broke forth with a generous warmth: 'I know not, cavaliers,' said he,
'what is passing in your minds, but I believe this pilgrim to be an envoy
from the devil; for none else could have given such dastard and perfidious
counsel. For my own part, I stand ready to defend my king, my country, and
my faith. I know no higher duty than this, and if God thinks fit to strike
me dead in the performance of it, his sovereign will be done!'

When the young man had risen to speak, his father had fixed his eyes upon
him with a grave and stern demeanor, leaning upon a two-handed sword. As
soon as the youth had finished, Pelistes embraced him with a father's
fondness. 'Thou hast spoken well, my son,' said he; 'if I held my peace at
the counsel of this losel pilgrim, it was but to hear thy opinion, and to
learn whether thou wert worthy of thy lineage and of the training I had
given thee. Hadst thou counselled otherwise than thou hast done, hadst
thou shown thyself craven and disloyal, so help me God, I would have
struck off thy head with this weapon which I hold in my hand. But thou
hast counselled like a loyal and a Christian knight, and I thank God for
having given me a son worthy to perpetuate the honors of my line. As to
this pilgrim, be he saint or be he devil, I care not; this much I promise,
that if I am to die in defence of my country and my king, my life shall be
a costly purchase to the foe. Let each man make the same resolve, and I
trust we shall yet prove the pilgrim a lying prophet.' The words of
Pelistes roused the spirits of many of the cavaliers; others, however,
remained full of anxious foreboding, and when this fearful prophecy was
rumored about the camp, as it presently was by the emissaries of the
bishop, it spread awe and dismay among the soldiery.

On the following day, the two armies remained regarding each other with
wary but menacing aspect. About noontide, King Roderick sent forth a
chosen force of five hundred horse and two hundred foot, the best armed of
his host, to skirmish with the enemy, that, by gaining some partial
advantage, they might raise the spirits of the army. They were led on by
Theodomir, the same Gothic noble who had signalised himself by first
opposing the invasion of the Moslems.

The Christian squadrons paraded with flying pennons in the valley which
lay between the armies. The Arabs were not slow in answering their
defiance. A large body of horsemen sallied forth to the encounter,
together with three hundred of the followers of Count Julian. There was
hot skirmishing about the field, and on the banks of the river; many
gallant feats were displayed on either side, and many valiant warriors
were slain. As the night closed in, the trumpets from either camp summoned
the troops to retire from the combat. In this day's action the Christians
suffered greatly in the loss of their distinguished cavaliers; for it is
the noblest spirits who venture most, and lay themselves open to danger;
and the Moslem soldiers had instructions to single out the leaders of the
adverse host. All this is said to have been devised by the perfidious
Bishop Oppas, who had secret communications with the enemy, while he
influenced the councils of the king; and who trusted that by this
skirmishing warfare the power of the Christian troops would be cut off,
and the rest disheartened.

On the following morning, a larger force was ordered out to skirmish, and
such of the soldiery as were unarmed were commanded to stand ready to
seize the horses and strip off the armor of the killed and wounded. Among
the most illustrious of the warriors who fought that day was Pelistes, the
Gothic noble who had sternly checked the tongue of the Bishop Oppas. He
led to the field a large body of his own vassals and retainers, and of
cavaliers trained up in his house, who had followed him to the wars in
Africa, and who looked up to him more as a father than a chieftain. Beside
him was his only son, who now for the first time was fleshing his sword in
battle. The conflict that day was more general and bloody than the day
preceding; the slaughter of the Christian warriors was immense, from their
lack of defensive armour; and as nothing could prevent the flower of the
Gothic chivalry from spurring to the combat, the field was strewed with
the bodies of the youthful nobles. None suffered more, however, than the
warriors of Pelistes. Their leader himself was bold and hardy, and prone
to expose himself to danger; but years and experience had moderated his
early fire; his son, however, was eager to distinguish himself in this,
his first essay, and rushed with impetuous ardor into the hottest of the
battle. In vain his father called to caution him; he was ever in the
advance, and seemed unconscious of the perils that surrounded him. The
cavaliers and vassals of his father followed him with devoted zeal, and
many of them paid for their loyalty with their lives. When the trumpet
sounded in the evening for retreat, the troops of Pelistes were the last
to reach the camp. They came slowly and mournfully, and much decreased in
number. Their veteran commander was seated on his war-horse, but the blood
trickled from the greaves of his armour. His valiant son was borne on the
shields of his vassals; when they laid him on the earth near to where the
king was standing, they found that the heroic youth had expired of his
wounds. The cavaliers surrounded the body and gave utterance to their
grief; but the father restrained his agony, and looked on with the stern
resignation of a soldier.

Don Roderick surveyed the field of battle with a rueful eye, for it was
covered with the mangled bodies of his most illustrious warriors; he saw,
too, with anxiety, that the common people, unused to war, and unsustained
by discipline, were harassed by incessant toils and dangers, and were
cooling in their zeal and courage.

The crafty Bishop Oppas marked the internal trouble of the king, and
thought a favorable moment had arrived to sway him to his purpose. He
called to his mind the various portents and prophecies which had forerun
their present danger. 'Let not my lord the king,' said he, 'make light of
these mysterious revelations, which appear to be so disastrously
fulfilling. The hand of Heaven appears to be against us. Destruction is
impending over our heads. Our troops are rude and unskilful, but slightly
armed, and much cast down in spirit. Better is it that we should make a
treaty with the enemy, and, by granting part of his demands, prevent the
utter ruin of our country. If such counsel be acceptable to my lord the
king, I stand ready to depart upon an embassy to the Moslem camp.'

Upon hearing these words, Pelistes, who had stood in mournful silence,
regarding the dead body of his son, burst forth with honest indignation.
'By this good sword,' said he, 'the man who yields such dastard counsel
deserves death from the hand of his countrymen rather than from the foe;
and, were it not for the presence of the king, may I forfeit salvation if
I would not strike him dead upon the spot.'

The bishop turned an eye of venom upon Pelistes. 'My lord,' said he, 'I
too, bear a weapon, and know how to wield it. Were the king not present
you would not dare to menace, nor should you advance one step without my
hastening to meet you.'

The king interposed between the jarring nobles, and rebuked the
impetuosity of Pelistes, but at the same time rejected the counsel of the
bishop. 'The event of this conflict,' said he, 'is in the hand of God; but
never shall my sword return to its scabbard while an infidel invader
remains within the land.'

He then held a council with his captains, and it was determined to offer
the enemy general battle on the following day. A herald was despatched
defying Taric ben Zeyad to the contest, and the defiance was gladly
accepted by the Moslem chieftain. Don Roderick then formed the plan of
action, and assigned to each commander his several station, after which he
dismissed his officers, and each one sought his tent, to prepare by
diligence or repose for the next day's eventful contest.

Taric ben Zeyad had been surprised by the valor of the Christian cavaliers
in the recent battles, and at the number and apparent devotion of the
troops which accompanied the king to the field. The confident defiance of
Don Roderick increased his surprise. When the herald had retired, he
turned an eye of suspicion on Count Julian. 'Thou hast represented thy
countrymen,' said he, 'as sunk in effeminacy and lost to all generous
impulse: yet I find them fighting with the courage and the strength of
lions. Thou hast represented thy king as detested by his subjects, and
surrounded by secret treason, but I behold his tents whitening the hills
and dales, while thousands are hourly flocking to his standard. Wo unto
thee if thou hast dealt deceitfully with us, or betrayed us with guileful
words.'

Don Julian retired to his tent in great trouble of mind, and fear came
upon him that the Bishop Oppas might play him false; for it is the lot of
traitors ever to distrust each other. He called to him the same page who
had brought him the letter from Florinda, revealing the story of her
dishonor.

'Thou knowest, my trusty page,' said he, 'that I have reared thee in my
household, and cherished thee above all thy companions. If thou hast
loyalty and affection for thy lord, now is the time to serve him. Hie thee
to the Christian camp, and find thy way to the tent of the Bishop Oppas.
If any one ask thee who thou art, tell them thou art of the household of
the bishop, and bearer of missives from Cordova. When thou art admitted to
the presence of the bishop, show him this ring, and he will commune with
thee in secret. Then tell him Count Julian greets him as a brother, and
demands how the wrongs of his daughter Florinda are to be redressed. Mark
well his reply, and bring it word for word. Have thy lips closed, but
thine eyes and ears open; and observe every thing of note in the camp of
the king. So speed thee on thy errand--away, away!'

The page hastened to saddle a Barbary steed, fleet as the wind, and of a
jet black color, so as not to be easily discernible in the night. He
girded on a sword and dagger, slung an Arab bow with a quiver of arrows at
his side, and a buckler at his shoulder. Issuing out of the camp, he
sought the banks of the Guadalete, and proceeded silently along its
stream, which reflected the distant fires of the Christian camp. As he
passed by the place which had been the scene of the recent conflict, he
heard, from time to time, the groan of some expiring warrior who had
crawled among the reeds on the margin of the river; and sometimes his
steed stepped cautiously over the mangled bodies of the slain. The young
page was unused to the sights of war, and his heart beat quick within him.
He was hailed by the sentinels as he approached the Christian camp, and,
on giving the reply taught him by Count Julian, was conducted to the tent
of the Bishop Oppas.

The bishop had not yet retired to his couch. When he beheld the ring of
Count Julian, and heard the words of his message, he saw that the page was
one in whom he might confide. 'Hasten back to thy lord,' said he, 'and
tell him to have faith in me, and all shall go well. As yet I have kept my
troops out of the combat. They are all fresh, well armed, and well
appointed. The king has confided to myself, aided by the princes Evan and
Siseburto, the command of a wing of the army. To-morrow, at the hour of
noon, when both armies are in the heat of action, we will pass over with
our forces to the Moslems. But I claim the compact made with Taric ben
Zeyad, that my nephews be placed in dominion over Spain, and tributary
only to the Caliph of Damascus.' With this traitorous message the page
departed. He led his black steed by the bridle to present less mark for
observation, as he went stumbling along near the expiring fires of the
camp. On passing the last outpost, when the guards were half slumbering on
their arms, he was overheard and summoned, but leaped lightly into the
saddle and put spurs to his steed. An arrow whistled by his ear and two
more stuck in the target which he had thrown upon his back. The clatter of
swift hoofs echoed behind him, but he had learnt of the Arabs to fight and
fly. Plucking a shaft from his quiver, and turning and rising in the
stirrups as his courser galloped at full speed, he drew the arrow to the
head and launched it at his pursuer. The twang of the bow-string was
followed by the crash of armour, and a deep groan, as the horseman tumbled
to the earth. The page pursued his course with further molestation, and
arrived at the Moslem camp before the break of day.

A light had burned throughout the night in the tent of the king, and
anxious thoughts and dismal visions troubled his repose. If he fell into a
slumber, he beheld in his dreams the shadowy phantoms of the necromantic
tower, or the injured Florinda, pale and dishevelled, imprecating the
vengeance of Heaven upon his head. In the mid-watches of the night, when
all was silent except the footstep of the sentinel, pacing before his
tent, the king rose from his couch, and walking forth looked thoughtfully
upon the martial scene before him. The pale crescent of the moon hung over
the Moorish camp, and dimly lighted up the windings of the Guadalete. The
heart of the king was heavy and oppressed; but he felt only for himself,
says Antonio Agapida, he thought nothing of the perils impending over the
thousands of devoted subjects in the camp below him; sleeping, as it were,
on the margin of their graves. The faint clatter of distant hoofs, as if
in rapid flight, reached the monarch's ear, but the horsemen were not to
be descried. At that very hour, and along the shadowy banks of that river,
here and there gleaming with the scanty moonlight, passed the fugitive
messenger of Count Julian, with the plan of the next day's treason.

The day had not yet dawned, when the sleepless and impatient monarch
summoned his attendants and arrayed himself for the field. He then sent
for the venerable Bishop Urbino, who had accompanied him to the camp, and,
laying aside his regal crown, he knelt with head uncovered, and confessed
his sins before the holy man. After this a solemn mass was performed in
the royal tent, and the eucharist administered to the monarch. When these
ceremonies were concluded, he besought the archbishop to depart forthwith
for Cordova, there to await the issue of the battle, and to be ready to
bring forward reinforcements and supplies. The archbishop saddled his mule
and departed just as the faint blush of morning began to kindle in the
east. Already the camp resounded with the thrilling call of the trumpet,
the clank of armor, and the tramp and neigh of steeds. As the archbishop
passed through the camp, he looked with a compassionate heart on this vast
multitude, of whom so many were soon to perish. The warriors pressed to
kiss his hand, and many a cavalier full of youth and fire received his
benediction, who was to lie stiff and cold before the evening.

When the troops were marshalled for the field, Don Roderick prepared to
sally forth in the state and pomp with which the Gothic kings were wont to
go to battle. He was arrayed in robes of gold brocade; his sandals were
embroidered with pearls and diamonds; he had a sceptre in his hand, and he
wore a regal crown resplendent with inestimable jewels. Thus gorgeously
apparelled, he ascended a lofty chariot of ivory, the axle-trees of which
were of silver, and the wheels and pole covered with plates of burnished
gold. Above his head was a canopy of cloth of gold embossed with armorial
devices, and studded with precious stones. This sumptuous chariot was
drawn by milk-white horses, with caparisons of crimson velvet, embroidered
with pearls. A thousand youthful cavaliers surrounded the car; all of the
noblest blood and bravest spirit; all knighted by the king's own hand, and
sworn to defend him to the last.

When Roderick issued forth in this resplendent state, says an Arabian
writer, surrounded by his guards in gilded armour and waving plumes and
scarfs and surcoats of a thousand dyes, it was as if the sun were emerging
in the dazzling chariot of the day from amidst the glorious clouds of
morning.

As the royal car rolled along in front of the squadrons, the soldiers
shouted with admiration. Don Roderick waved his sceptre, and addressed
them from his lofty throne, reminding them of the horror and desolation
which had already been spread through the land by the invaders. He called
upon them to summon up the ancient valor of their race, and avenge the
blood of their brethren. 'One day of glorious fighting,' said he, 'and
this infidel horde will be driven into the sea, or will perish beneath
your swords. Forward bravely to the fight; your families are behind you
praying for your success; the invaders of your country are before you; God
is above to bless his holy cause, and your king leads you to the field.'
The army shouted with one accord, 'Forward to the foe, and death be his
portion who shuns the encounter!'

The rising sun began to shine along the glistening waters of the Guadalete
as the Moorish army, squadron after squadron, came sweeping down a gentle
declivity to the sound of martial music. Their turbans and robes, of
various dyes and fashions, gave a splendid appearance to their host; as
they marched, a cloud of dust arose and partly hid them from the sight,
but still there would break forth flashes of steel and gleams of burnished
gold, like rays of vivid lightning, while the sound of drum and trumpet,
and the clash of Moorish cymbal, were as the warlike thunder within that
stormy cloud of battle.

As the armies drew near each other the sun disappeared among gathering
clouds, and the gloom of the day was increased by the columns of dust
which rose from either host. At length the trumpet sounded for the
encounter. The battle commenced with showers of arrows, stones, and
javelins. The Christian foot-soldiers fought to disadvantage, the greater
part being destitute of helm or buckler. A battalion of light Arabian
horsemen, led by a Greek renegado named Magued el Rumi, careered in front
of the Christian line, launching their darts, and then wheeling off beyond
the reach of the missiles hurled after them. Theodomir now brought up his
seasoned troops into the action, seconded by the veteran Pelistes, and in
a little while the battle became furious and promiscuous. It was glorious
to behold the old Gothic valor shining forth in this hour of fearful
trial. Wherever the Moslems fell, the Christians rushed forward, seized
upon their horses, and stripped them of their armour and their weapons.
They fought desperately and successfully, for they fought for their
country and their faith. The battle raged for several hours; the field was
strown with slain, and the Moors, overcome by the multitude and fury of
their foes, began to falter.

When Taric beheld his troops retreating before the enemy, he threw himself
before them, and, rising in his stirrups, 'Oh, Moslems! conquerors of
Africa!' cried he, whither would you fly? The sea is behind you, the enemy
before; you have no hope but in your valor and the help of God. Do as I do
and the day is ours!'

With these words he put spurs to his horse and sprang among the enemy,
striking to right and left, cutting down and destroying, while his steed,
fierce as himself, trampled upon the foot soldiers and tore them with his
teeth. At this moment a mighty shout arose in various parts of the field;
the noontide hour had arrived. The Bishop Oppas with the two princes, who
had hitherto kept their bands out of the fight, suddenly went over to the
enemy, and turned their weapons upon their astonished countrymen. From
that moment the fortune of the day was changed, and the field of battle
became a scene of wild confusion and bloody massacre. The Christians knew
not whom to contend with, or whom to trust. It seemed as if madness had
seized upon their friends and kinsmen, and that their worst enemies were
among themselves.

The courage of Don Roderick rose with his danger. Throwing off the
cumbrous robes of royalty, and descending from his car, he sprang upon his
steed Orelia, grasped his lance and buckler, and endeavored to rally his
retreating troops. He was surrounded and assailed by a multitude of his
own traitorous subjects, but defended himself with wondrous prowess. The
enemy thickened around him; his loyal band of cavaliers were slain,
bravely fighting in his defence; the last that was seen of the king was in
the midst of the enemy, dealing death at every blow.

A complete panic fell upon the Christians; they threw away their arms and
fled in all directions. They were pursued with dreadful slaughter, until
the darkness of the night rendered it impossible to distinguish friend
from foe. Taric then called off his troops from the pursuit, and took
possession of the royal camp; and the couch which had been pressed so
uneasily on the preceding night by Don Roderick, now yielded sound repose
to his conqueror.

On the morning after the battle, the Arab leader, Taric ben Zeyad, rode
over the bloody field of the Gaudalete, strewed with the ruins of those
splendid armies, which had so lately passed like glorious pageants along
the river banks. There Moor and Christian, horseman and horse, lay gashed
with hideous wounds; and the river, still red with blood, was filled with
the bodies of the slain. The gaunt Arab was as a wolf roaming through the
fold he had laid waste. On every side his eye revelled on the ruin of the
country, on the wrecks of haughty Spain. There lay the flower of her
youthful chivalry, mangled and destroyed, and the strength of her yeomanry
prostrated in the dust. The Gothic noble lay confounded with his vassals;
the peasant with the prince; all ranks and dignities were mingled in one
bloody massacre.

When Taric had surveyed the field, he caused the spoils of the dead and
the plunder of the camp to be brought before him. The booty was immense.
There were massy chains, and rare jewels of gold; pearls and precious
stones; rich silks and brocades, and all other luxurious decorations in
which the Gothic nobles had indulged in the latter times of their
degeneracy. A vast amount of treasure was likewise found, which had been
brought by Roderick for the expenses of the war.

Taric then ordered that the bodies of the Moslem warriors should be
interred; as for those of the Christians, they were gathered in heaps, and
vast pyres of wood were formed, on which they were consumed. The flames of
these pyres rose high in the air, and were seen afar off in the night; and
when the Christians beheld them from the neighboring hills they beat their
breasts and tore their hair, and lamented over them as over the funeral
fires of their country. The carnage of that battle infected the air for
two whole months, and bones were seen lying in heaps upon the field for
more than forty years; nay, when ages had past and gone, the husbandman,
turning up the soil, would still find fragments of Gothic cuirasses and
helms, and Moorish scimitars, the relics of that dreadful fight.

For three days the Arabian horseman pursued the flying Christians, hunting
them over the face of the country; so that but a scanty number of that
mighty host escaped to tell the tale of their disaster.

Taric ben Zeyad considered his victory incomplete so long as the Gothic
monarch survived; he proclaimed great rewards, therefore, to whomsoever
should bring Roderick to him, dead or alive. A diligent search was
accordingly made in every direction, but for a long time in vain; at
length a soldier brought to Taric the head of a Christian warrior, on
which was a cap decorated with feathers and precious stones. The Arab
leader received it as the head of the unfortunate Roderick, and sent it,
as a trophy of his victory, to Musa ben Nosier, who, in like manner,
transmitted it to the caliph at Damascus. The Spanish historians, however,
have always denied its identity.

A mystery has ever hung and ever must continue to hang, over the fate of
King Roderick, in that dark and doleful day of Spain. Whether he went down
amidst the storm of battle, and atoned for his sins and errors by a
patriot grave, or whether he survived to repent of them in hermit exile,
must remain matter of conjecture and dispute. The learned Archbishop
Rodrigo, who has recorded the events of this disastrous field, affirms
that Roderick fell beneath the vengeful blade of the traitor Julian, and
thus expiated with his blood his crime against the hapless Florinda; but
the archbishop stands alone in his record of the fact. It seems generally
admitted that Orelia, the favorite war-horse of Don Roderick, was found
entangled in a marsh on the borders of the Gaudalete, with the sandals and
mantle and royal insignia of the king lying close by him. The river at
this place ran broad and deep, and was encumbered with the dead bodies of
warriors and steeds; it has been supposed therefore, that he perished in
the stream; but his body was not found within its waters.

When several years had passed away, and men's minds, being restored to
some degree of tranquillity, began to occupy themselves about the events
of this dismal day, a rumor arose that Roderick had escaped from the
carnage on the banks of the Gaudalete, and was still alive. It was said,
that having from a rising ground caught a view of the whole field of
battle, and seen that the day was lost, and his army flying in all
directions, he likewise sought his safety in flight. It is added, that the
Arab horsemen, while scouring the mountain in quest of fugitives, found a
shepherd arrayed in the royal robes, and brought him before the conqueror,
believing him to be the king himself. Count Julian soon dispelled the
error. On being questioned, the trembling rustic declared that while
tending his sheep in the folds of the mountains, there came a cavalier on
a horse wearied and spent and ready to sink beneath the spur; that the
cavalier with an authoritative voice and menacing air commanded him to
exchange garments with him, and clad himself in his rude garb of
sheep-skin, and took his crook and his scrip of provisions, and continued
up the rugged defiles of the mountains leading towards Castile, until he
was lost to view.

This tradition was fondly cherished by many, who clung to the belief in
the existence of their monarch as their main hope for the redemption of
Spain. It was even affirmed that he had taken refuge with many of his
host, in an island of the 'Ocean sea,' from whence he might yet return,
once more to elevate his standard, and battle for the recovery of his
throne.

Year after year, however, elapsed and nothing was heard of Don Roderick;
yet, like Sebastian of Portugal, and Arthur of England, his name continued
to be a rallying point for popular faith, and the mystery of his end to
give rise to romantic fables. At length, when generation after generation
had sunk into the grave, and near two centuries had passed and gone,
traces were said to be discovered that threw a light on the final fortunes
of the unfortunate Roderick. At that time, Don Alphonso the Great, King of
Leon, had wrested the city of Viseo in Lusitania from the hands of the
Moslems. As his soldiers were ranging about the city and its environs, one
of them discovered in a field, outside of the walls, a small chapel or
hermitage, with a sepulchre in front, on which was inscribed this epitaph
in Gothic characters:

  HIC REQUIESCIT RUDERICUS,
    ULTIMUS REX GOTHORUM.

    HERE LIES RODERICK,
  THE LAST KING OF THE GOTHS.

It has been believed by many that this was the veritable tomb of the
monarch, and that in this hermitage he had finished his days in solitary
penance. The warrior, as he contemplated the supposed tomb of the once
haughty Roderick, forgot all his faults and errors, and shed a soldier's
tear over his memory; but when his thoughts turned to Count Julian, his
patriotic indignation broke forth, and with his dagger he inscribed a rude
malediction on the stone.

'Accursed,' said he, 'be the impious and headlong vengeance of the traitor
Julian. He was a murderer of his king; a destroyer of his kindred; a
betrayer of his country. May his name be bitter in every mouth, and his
memory infamous to all generations.'

Here ends the legend of Don Roderick.




LINES

WRITTEN UNDER A PORTRAIT OF JUPITER AND DANAE.


  Fair maid of Argos! dry thy tears, nor shun
  The bright embrace of Saturn's amorous son.
  Pour'd from high Heaven athwart thy brazen tower,
  Jove bends propitious in a glittering shower:
  Take, gladly take, the boon the Fates impart;
  Press the gilt treasure to thy panting heart:
  And to thy venal sex this truth unfold,
  How few, like Danae, grasp both god and gold.

                                                             J. SMITH.




THE DOG-STAR SPIRIT.

SUGGESTED BY CERTAIN PAPERS ENTITLED 'MIND AND INSTINCT,' IN THE
KNICKERBOCKER.


  Calm be thy slumbers, faithful TRAY,
        Calm in thy bed
  Low-gathered underneath the clay,
  Where they have laid thy bones away,
        And left thee--dead!

  No common dog, dear TRAY, wert thou
        In life's short age;
  For _instinct_ shone upon thy brow,
  And something in thy deep bow-wow
        Proclaimed the sage.

  When ugly curs at evening made
        Their hideous wail,
  Mutely thy musing eye surveyed
  Bright themes for thought around displayed,
        Perched on thy tail.

  Oft have I seen thy vision turned
        Up to the skies,
  Where thy intelligence discerned
  In all the little stars that burned,
        Strange mysteries.

  And then, thy keen glance fixed on one
        That glimmered far;
  'If souls of men live when they're gone,'
  Thou thought'st, 'why not of dogs when flown,
        In yonder star?

  'Though diverse in our natures, yet
        It don't ensue
  That other judgment we should meet,
  Because we muster four good feet
        Instead of two.

  'And if in some light, wanton freak
        Of Nature's mind,
  She planted hair upon our back,
  And, in capricious mood, did tack
        A tail behind:

  'It matters not. That coat of hair
        Is very thin;
  But the habiliment we wear
  To warm the heart from wintry air,
        We have within.

  'Ah, no! what selfish man would have
        For _him_ alone,
  To us a title Nature gave:
  _We_ too shall live beyond the grave,
        When we are gone.'

  Now, when at twilight's solemn hour,
        O'er field and lea,
  I see the dog-star gently pour
  Its beamy light--a golden shower--
        I think of thee!

  And well, I wot, thy spacious mind,
      With journey brief,
  Hath mounted like a breath of wind;
  And thou art in that orb enshrined,
      A thing of life.

  Then peace be with thine ashes, TRAY,
      In their long rest:
  Faithful wert thou in thy short day;
  And now, that thou art passed away,
      I know thou'rt blest.

_Pittsburgh, March, 1844._                                     SANCHO.




A DREAM.

    This accident is not unlike my dream; belief of it
    Oppresses me already.
                                                              OTHELLO.


Upon a certain clear and starry night of unbroken tranquility and peace,
in the month of September, in the year of Grace one thousand eight hundred
thirty and two; I, JOHN WATERS of man's Estate, Gentleman, dreamed a
Dream. And lest I might be forced, like the great Babylonian monarch of
yore, to say 'the thing is gone from me,' I resolved while a vague
remembrance yet rested in my thoughts, to record if possible some lasting
memorial of it.

Now, more than one half of the average number of years, assigned by
computation to a generation of our race, have, since that point of time,
rolled into the rearward hemisphere of Eternity; trials and changes, deep
and stern and manifold, have rent and desolated this _house not made with
hands_, and have exercised and broken the spirit that is supposed to be
contained within it; yet the slight memorandum, written at that time, lies
unchanged before me, and gives evidence of the comparatively impassible
duration of inert matter over man; whose home, and whose abiding-place is
not of earth!

It is not that I can hope to describe my sensations of that night, in such
a manner as to impart them to the contemplative spirit that may read this
sketch, and to afford pleasure at all comparable with that which I
enjoyed; but I have thought that I might by the recital awaken some
gratifying recollections of still higher flittings of the imagination into
the regions of unlimited Fancy; where the pleasure has been, as was mine,
alike unbounded and pure.

In an Existence like ours, where so much is ideal; where so many things
are feared, that never come to pass; hoped for, that are never realized;
enjoyed, that are impalpable to sense; where that, which by common
convention is called substantial and real, is very far inferior to that
which is falsely termed illusory and vain; where life borders on
immortality; and the spiritual world so closely overhangs the natural,
that it is as difficult to separate them as it is in Switzerland to know
which is Alps and which is Heaven;--there may oftentimes be much pleasure,
perhaps some instruction, in a DREAM.

What should we say of dreams, if our eyes could but once have been opened
upon the bright intellectual fancies, and anticipations; or upon the
spiritual movements, of some of those by the side of whose supine and
deserted forms it may have been our privilege to watch; but who, on waking
into restored consciousness, remember not what they may have seen, or
imagined, or may perhaps have accomplished, in their sleep?

How often, within the compass of our own minds, do we not find thoughts
and images that spring from sources that we cannot trace! Have we not more
than once been called upon to perform some act of life, important to
ourselves, or perchance to others; or been in some incidental circle of
friends, or of persons who were strangers until then; or walked upon some
lonely path in Europe--all for the first time as we suppose, and yet have
we not had it irresistibly borne in upon our minds, that we have done all
this before! signed the same paper in the same presence! heard the same
voices speak the same words! noticed the same faces in the same positions!
or recognized the mountains perhaps, and the trees, the landscape, the
rocks, the very brook, as acquaintances of old; although the broad
Atlantic had never yet been crossed by us before--except in spirit!

Did you never in the day or night dream yourself to be upon some lofty
overhanging precipice? did you never in imagination look down over its
extreme verge upon the dark coast that skirts the foot of it, so far below
you that you only distinguish the Rocks themselves by the white foam of
the blue wave that breaks over them? Did you never hold by a bush while
you were bending over this awful verge, listening to the low roar of the
deep and distant waters, and perceive the Eagle itself soaring mid-way
only up the cliff--and while you grew chill with the thoughts of depth,
and danger, and distance from relief, did you never feel the bush give way
and the gravel slide from beneath you, and the whole mass come thundering
down from earth to ocean?

One throb is given to madness and in the next you wake and find the body
in security although perhaps in pain. Have you been in actual danger? do
you believe that you have been? If not, why do you immediately pray to God
and bless Him at such moments for his protection and care of you? Is it
not that while the body has been quiescent, the excursive Soul has been in
spiritual presence on the edge of that beetling and stupendous height?

Suppose, as the mother sits beside the small bed, drinking with her eyes
that draught of ecstatick pleasure which only Woman's heart can taste, she
could perceive the spirit of her boy, rising from the body that it leaves
behind in roseate sleep, a thousand times more beautiful than it and yet
the same; and still her own; and taking upon himself, as of his proper
right, the grace and charm of 'a young and rose-lipped cherub,' should
chase, (and all within her sight,) the rainbow-butterflies of Paradise
across its swards of velvet, and laugh in music to express his joy!

Suppose that to the husband it should be given to behold his Wife--the
pure in heart!--walking like a seraph in the Spiritual Life, as the
earliest light of morning moves along the hill-tops; her countenance
'beautified with salvation' and joy unfolding itself at her approach: he
sees and follows her as she enters into grottoes of shells, compared with
which all flowers of Earth are mere attempts at colour! She listens to
choirs of angels, joining worthily with them in the celestial chaunt! and
when the hearts of both are elevated by the anthem strain, she kneels in
solitude and prays for him in words that rise to Heaven, a grateful and
accepted incense!

Regard in silence those features of the young and beautiful upon the bed
of slow consuming death; with what a grace do they not awake from the
momentary trance of sleep! thoughts, not given to be revealed, have been
garnered by that precious spirit as it hath soared upward toward the
Heaven that is now bending with a summons unto everlasting Life! How
gently yet how touchingly do not its glances and its last regrets pass
through the diaphanous covering that remains to it of mortality, upon the
friend who gazes in equal love and wonder at its side! how like the light
within the vase! how sublimated the expression! how intent, how occupied
that long look! how effulgent that passage of hope! how intimate, how
exalted must have been the communion, when gleams of Faith and Joy, too
beautiful for utterance, indicate the redeemed soul just fluttering to
ascend in 'robes made white in the blood of the Lamb!'

Are not these and such as these, imaginations, communions, capacities,
employments of the soul in Dreams? Ah! if what is called the Sleep of
Death be mysterious, be awful, be sublime, be beautiful at times; how much
more so,--when the form lies waiting to be revivified by the quick return
of the excursive spirit,--how much more so is the Sleep of Life!

I was lying in my bed, in a deep delicious repose, in my own bed, without
either care, or cold, or gout, to molest me even in my dreams; I had been
occupied during the evening with some elementary algebraical processes in
the company of my dear son who was to prepare them for examination at
school on the following day and who had succeeded in arriving at correct
results, had copied off his work, and packed it in his satchel for the
morning.

Methought, while I slept, my son and I stood together hand in hand in the
Church where we were accustomed to worship. We were very near the altar,
but with our faces directed toward the organ and front gallery. There is
in my mind some recollection of another person, I believe our Rector, near
us but a little behind us.

Presently the surface of the gallery extended itself in breadth and
height, so greatly as to cover the entire organ-loft with it's increased
plane, and it became an immense practising-board, such as, upon a small
scale, teachers of mathematics use to resolve problems upon for the
instruction of a class, and it immediately assumed the deep slate-coloured
hue that such boards are frequently painted.

And now there arranged themselves upon this board, in white characters,
problem after problem in Equation; the Rule in which we had been
exercising. I cannot describe the celerity with which these problems were
stated upon the board, and worked out to the intense gratification of my
son and myself; the most difficult and apparently unequal quantities being
with the rapidity of thought interchanged neutralized reduced and
determined, so that what seemed at the outset extremely involved, became
lucid as day, and the unknown quantities made specific to our perfect
satisfaction in an instant of time.

We were delighted with the lesson. I felt the hand of my son gently
pressing mine, as he was accustomed to do when he would evince his
satisfaction at any thing we examined successfully together; and we agreed
with each other to cherish the recollection of these elucidations for
future practice.

Turning again toward the board, we found it entirely freed from any trace
of what had been wrought upon it. And now, in a manner which I have no
possible means of imparting to the Reader, the good and evil of Life
formed the specific and the unknown quantities that were wrought out upon
the board. Problem succeeded problem, formed out of various conditions of
life, with the same rapidity as those in Arabicks had been, and though
vastly more complicated, with the same satisfactory result. Every variety
and combination of circumstances in life seemed exhibited; positive
negative neutral in a moment; until certain trials and occurrences led to
certain virtues, with the same precision as in the preceding series of
demonstrations _x_ had for example been shewn to be equal to 8. Our joy
was beyond expression in words; we embraced each other and I well remember
saying, 'My dear Hal, this is Truth; positive Truth; moral, but as certain
and as irrefragible, as any mathematical Truth is or ever can be shewn to
be.'

We turned again toward the Board, and another course altogether of
demonstrations passed over the surface of it, and was made scrutable to
our perceptions. By one process the illimitable power of GOD was borne in
upon my apprehension with a vividness of conception that I had never felt
before.

By another I well remember Truth and Wisdom were shewn to be one and the
same, and all Truth to proceed from and to be an attribute of GOD. By
another, Infinite Justice, deduced from Infinite Power and Infinite Truth,
was arrived at, as His essential and necessary quality. Again, the
revealed Word of GOD as declared in the Bible was established in my mind
as the irresistible result of another process; and, although several had
intermediately passed over the Board, this was I think the last. The Board
faded, the figure at our side disappeared, we were out of church, and
presently I awoke, and lo! it was a DREAM! But the recollection of that
dream has never faded from my memory, and I trust that the influences of
it may never be lost.

My mind for some time previous had been much afflicted with considerations
and doubts respecting the free agency of man, and the truth of the
Scriptures so far as they relate to everlasting punishment, and to the
prescience of GOD. These doubts had been infused in conversation by the
reasoning of an eminent lawyer. If you believe in the doctrine of
everlasting punishment said he, and believe also in the prescience of GOD,
and in HIS Omnipotence, must you not admit that GOD might prevent the
sinner from entering at all into this world of probation? into this world
of trial which is to prove too severe for his powers of resistance? If I
know that a candle that I purpose lighting will, from any accident, or by
any other hand after I shall have lighted it, be made to burn my
neighbor's house; am I not in some degree participant or accessary to the
consequence if I persist in the intention? Why is man to be made subject
to consequences more direful to him than if he had never been born at all
into this world of evil? He has had no voice in determining his mission
into it, nor has his will been consulted in the creation of his spirit,
nor in the qualities with which that spirit is endued; his existence also
in a state of indulgence of wicked impulse, how short and limited it has
been; and how frequently mingled with the disposition if not with repeated
Effort toward goodness; shall he for twenty years of vice, be subjected to
_everlasting_ punishment? how can this consist with Divine Justice and
Mercy? You say that he has had the free option of good and evil; possibly
so; but he has not chosen the good, he has not adopted the course that
leads to everlasting happiness, and his everlasting misery might have been
prevented; why then should he have been called into being? Is not this
misery ordained to him, since it is not prevented, and since it has always
been apparent as the result of life to the creative power which must know,
and which could prevent, and has yet determined to create?

Now these doubts were weighing on my heart when I first stood before that
board; and when I had left the church, they were all removed. They had
made themselves--air, into which they vanished. My hands were clasped
together in pleasure at the relief; and when I awoke, a sensation, the
purest perhaps that life affords, had entire possession of my heart, my
mind, my soul. It was that gentle, yet etherial sensation--that
yellow-green of the ransomed spirit--when gratitude that has never drawn a
chain behind it, gratitude free as joy, gratitude beautiful as hope, melts
into love toward HIM, 'who first hath loved us!'

  'Parent of Heaven! great Master of mankind!
  Where'er Thy providence directs, behold
  My steps with cheerful resignation turn!
  Fate leads the willing, drags the backward on.
  Why should I mourn, when grieving I must bear;
  Or take with guilt what, guiltless, I might share!'

                                                          JOHN WATERS.




LINES TO BLUMINE.


  When day gives place to sweeter night,
    And twinkling stars come out on high,
  Like sentinels in armor bright,
    To watch amid the ebon sky;

  High in the north thine eye will see
    _That lonely star_, whose steady beam
  Shall look into thy heart, and be
    The phantom of thy troubled dream.

  I love thee not: though once thy heart
    Beat in warm answer to my own;
  Like strangers we shall meet and part,
    And I shall tread my way alone.

_Brooklyn, L. I._                                    HANS VON SPIEGEL.




EPISTLE TO THE EDITOR.


  DEAR KNICK: Were't not for reverence due
  From such as I to such as you,
  I really could not choose but swear
  To think that e'en a millionaire,
  With piles enough of brick and stone
  To make a city of his own,
  And broad domains in simple fee,
  Or held in pledge as mortgagee,
  And scrip whose outspread folds would cover
  His native Hesse-Darmstadt over;
  Should have withal the hard assurance
  To hold a Son of Song in durance.
  Why, as I lately sauntered out
  To see what Gotham was about,
  Just below NIBLO'S, west southwest,
  In a prosaic street at best,
  I chanced upon a lodge so small,
  So Lilliputian-like in all,
  That Argus, hundred-eyed albeit,
  Might pass a hundred times, nor see it.

  Agog to see what manikin
  Had shrined his household gods therein,
  With step as light as tip-toe fairy's
  I stole right in among the Lares.
  There in the cosiest of nooks,
  Up to his very eyes in books,
  Sat a lone wight, nor stout nor lean,
  Nor old nor young, but just between,
  Poring along the figured columns
  Of those most unmelodious volumes,
  Intently as if there and then
  He conned the fate of gods and men.
  Methought that brow so full and fair
  Was formed the poet's wreath to wear;
  And as those eyes of azure hue,
  One moment lifted, met my view,
  Gay worlds of starry thoughts appeared
  In their blue depths serenely sphered.
  Just then the voice of one unseen,
  All redolent of Hippocrene,
  Stole forth so sweetly on the air,
  I felt the Muse indeed was there,
  And feel how much her words divine
  Must lose, interpreted by mine.

  For shame, it said, FITZ-GREENE, for shame!
    To yield thee to inglorious thrall,
  And leave the trophy of thy fame
    Without its crowning capital!

  The sculptor, bard, as well may trust
    To shape a form for glory's shrine,
  If, ceasing with the breathing bust.
    He leave unwrought the brow divine.

  How oft the lavish Muse has grieved.
    O'er hopes thy early years inspired,
  And sighed that he who much received,
    Forgot that much would be required.

  But not too late, if heeded yet,
    The voice that chides thy mute repose,
  And bids thee pay at last the debt
    Thy genius to Parnassus owes.

  'Tis not enough that pride may urge
    Thy claims to memory's grateful lore,
  And boast, as rapt from Lethe's surge,
    The Suliote and the Tuscarore.

  Nay, bard, thy own land's mighty dead
    Deserve a nobler hymn from thee,
  Than bravest of the brave that bled
    At Laspi or Thermopylæ.

  Remember, then, thy young renown,
    Thy country's dead, thy muse's sigh;
  And bid thy vigorous manhood crown
    What youthful genius reared so high!

  Still to his task the bard applied,
  Unrecked, unheeded all beside;
  And as he closed his balance-sheet,
  I heard his murmuring lips repeat:
  'Three hundred thousand, city rents,
  Item a hundred, seven per cents,
  Add cash, another hundred, say
  From bonds and notes paid off this day,
  And eke from drafts at sight for dues
  Just credited to land accrues,
  Whose rental stretches on and on
  From Aroostook to Oregon;
  Total, a semi-million clear
  Income received for one short year!'
  Aladdin's wealth scarce mounted faster
  At its spring-tide than thine, HERR ASTOR.

                                                             W. P. P.




EARLY SPRING AT THE HOMESTEAD.

BY HANS VON SPIEGEL.


Lo! here is Spring again, the dainty goddess come back to see what Winter
has been doing for so many months in forest and meadow, on the broad
hill-side and in the valley. The old ice-king has had a merry time of it,
playing with the long branches of the graceful maiden-like elm, and
wrestling with the gnarled and haughty oak. You might have heard him
roaring in the depths of the woods, had you been here, venerable DEIDRICH,
day and night for a sevennight, apparently just for the sake of making a
noise, and compelling the obeisance of the forest. Like any other
demagogue, he gains attention by his blusterings. How lowly that young
poplar bent before him, while the old hemlocks scarcely deigned a show of
reverence! When you were in your youth, and the world seemed larger than
now, did you not feel more of respect and awe for the _great man_ than you
now do? Ah! well-a-day! how little is the world's esteem worthy of care!
Ambition climbs the dizzy steeps of fame; the young and inexperienced,
whose admiration is not worth a straw, applaud; but the wise, for whose
good-will Ambition toils, look on with indifference; for they know the
emptiness of human greatness. But while we stop to moralize, the reader
grows a-weary; and even thou, DEIDRICH, who art so constitutionally
polite, compressest thy labial muscles, and thumpest nervously the floor
with thy gold-headed walking stick. What a pity that we cannot talk
nonsense gracefully!

There, now, all this time has the damsel Spring been awaiting our
commands, shivering mayhap in her scanty drapery, while we have been
prating. So it is the world over. The best intentioned forget the claims
of others, listening to the sweet music of their own sweet voices.
DEIDRICH, you ought to be here in the country to see what Hans and Peter
are doing 'at this present.'

Just back of the house, (we are at the old Homestead,) the snow has melted
away, and an impatient crocus is just peeping up to get a look at the warm
sun. The spruce, at whose foot it grows all the winter long, has kindly
extended one of its lower branches over it, to shield it from the frost,
and now straitens it up again to give the poor little plant a glimpse or
two of the warm blue sky and the golden sun. And here, on the southern
side of the house, the windows are thrown up, and the door of the wing
swung open for the first time in four long months. There, Peter, in the
side of the wing where you see the ends of two or three bricks protruding
from a circular hole in the clapboards, is the nest of a pair of wrens
that year after year come back to rear a new family, and chirp and chatter
away the summer, when their labors have ceased. If it were a few weeks
later, you might get acquainted with the comical little occupants, who are
as brisk and busy as if they were not in reality great grand-parents to a
whole republic of wrens. See! on the top of the wood-shed, how proudly the
old rooster struts along the weather-board, enjoying the discomfiture of
his wives, who have been trying for this half-hour from the corn-house
steps to reach the same desirable elevation. And ever and anon he crows to
answer the tumultuous cackle of the plebeian fowl in the barn-yard, with
whom he never mingles, save when a hawk threatens them with common danger;
and then, forgetting all his aristocracy, he seeks the same sheltering
apple-tree or clump of briars in the fence-corner, where the enemy cannot
penetrate. Friend Peter, just buckle on your over-shoes and come with me
through the back gates which have stood open all winter to allow ingress
to huge sled-loads of fire-wood. Tread carefully over the soft snow which
'slumps' at every step, and let us take a look at the barn-yard down
yonder, across the way from the farm-house.

Now is there not some poetry here? That yoke of brindle-oxen standing
under the dripping eaves chewing their cud; can you not see gladness in
their broad faces? There is old Line-back, the cow that fifteen years ago
used to have the same corner. I wonder if she recognizes me? She is graver
than the other cows; red and black, around her butt; the tuft of wool on
her horns shows that she retains her old spirit, and does not allow the
dainty sheep that crowd around us, to pick out the most savory portions of
her hay, without asserting her rights of priority. There, flocking in the
hay-loft door, over the cow-house, are the cackling multitude which we
heard awhile ago. They were probably instigated to their clamor by the
'cut-cut-ca-da-cut' of some young hen who had laid the first egg of the
season. The rest replying, no doubt, that they severally had done the same
at some spring-time anterior, but now for the first time thought of
mentioning so trifling a circumstance. Peter sagely opines that they are
holding a tea party! Let us drop into the 'grain-barn' and see what Hans'
little brothers are raising such a children's noise about. There goes Jim
from the highest scaffold into the straw at the bottom of the 'deep bay.'
Billy is just preparing to jump too; and Sid, a little more lazy, is but
half up the upper ladder. Sid sees us, and without saying a word, begins
to climb down again. This draws Billy's attention, and crying 'Hans has
come home! Hans has come!' springs off, half smothering poor Jim in his
descent. There, now, Peter, after seeing me kiss my brothers, don't accuse
me of possessing a cold heart, merely because I don't happen to love the
women. What is a woman, but flesh and blood after all? Do you think those
black, flashing eyes and rosy cheeks and swelling bosom, and those warm
lips which breathe soft deceit the while you press them, are any thing
more than 'common clay?' I have seen many lovely ones, yet as Byron hath
it:

  'Maidens, like moths, are ever caught by glare,
  And Mammon wins his way where seraphs might despair.'

I wish, friend Peter, that we could stay a fortnight to enjoy the opening
of spring, but as we must wend our way eastward day after tomorrow, we
will resign ourselves to fate, and make the best of it. Look down into the
valley where Green Brook comes singing and bubbling out from the deep
shade of the hemlocks into the open meadows! The snow has melted away from
its margin, and the brown sward is smiling in the cheerful afternoon sun.
There, on that tall stump, on the other side, sits a sentinel crow, while
his companions are strolling about catching up dainties which the frost
and snow have hid from their vision the winter long. Hurra! hurra! see
over the edge of Pine Hill come the first pigeons of the season from the
warm south! Look how they rise and fall again in their easy flight, as
they pass up the valley and go whirring in among the dense evergreens. I
told you we should see pigeons soon, but you thought it too early. We will
have sport to-morrow, if it is warm. For the present, let us see whether
Hans' old fowling-piece is still safe from rust. Here it stands behind his
bed-room door, dressed up like an old maid for a sailing party, all in
flannels. There, Peter, is a true 'stubb-and-twist,' and the locks,
although rather out of fashion, are still as elastic as ever. This Hans
himself will use to-morrow; for it is an old friend and might feel hurt to
be entrusted to the care of a stranger. Here, Jim, run down to Colonel
Hyde's and borrow his long double-barrel; but don't tell him that pigeons
have been seen, or he will want to use it himself. Get a cannister of
Dupont, and half a dozen pounds of No. 4 shot. None of the fine
mustard-seed or robin, but the heavy duck-shot, that will enter at twenty
rods. That is the kind for pigeons, their feathers are so compact; for if
you fire at them flying, you might as well toss turnip-seed at them as to
shoot fine shot that will glance from their sleek feathers like drops of
rain.

Here comes Jim, with the colonel's gun. Is it not a grand one? Now for
cleaning the pieces, and filling the flasks and shot-belts. Look out, or
you will scald your fingers with the hot water. A little more soap, and
the barrels are as clean as a silver thimble. Snap! These are fine caps:
put this box into your pocket, or we shall forget it. Let us look out at
the sunset before tea, and then go to bed early, that we may be up in
season for to-morrow's sport.

How broadly and slowly the sun sinks behind the forest! The glowing points
of his diadem reach to the zenith, and the purple clouds that float around
the west, dazzle the eye as they lie in contrast with the soft blue sky.
How bland the air is, like that of summer! We can almost drink it.

Well, mother, I am glad to be at home again at the tea-table. Here, Peter,
don't look sad now because you are not at your own home. We will go up in
the summer and view Lake Erie in its beauty and vastness, and stroll along
the beach, beneath the overhanging cedars and larches, and the
broad-leafed chestnuts. Whose voice is that in the entry? Why, Kate, how
do you do! Never mind, if you _are_ married, you needn't start so. I'm an
old friend, you know, and your lips are as tempting as ever! Ah! I forgot
there were strangers by. Madam Von Rosenbacker: Herr von Geist, a man
after my own heart. Well, Kate, you haven't altered much from what you
were when we used to pick blackberries together. Indeed, I have lost the
bottle of wine; you only escaped though by three days over the six months
that I limited your marriage to. You shall have the champaigne, and I will
come up in the summer to bring it, and will buy an indulgence from the
tee-total society long enough to drink it with you. Now that she is gone,
Peter, let me ask if you don't think her a glorious woman? Her large blue
eyes, her soft flaxen hair and rosy cheeks, and tall graceful figure, make
her 'splendid.' Peter, she was the first girl that I ever 'set my face
against,' as poor POWER used to say; and now, old bachelor as I am, I envy
her husband.

To bed we go, and Somnus touches our eyes with his wand of poppies. Ye
gods! how sweet and soft a bed at home is, after travelling till one's
bones ache with jolting stages and jarring rail-cars!

       *       *       *       *       *

Up! up! friend Peter; here we are abed, while daylight is glimmering
through the blinds. Just put your head out here at this window and snuff
the fresh spring air. Hear the roaring of Fish Creek as it comes up over
the wooded hills. By no means! Don't suppose for the sixtieth part of a
minute that I intend to hurry you away without breakfast; but you must
step down into the kitchen, where the girl has prepared us a strong cup of
coffee; as good, no doubt, as Mother Bee used to provide for our matin
meal on College Hill. Here, Dancer, you must have some breakfast too.

Well, are we all ready? Powder, shot, and caps enough, and every thing in
order? Eh! Peter, what are you twisting your mouth about? Ah, yes, indeed,
I forgot. Here's a dozen Principes to use as occasion may offer, and
especially after dinner; which is to be sent up with the rest into the
sugar-bush, where we will rendezvous about one o'clock, and in the
afternoon help 'sugar off.' See the sunlight on the barns yonder; how warm
it looks! Look off on that hill-side, where the snow lies so deep! How
like a speck of gold it shimmers to the eye! and there goes Dancer on the
crust, as if he enjoyed the freshness of the air, and the warm sunlight.
Let us try the crust too, and if it will bear us, we shall save time by
going across lots. Here we go, with our heels crunching the glittering
pavement, leaving scarcely a vestige of our tread, the frost of last night
has so effectually congealed it. Yonder across this valley which the hills
prevent our seeing from the house, is the sugar-bush, sloping to the
south. The canal we first crossed leads to the old mills down to the right
yonder, where you see that grove of black-cherry trees, and the little
house on the knoll. The mist that you see to the left, rises from the
mill-dam, the monotonous hum of whose falling waters you have heard for
some time. This is Furnace Creek, whose swift current harbors the most
beautiful trout. That crow yonder on the dry hemlock is calling to his
mate, and the speckled wood-pecker is tapping away at that old beech, that
the nice insects within its decayed interior may come out to make him a
breakfast. Hark! do you not hear the drum of that partridge? He is up
there in that thicket of young beeches and hemlocks, on the other side of
the road. As you hear the slow, measured drum which he gives at first, and
which he hastens into a whirr like distant thunder, does not 'The old
Man's Counsel' come fresh to your memory, and almost ringing in your ear?
Ah! this is the glory of true poetry, that it clothes the commonest things
with a new interest, and forever after they become objects of love, at
least of meditation. Who that has read the same author's 'Lines to a
Waterfowl,' does not gaze with other than a sportsman's pleasure upon even
a wild duck, if it flies past him after sunset. But there goes a flock of
pigeons, and here over our heads; one! two! three! more than a hundred in
each! What a rushing sound their wings make! They fly too high for us just
now: but wait till we get on the cleared hill yonder to the right of the
sugar-bush, and we shall have rare sport as they emerge from the trees and
skim along the edge of the 'clearing.'

Here we are in the sugar-bush. Are these not noble trees? For how many
years have they stood thus interlocking their strong boughs like brethren!
While Columbus was asking a supper for his boy at the convent door, three
centuries and a half ago, these same trees were here, scarcely younger
than now. Yonder is the hill we saw from the rude bridge below the
mill-dam. Let us clamber over the log-fence and get into the clearing.

Well, Peter, this hill that we are on is just one mile from home, though
it looks not half the distance. Is this not a glorious view? Hill and
valley spread out like a map before us! The snow lies in patches upon the
fields, and the sun is lighting up the tinned spire of the village church,
which, as the stage passed it yesterday, you thought looked like a
superannuated old man with a martin-cage upon his crooked back. There is
the old homestead looking at us through the locusts that surround it, and
there are the orchards off to the right, which in a few weeks will be
white with blossoms. Now, steady, my boys! Do you see that flock of
pigeons? Wait till they pass us, that our shot may take effect on their
backs. Whang! hack!! bang!!! What! three barrels off and only a handful of
tail-feathers! How they opened as we fired, as if to let the shot go
through. Hist! don't stir! Look up softly into the dry top of this
hemlock, right over our heads: four, five, six! all in a huddle. I'll
fetch some of them with my last barrel. Snap! fiz! confound the cap! Hold
still, they see us. I've got a fresh cap on: bang! Here comes one,
tumbling through the limbs on to the snow. Is he not a handsome bird; with
his glossy purple breast and slender blue neck! Load quickly, and let us
be ready for the next flock.

Hear them scream and coo in the wood to the right. Hear the leaves crackle
down on that slope where the snow is off under those tall beeches. The
ground is fairly blue with them. Softly there over the dry brush! See them
turning up the leaves for beech-nuts: they are all moving this way. Down,
behind this log: they are not twenty yards off. Cock both barrels; and now
fire! What a stunning sound they make, like the roaring of a tornado!
Look, they have settled down again on the other side of the ravine. Well,
here, Peter, what do you think of the fun now?--fourteen cock pigeons and
one hen, to be divided between us. This is what _I_ call sport: none of
your reed-birds and meadow-larks, such as cockney sportsmen frighten away
from the fields of Jersey or Long-Island. Here they come again by scores.
Now let us see how good a shot you are. Two cocks on the topmost branch of
that old maple, full forty yards to the trunk. No, no! don't get any
nearer, for they see you. Well done! Hear him thump on the leaves; and
here comes the other, fluttering round and round like a shuttlecock. Ten
to one that you shot him through the head. There! I told you so! His wings
are not hurt, but a shot has cut away his bill. Here, Dancer, don't bite
him so, but bring him here! Chick, chick, churr! Mister Red-squirrel,
we'll 'give you a few,' as Jared used to say. On that knot in the green
hemlock, he sits with his tail spread out over his head, for all the world
like a young miss in a high-backed, old-fashined easy-chair. Well, we wont
harm him, for the sake of the associations his comical appearance awakens.

Dancer is barking down in the ravine. There he comes! as if he were crazy;
he is on the track of a hare! Do you see that pair of slender ears pricked
up behind the roots of that fallen tree? Let me try my skill at a long
shot. I've hit them, that's poz! No, I haven't either; for the
nimble-footed thing is scudding away round the hill as safe as if I had
not wasted my loading on her.

This sunken cask down here where the water wells up through the white
sand, used to be the father of the cool spring water for the uses of the
Homestead, and was conveyed the whole distance in 'pump-logs.' You can see
the end of one, with an iron band sunk into it, sticking out of the earth.
This spring, however, has been long exchanged for one on higher ground,
and the wooden logs for lead pipe, half as expensive, and not half so
healthy. Just pop over that chip-munk, whose head is peeping out of the
ground at the foot of the maple sapling. Too cruel! Well done! you are
growing compassionate all at once. Look out for your head! I declare, you
escaped narrowly! That dead limb would have dispersed all your theology,
had it struck your head. Well, Dancer, what are you staring at? Do you
think the old tree dropped one of its limbs on purpose? Ah, ha! I see!
Peter, do you see that tuft of dark moss in the crotch of that largest
maple: well, I am going to shoot at it for sport, so here goes! I
_thought_ it was a black squirrel; how he leaps from the top boughs.
Hurrah! here we go over logs and through bushes; the squirrel still ahead
of us, springing from tree top to tree top. How he rattles down the dry
splinters as he scratches up that dead hemlock. Now we've got him! Go
round on the other side of the tree and he will dodge back this way, and I
shall get a crack at him. But he don't though! He must have a hole up
there. Sure enough, there is one! Let me get this old bough broken in two,
and I will start him. Now be ready, and shoot him as he comes out. The old
tree is hollow all the way up; it sounds as I strike like an old
bass-drum. There! he's out! blaze away! Not that time did you hit him.
That's better! see him hang by one leg! here he comes! 'dead as a door
nail!' Thump! how he struck the ground. What a tail he has!

       *       *       *       *       *

And now we are at the 'boiling place.' Two strong beech crotches are
driven into the ground, about twelve feet apart, and a strong pole is laid
over them, some five feet from the ground. The huge back-log was the butt
of that tremendous beech you see lying just at the top of the knoll. The
cauldron you see is filled with the fresh sap two or three times a day,
and before filling each time, the boiling liquid is dipped out into the
largest kettle alongside of it, and that in turn is emptied into a smaller
one, that no time may be lost in boiling it away. Taste the syrup in this
smaller kettle; it is almost molasses. Try on that 'neck-yoke' and come,
let us help carry sap before dinner. The spiles you see sticking from
augur-holes in every maple are made of young sumacs, which are sawed off
the right length, and then the pith is punched out with a wire. The clean
white-pine buckets, without bails, into which the sap drips from the
spiles, are made expressly for this use, and so is that enormous hogshead
where the sap is poured before it is strained for the cauldron. For the
present let us to dinner. Well, Herr Peter, although our dinner was laid
on a beech log, and our table-cloth nothing but a piece of coarse linen,
and our knives and forks such as Adam and Eve used before us! was it not
excellent! Wie schmackt es! _How smacked it!_ as it passed through our
devouring jaws; and how sweet was the pure spring water from the bright
tin dipper! Now for a quiet smoke on the plank settle in the bough-house,
while Joe and Hiram are getting ready to 'sugar off.' Here, if there comes
up a storm, they sit and watch the kettles; and sometimes when the weather
is clear they sit up all night. So at last you _do_ love a cigar better
than a meerschaum? I confess it is the same with me! How old DEIDRICH
would frown, if he heard such an admission from those who boast as we do
the pure _Deutchen-blut_, the true Dutch blood!

What! two o'clock so soon! They have hung the ten-pail kettle that
contains the thick syrup upon a pole between two slender crotches, and
have already kindled a fire. How it bubbles and 'blubbers' up, like thick
hasty-pudding, with a dignified slowness that is inimitable. Now it rises
to the top of the kettle and will boil over! O, you needn't turn up your
nose at the slice of clean fat pork that Joe has just thrown in, for that
has saved our sugar. See, it gradually subsides till it rests a third way
down. You have heard that oil will still the surface of the sea; and the
oily part of the pork answers the same purpose with the boiling syrup. Now
it begins to granulate, swing it off. Here, drop some of it into this
bucket of cold water, and then poke it out with that pine stick, while I
run up on the side-hill yonder and get a pail of snow, which will cool it
faster. Ha, ha, ha! you do look handsome; suppose Meeta could see you with
your jaws stuck fast together with the candy, and your face looking like
the head of Medusa. While you are getting over the lock-jaw, I will trail
some on this snow to take home to little Sue, who begged me to bring her
back some maple candy. Now let us ride down home on the ox-sled, with the
huge tin pails full of the hot syrup, which wont get half cold before it
is safe in the farm-house pantry, in a half dozen well-buttered milk-pans
to harden for future use.

Once more in bed after a hearty supper; and once more out of it, too, for
the stage horn is blown. We must hurry or we are left; for it stops only
fifteen or twenty minutes to change the mail.

       *       *       *       *       *

Yes, Peter, this Brookline _is_ a little cleaner than Broadway.




RELIGIOUS CONTROVERSY.

BY FLACCUS.

    'Tantæ ne animis coelestibus iræ?'                         VIRGIL.


  When the full-throated people of the air,
  Harmonious preachers of the sweets of love,
  That midway range, as half at home with heaven,
  Are quiring, with a heartiness of joy
  That the high tide of song o'erbrims the grove,
  And far adown the meadow runs to waste;
  How would the soul, there floating, loathe to mark
  Sudden contention; sharp, discordant screams,
  From throats whose single duty is a song!

  Not with less sure revolting--ah! far more!
  Curdles the blood when Christian brothers strive,
  And prostitute to wordy war the lips
  Commissioned to dispense 'good will to man;'
  And soothe the world with spoken kindness, soft,
  And full of melody as song of birds.
  O, sad betrayal of the highest trust!
  Heralds of peace--to blow the trump of strife:
  Envoys of charity--to sow the tares
  Of hatred in a soil prepared for love.

  Is this a time for soldiers of the cross
  To point their weapons, each at other's breast,
  When the great Enemy, the common Foe,
  Though baffled, unsubdued, lays ever wait
  For some unguarded pass, to cheat the walls
  Not all his dread artillery could breach?
  How is each lunge, and ward, of tart reproof,
  And bitter repartee--painful to friends--
  By th' Adversary hailed with general yell
  Of triumph, or derision! O, my friends!
  Believe me, lines of loving charity
  Dishearten enemies, encourage friends,
  And woo enlistment to your ranks, more sure
  Than the best weapon of the readiest wit,
  Whose point is venomed with the gall of scorn.

  How wiser then, forbearing bitterness
  At points of polity, or shades of faith
  That different show to different-seeing eyes,
  To shun perplexing doctrines which th' Allwise
  Has willed obscure, and imitate HIS life;
  HIS, the meek Founder of our faith, who sowed
  HIS earthly way with blessings as with seed:
  Bearing, forbearing, ever rendering good;
  The Counsellor, the Comforter, the Friend:
  How ope soe'er HIS word to various sense,
  HIS _life_ is plain; and all that life was love:
  Be this our guide, we cannot widely stray.

_March, 1844._




THE ENGLISH STATE TRIALS.

DURING THE POPISH PLOT.


The recent Irish State Trials seem to have been conducted on the part of
the government with something of the same violence and partiality that
dishonor the ancient records of Great Britain's criminal jurisprudence.
The exclusion of Roman Catholics from the jury was an arbitrary and
unwarrantable act; unjust in itself, disrespectful to the larger portion
of the Irish people, and calculated to destroy the moral effect of the
verdict, by producing the impression on the public mind that the prisoners
did not have a fair trial. We would not be understood as complaining of
the verdict. We do not see how, with a strict adherence to the law and to
the evidence, the jury could well have decided otherwise. It is the
eagerness to convict the prisoners manifested on the part of the
law-officers of the crown that is the object of just reprehension.

Trials for offences against the State have happily been almost unknown in
this country, and we therefore find it difficult to conceive of the
dangers to which a prisoner is exposed, when the whole power of the
government is arrayed against him. But to one familiar with the iniquitous
manner in which they were conducted in Great Britain during the
seventeenth, and the earlier part of the eighteenth century, the
proceedings against O'Connell and his associates seem almost models of
judicial fairness and impartiality. To one not thus familiar, it is
difficult to convey an adequate idea of the extent to which legal
tribunals prostituted their functions to purposes of oppression and
revenge. The judges holding their offices by the slight tenure of royal
favor, and generally owing their elevation to the zeal they had shown to
defend the royal prerogatives, were, with a few honorable exceptions,
willing instruments in the hands of power. The interpreters of the law,
who, like the prophets of old, were bound to curse, or to bless, in
obedience to higher impulses than their own wills, became the mere
mouth-pieces of the government; the injustice of the decisions imperfectly
concealed by the sanctity of the office. Justice, and the favor of the
court were identical. The law and the royal pleasure were inseparably
associated in the mind of the judge.

We would not be understood as meaning that the English judges were unjust,
or partial in the trials between private citizens. In these cases it was
not often that there was any obstacle interposed to the administration of
even-handed justice. It was when the government came in as a party; when
political offenders were to be tried, that they too often proved false to
their trust. The temptations of office; the love of ease, wealth, and
distinction; the fear of ministerial enmity, of royal disgrace, were too
powerful for poor Honesty. The hour in which their aid was most needed by
the friendless prisoner, was that in which it was withdrawn; for surely if
men ever need an upright, able, and impartial administration of the law,
it is when they contend single-handed against the influences of flattery,
bribery, and intimidation, which those in authority are ever able to
employ. The odds are fearful in such a contest. The prejudices of juries,
the subservience of lawyers, the servility of judges, gave scarce a hope
that justice would not be wrested to serve the purposes of the crown; that
considerations of state policy would not prove stronger than any abstract
belief of the prisoner's innocence or guilt. That we have not
misrepresented the degraded condition of the English tribunals during the
period we have mentioned, a referencé to the state trials _passim_, will
abundantly prove. Nor is it at all strange that such should have been the
case. During the dynasty of the Tudors, and the reign of the first of the
Stuarts, the duty alike of the courts, and of parliament was simply to
register the royal edicts. If the formalities of law were observed, it was
rather through the good-nature of the sovereign, than from any
consciousness of his inability to break through their restraints. But
after the rebellion, and especially after the revolution, when the limits
of prerogative became marked out with some degree of precision, and
monarchs could no longer effect their purposes by open violence, then more
subtle means were resorted to, but scarcely less dangerous, to destroy
those who were so unfortunate as to become the objects of royal or
ministerial enmity. The king, if he could not make the law, could still
appoint the judges of the law; and the right of interpretation was hardly
less powerful than the power of legislation. Even when, after a lapse of
time, the judges became in a great measure independent of the crown, still
it was not until many years later, when the voice of an outraged people
became more terrible to them than the frowns of kings or ministers, that
those accused of political offence could hope for justice at their hands.

The reign of Charles the Second, in every respect the most disgraceful in
English history, is that period to which we wish now particularly to ask
the reader's attention. During the latter part of it, the chief justice's
seat was filled first by Scroggs, and afterwards by Jeffries; the former
came to the bench a little before the disclosures that took place
respecting the Popish Plot, and presided at the trials that took place in
consequence of that event. It is to these trials that we shall now confine
ourselves; only premising certain facts necessary to the perfect
understanding of the extracts which we are about to make.

It is unnecessary to go minutely into the details of the Popish Plot. A
general outline will answer our present purpose. The first who pretended
any knowledge of it, or made any disclosure respecting it, was Titus
Oates. He, when examined before the council in October, 1678, stated that
at a consult held by the Jesuits on the 24th of April preceding, at the
White Horse Tavern in London, resolutions had been adopted to kill the
king, overthrow the established church, and restore popery. Upon this many
arrests were made, and among others was Coleman, who had been secretary to
the late Duchess of York. His papers were seized, and there was found a
correspondence he had carried on several years before with the confessor
of Louis XIV., having reference mainly to the restoration of the Catholic
religion in England. These letters, although in no way confirmatory of the
alleged Plot, except so far as they indicated an anxious desire on the
part of the members of that church to regain their lost ascendency in
Great Britain, and their intention to use every effort for that purpose,
things already well known, yet produced great excitement, and were
regarded by many as conclusive proof of the truth of Oates' statements.
Another event, which happened about the same time, raised the excitement
to its highest pitch. Sir Edmundbury Godfrey, a London magistrate, before
whom Oates had made his depositions, was found murdered, and under such
circumstances as precluded the idea of suicide. Suspicion now deepened
into certainty. No one longer dared to doubt the reality of the plot. To
doubt, was to confess one's self an accomplice. Nothing was talked of but
the Plot. The wildest rumors were caught up and repeated, and soon grew
into well-authenticated facts. The name Papist, or Roman Catholic, became
synonymous with assassin. Many, not content with carrying arms, clothed
themselves in armor. At the funeral of Sir Edmondbury Godfrey, says North,
in his Examen, 'the crowd was prodigious, both at the procession, and in
and about the church, and so heated, that any thing called Papist, were it
a cat or a dog, had probably gone to pieces in a moment. The Catholics all
kept close in their houses and lodgings, thinking it a good compensation
to be safe there, so far were they from acting violently at that time. But
there was all that which upheld among the common people an artificial
fright, so that every one almost fancied a popish knife just at his
throat; and at the sermon, beside the preacher, two thumping divines stood
upright in the pulpit, to guard him from being killed while he was
preaching, by the Papists.'

Oates immediately became a man of great consequence. He was called the
saviour of the nation, had lodgings given him at Whitehall, and a pension
from parliament of £1200 a year. But the more cool and circumspect could
not forget the notorious infamy of his character, or implicitly rely on
the word of a man who openly confessed that he had gone among the Jesuits,
and declared himself a convert to their faith merely to betray them. But
with the populace his credit was unbounded. The more incredible his
fictions, the better they suited the vulgar appetite. In this sort of
narrative, as Hume truly remarks, a fool was more likely to succeed than a
wise man. Accompanied by his guards, for being supposed to be a special
object of popish enmity, guards had been assigned him, he walked about in
great dignity, attired as a priest, and 'whoever he pointed at was taken
up and committed; so that many people got out of his way as from a blast,
and glad they could prove their two last years' conversation. The very
breath of him was pestilential, and if it brought not imprisonment or
death over such on whom it fell, it surely poisoned reputation, and left
good Protestants arrant papists, and something worse than that, in danger
of being put in the plot as traitors.'[1]

    [1] North's 'Examen.'

Parliament was opened three days after Godfrey's murder, and immediately
voted that it was of opinion that there had been, and was 'a damnable and
hellish plot;' and every day, both forenoon and afternoon, a session was
held at which the whole matter was discussed. The arrests were numerous,
and among others were several papist lords, and Sir George Wakeman, the
physician to the queen. Even the Duke of York and the Queen herself were
accused by Oates as traitors and accomplices. These stories meeting such
general credence, and rewards being heaped upon the author, others, as
might have been expected, soon followed his example. The most notorious of
these minor perjurers was one Bedlow, who pretended to know the secret of
Godfrey's murder. When first examined he knew nothing of the Plot, but
told a ridiculous story about forty thousand men who were coming over to
England from Spain. The next day, however, his knowledge was greatly
increased, and he pretended to be as fully informed of all the particulars
of the Plot as Oates himself. As we shall see by and by, whatever the
bolder villain swore to, his subordinate confirmed.

Such was the state of things when the first victim of this extraordinary
popular delusion were brought to trial. The earliest trial, although the
accused was not charged with being concerned in the plot, was that of
Stayley, a goldsmith or broker, on the 21st of November, 1678. The charge
against him was that he had called the king a heretic, and threatened to
kill him. The chief witness against him was one Castars. Bishop Burnet,
who was well acquainted with him, says, that when he heard who the
witnesses were, he thought he was bound to do what he could to stop it:
'so I sent both to the lord chancellor and the attorney general to let
them know what profligate wretches these witnesses were. Jones, the
attorney general, took it ill of me that I should disparage the king's
evidence. Duke Lauderdale, having heard how I had moved in this matter,
railed at me with open mouth. He said I had studied to save Stayley for
the liking I had to any one that would murder the king.' The trial
proceeded, and one of the witnesses testified to the following words as
spoken by the prisoner: 'The King of England is the greatest heretic, and
the greatest rogue in the world; here's the heart and here's the hand that
would kill him; I myself.'

PRISONER. 'Here's the hand, and here's the heart that would kill myself;
not would kill him myself.'

L. C. J. 'What Jesuit taught you this trick? It is like one of them. It is
the art and interest of a Jesuit so to do.'

In this, as in all the subsequent trials, the existence of the Plot was
taken for granted as an incontestable fact. Another fact was also assumed,
most improperly indeed, but not without some show of reason, that it was
an admitted doctrine of the Romish church, that however sinful an act
might be in itself, it lost its sinfulness if the interests of the church
demanded its performance. Therefore it was argued, to kill a heretic-king,
to swear falsely, to deceive an enemy, is to do nothing wrong in the eyes
of a Papist, if the pope or the bishops command it. Such a man it is
proper for us to regard as an enemy, for his principles would lead him to
employ any means for the destruction of those whom he was taught to regard
as the enemies of his church.

It is unnecessary for us to stop to point out the fallacy of this mode of
reasoning. Our business at present is only to show the effect it had upon
the minds both of the court and the jury. Thus the Chief Justice reasoned
in his charge at the trial: 'You, and we all, are sensible of the great
difficulties and hazards that is now both against the king's person, and
against all Protestants, and our religion too; which will hardly maintain
itself, when they have destroyed the men; but let 'em know that many
thousands will lose their religion with their lives, for we will not be
Papists, let the Jesuits press what they will, (who are the foundations of
all this mischief,) in making proselytes by telling them, Do what
wickedness you will, it's no sin, but we can save you; and if you omit
what we command, we can damn you. Excuse if I am a little warm, when
perils are so many, their murders so secret, that we cannot discover the
murder of that gentleman whom we all knew so well, when things are
transacted so closely, and our king in so great danger, and our religion
at stake. 'Tis better to be warm here than in Smithfield. When a Papist
once hath made a man a heretic, there is no scruple to murder him. Whoever
is not of their persuasion are heretics, and whoever are heretics may be
murdered if the pope commands it; for which they may become saints in
heaven; this is that they have practised. If there had been nothing of
this in this kingdom, or other parts of the world, it would be a hard
thing to impose it upon them; but they ought not to complain when so many
instances are against them. Therefore discharge your consciences as you
ought to do; if guilty, let him take the reward of his crime, and you
shall do well to begin with this man, for perchance it may be a terror to
the rest. Unless they think they can be saved by dying in the Roman faith,
though with such pernicious and traitorous words and designs as these are,
let such go to Heaven by themselves. I hope I shall never go to that
Heaven, where men are made saints for killing kings.'

The flimsy logic and cool-blooded cruelty of this charge are too obvious
to require mention. According to the chief justice, no Papist could
complain that he was hanged for treason because some members of his church
had massacred the Protestants on Bartholomew's day. The recommendation 'to
begin with this man, that it may be a terror to the rest,' marks well the
character of the judge, and the temper of the jury that could advance or
approve such a detestable doctrine.

Stayley was convicted and thus sentenced: 'You shall return to prison,
from thence shall be drawn to the place of execution, where you shall be
hanged by the neck, cut down alive, your quarters shall be severed, and be
disposed of as the king shall think fit, and your bowels burnt, and so the
Lord have mercy on your soul.'

This sentence was executed five days after.

The next victim was Coleman. The evidence against him was of a twofold
nature; his own letters, and the testimony of Oates and Bedlow. As to the
first, they disclose clearly enough the existence of a Plot, but a Plot in
which Charles himself was the chief conspirator; a Plot not only to
restore popery, but to destroy English liberty. This Plot was of an early
date, and began indeed almost at the restoration of the king. The monarch
of France and the Duke of York were his accomplices. Coleman's part in it
seems to have been merely that of an ambitious, intriguing, bigotted
partizan, pleased with being entrusted with the secrets of the great; and
much disposed to magnify the importance and value of his services. His
letters, that were produced on his trial, related to the years 1674 and
'5. If there was any correspondence of a later date, it was never
discovered. In fine, we may say of these letters that if there was enough
in them to convict Coleman of high treason, the king, the duke, and
several of the most prominent statesmen of that period were equally
guilty.

The testimony of Oates was so strange and improbable, that it never could
have obtained credence for a moment, except at a time when men had 'lost
their reason.' The basis of his whole narration, was his statement
relating to the consult of the Jesuits in April, which we give in his own
words. 'They were ordered to meet by virtue of a brief from Rome, sent by
the father general of the society. They went on to these resolves: That
Pickering and Grove should go on, and continue in attempting to
assassinate the king's person by shooting, or other means. Grove was to
have fifteen hundred pounds. Pickering being a religious man, was to have
thirty thousand masses, which at twelvepence a mass amounted to much that
money. This resolve of the Jesuits was communicated to Mr. Coleman in my
hearing at Wild House. My lord, this was not only so, but in several
letters he did mention it, and in one letter, (I think I was gone a few
miles out of London,) he sent to me by a messenger, and did desire the
duke might be trepaned into this Plot to murder the king.'

But one consult of fifty Jesuits, all eager to carry their diabolical
plans of assassination and murder into execution, was not enough for Dr.
Oates, and he went on to relate the proceedings that took place at
another, held at the Savoy in the month of August, when the Benedictine
monks were present with the Jesuits. 'In this letter,' (one written by
Archbishop Talbot, the titular archbishop of Dublin,) 'there were four
Jesuits had contrived to despatch the Duke of Ormond. (These were his
words.) To find the most expedient way for his death Fogarthy was to be
sent to do it by poison, if these four good fathers did not hit of their
design. My lord, Fogarthy was present. And when the consult was almost at
a period, Mr. Coleman came to the Savoy to the consult, and was mighty
forward to have father Fogarthy sent to Ireland to despatch the duke by
poison. This letter did specify they were then ready to rise in rebellion
against the king for the pope.'

ATT. GEN. 'Do you know any thing of arms?'

'There were forty thousand black bills; I am not so skilful in arms to
know what they meant, (military men know what they are,) that were
provided to be sent into Ireland for the use of the Catholic party.'

In addition to the forty thousand black bills, Oates stated that there had
been £200,000 contributed by the Catholics, and that he heard Coleman say
'that he had found a way to transmit it for the carrying on of the
rebellion in Ireland.'

Here certainly was treason enough concocted, if one could believe the
witnesses, to have hung a hundred men. No less than seven men had engaged
to kill the king; all of whom, through some strange infelicity, did not
find an opportunity even to make the attempt. Not satisfied with this
number of assassins, Coleman would have had the Duke of York brought into
the Plot, and made the murderer of his brother. Could human folly frame a
set of lies more gross and palpable?

Beside Coleman's general knowledge of the Plot, Oates mentioned several
circumstances showing the special interest that he had taken in it; that
he had written letters which the witness had carried to St. Omers, in
which were these 'expressions of the king, calling him tyrant, and that
the marriage between the Prince of Orange and the Lady Mary, the Duke of
York's eldest daughter, would prove the traitor's and tyrant's ruin;' that
'this letter was written in plain English words at length;' that he had
sent another letter in which he promised 'that the ten thousand pounds'
(sent by the Jesuits,) 'should be employed for no other intent or purpose
but to cut off the King of England;' and that he had given money that 'the
four Irish ruffians,' who were to kill the king at Windsor, might be
speedy in their business.

In all these trials there is nothing that more strikingly shows the
infamous manner in which these witnesses were allowed to testify, than the
withholding of such parts of their evidence as they pretended it was
improper at that time to bring forward. Thus they protected themselves;
for no one durst accuse them lest he himself should be charged as a party
to the conspiracy. At this trial Oates said, without a word of dissent
from the Chief Justice, 'I could give other evidence but will not, because
of other things which are not fit to be known yet.'

It is impossible that the Chief Justice, or the other judges, should have
believed such a story as this even for a moment. We make all necessary
allowance for the influence of great popular excitement. We know that
judges are but men, and are not exempt more than other men from the
contagion of those occasional outbursts of frenzy, which seem to destroy
all individual independence, and all sense of individual responsibility;
and which for a time makes a nation like a herd of maddened buffaloes,
ignorant whither it is going, but unable to stop in its furious career.
Yet by their position judges are, of all classes of men, the farthest
removed from popular influences of this nature. Their habits of legal
investigation, fit them in an eminent degree to weigh with scrupulous
accuracy the characters of witnesses; to detect improbabilities and
contradictions. Stories that may deceive even intelligent men unacquainted
with the laws of evidence, and the bearings of testimony, stand revealed
at first glance to the practised eye of the judge as a tissue of
falsehoods. Here the judges could not have been deceived. Who could
believe that the Jesuits, a body of men not less celebrated for their
profound knowledge of the politics of every kingdom in Christendom, than
for the wisdom with which they adapted their plans of proselytism to the
changing circumstances of the times, should have formed a plan to restore
popery in England by massacre and conquest? The thing is too preposterous
to merit a moment's attention.

Still more ridiculous are the details of the Plot as disclosed by Oates.
Would the Jesuits, even if they had formed such plans, confide them to a
penniless, friendless vagabond; a man of notoriously bad character, who
was, while at St. Omers, the butt and laughing stock of the whole college?
Such secrets are not usually revealed to any but tried men, and the
Jesuits were the last of all conspirators to bestow their confidence
rashly. Yet here was a conspiracy whose disclosure would have brought a
certain and speedy death to every one engaged in it, known we know not to
how many hundreds, and many of these too found in the lowest ranks of the
populace. The manner of its execution is of a piece with all the rest.
First, two men were employed to kill the king. For two years they could
find no opportunity to do it. Then four Irish ruffians were employed. Who
they were, or what became of them, no one knew. Then the physician of the
queen was hired to poison him. To this horrible plan of assassination,
were consenting not only the highest dignitaries of the Romish church, but
some of the noblest peers of England and of France. But we have neither
time nor patience to proceed farther with such miserable fabrications. We
say then that the judges never could have believed in the existence of
such a Plot, and that the prisoners tried before them were immolated upon
the altar of their own personal popularity. Rather than resist the current
of popular feeling, and dare to award justice and uphold the supremacy of
impartial law, they chose to swim with the tide, and sacrifice men whom
they knew in their hearts to be innocent. It is this that adds tenfold
guilt to the brutality of their conduct. We cannot forget that they were
dishonest in their very cruelty; that they insulted their victims,
browbeat the witnesses, trampled on judicial forms to gain the favor of an
infuriated mob, whose madness they laughed at and derided.

At the commencement of the trial, Coleman thus alluded to the law of
England, forbidding counsel to prisoners accused of criminal offences, and
to the prejudice that then prevailed against those of his religion: 'I
hope, my lord, if there be any point of law that I am not skilled in, that
your lordships will be pleased not to take the advantage over me. Another
thing seems most dreadful, that is, the violent prejudice that seems to be
against every man in England that is confessed to be a Roman Catholic. It
is possible that a Roman Catholic may be very innocent of these crimes. If
one of those innocent Roman Catholics should come to this bar, he lies
under such disadvantages already, and his prejudices so greatly biasseth
human nature, that unless your lordships will lean extremely much on the
other side, justice will hardly stand upright and lie upon a level.'

L. C. J. 'You need not make any preparations for us in this matter; you
shall have a fair, just and legal trial; if condemned it will be apparent
you ought to be so; and without a fair proof there shall be no
condemnation. Therefore you shall find we will not do to you as you do to
us, blow up at adventure, kill people because they are not of your
persuasion: our religion teacheth us another doctrine, and you shall find
it clearly to your advantage.'

This was fairness and impartiality in the eyes of the Chief Justice!

Coleman did not conduct his defence with so much ability as his reputation
might lead us to expect. He seems to have been dismayed at the dangers
that threatened him, and hopeless of a fair trial, bowed before the storm.
An attempted alibi was feebly supported, although Oates was so indefinite
in regard to time that to attempt to convict him of falsehood was of
little avail. The chief points of his defence were the improbability of
the whole story, and the fact that Oates on his examination before the
council had said that he did not know him. Oates thus excused himself: 'My
lord, when Mr. Coleman was upon his examination before the council board,
he saith I said that I never saw him before in my life; I then said that I
would not swear that I had seen him before in my life, because my sight
was bad by candle-light, and candle-light alters the sight much; but when
I heard him speak, I could have sworn it was he, but it was not then my
business. I cannot see a great way by candle-light.'

Being asked why he had not accused Coleman at the same time when he
accused Wakeman and the Jesuits, he pretended that it was 'for want of
memory. Being disturbed and wearied in sitting up two nights, I could not
give that good account of Mr. Coleman, which I did afterwards when I
consulted my papers;' as if in giving the names of many meaner persons, he
should from forgetfulness overlook one so considerable as Coleman. The
testimony of Oates was confirmed by Bedlow, who did not hesitate to swear
to any thing that the more inventive genius of his fellow-witness had
devised.

In summing up, the Chief Justice animadverted with considerable force upon
the nature of the letters that had been read as proof of a design to
restore popery in England; this he most unjustifiably argued, could not be
effected by peaceable means: 'Therefore,' he says, 'there must be more in
it, for he that was so earnest in that religion would not have stuck at
any violence to bring it in; he would not have stuck at blood. For we know
their doctrines and their practises, and we know well with what zeal the
priests push them forward to venture their own lives, and take away other
men's that differ from them, to bring in their religion and to set up
themselves.'

After speaking of the general ignorance of the Papists, and the general
diffusion of knowledge among the Protestants, 'insomuch that scarce a
cobbler but is able to baffle any Roman priest that ever I saw or met
with,' he goes on; 'and after this I wonder that a man who hath been bred
up in the Protestant religion, (as I have reason to believe that you, Mr.
Coleman, have been, for if I am not misinformed your father was a minister
in Suffolk,) for such a one to depart from it, is an evidence against you
to prove the indictment. I must make a difference between us and those who
have been always educated that way. No man of understanding, but for
by-ends, would have left his religion to be a Papist. And for you, Mr.
Coleman, who are a man of reason and subtilty, I must tell you, (to bring
this to yourself,) upon this account, that it could not be conscience; I
cannot think it to be conscience. Your pension was your conscience, and
your secretary's place your bait. I do acknowledge many of the popish
priests formerly were learned men, and may be so still beyond the seas;
but I could never yet meet with any here, that had any other learning or
ability but artificial, only to delude weak women and weaker men.

'They have indeed ways of conversion and conviction by enlightening our
understandings with a faggot, and by the powerful and irresistible
arguments of a dagger. But these are such wicked solecisms in their
religion, that they seem to have left them neither natural sense nor
natural conscience. Not natural sense, by their absurdity in so
unreasonable a belief as of the wine turned into blood: not natural
conscience, by their cruelty, who make the Protestant's blood as wine, and
these priests thirst after it. _Tantum religio potuit suadere malorum._

'Mr. Coleman, in one of his letters, speaks of rooting out our religion
and our party; and he is in the right, for they can never root out the
Protestant religion but they must kill the Protestants. But let him and
them know, if ever they shall endeavor to bring popery in by destroying of
the king, they shall find that the Papists will thereby bring destruction
upon themselves, so that not a man of them would escape.

    'Ne catulus quidem relinquendus.'

'Our execution shall be as quick as their gunpowder, but more effectual.
And so, gentlemen, I shall leave it to you to consider what his letters
prove him guilty of directly, and what by consequence what he plainly
would have done, and then how he would have done it, and whether you think
his _fiery zeal_ had so much _cold blood_ in it as to spare any others.

'For the other part of the evidence, which is by the testimony of the
present witnesses, you have heard them: I will not detain you longer now;
the day is going out.'

MR. JUSTICE JONES. 'You must find the prisoner guilty, or bring in two
persons perjured.'

The verdict was what might have been anticipated from such a charge.
Coleman was found guilty, and the next day sentenced. After sentence had
been pronounced, he protested his innocence, but was brutally interrupted
by the Chief Justice: 'I am sorry, Mr. Coleman, that I have not charity
enough to believe the words of a dying man.'

In answer to Coleman's request that his wife might visit him in prison, he
at first seemed disposed to deny it, and said: 'You say well, and it is a
hard case to deny it; but I tell you what hardens my heart: the
insolencies of your party, (the Roman Catholics I mean,) that they every
day offer, which is indeed a proof of their Plot, that they are so bold
and impudent, and such secret murders committed by them as would harden
any man's heart to do the common favors of justice and charity that to
mankind are usually done. They are so bold and insolent that I think it is
not to be endured in a Protestant kingdom.'

His request however was granted. He was executed the third of December
following.

We have dwelt with some particularity upon this trial, not because it is
by any means the most flagrant for the contemptuous disregard shown by the
judges, not only to the legal rights, but to the feelings of the prisoner,
but because it came first in the order of time, and serves in a good
measure to explain all the trials that follow it. Comment upon it is
needless. Such a mockery of justice would disgrace the tribunals of
savages. Whatever seems unfavorable to the prisoner is pressed home by the
Chief Justice, most strongly against him. Whatever makes for him is kept
out of sight. To have been born a Roman Catholic is a crime; to have
deliberately adopted that faith, is a damnable sin; one for which there is
no expiation. The absurd fictions of Oates and Bedlow are commended to the
jury as worthy of implicit credence. The whole weight of judicial
authority and influence is thrown into the scale of condemnation.

On the seventeenth of the same December, Whitebread, Fenwick, Ireland,
Pickering and Grove, were brought to trial. The chief witnesses against
them were Oates and Bedlow. The counsel for the crown thus opened the
case: 'May it please your lordships, and you gentlemen of the jury, the
persons here before you stand indicted of high treason; they are five in
number; three of them are Jesuits, one is a priest, the fifth is a layman;
persons fitly prepared for the work in hand.' After a few other
observations, he proceeds to institute a comparison between this Plot and
the famous Gunpowder Plot. The second and third points of resemblance in
the two, he thus states: 'Secondly, the great actors in the design were
priests and Jesuits, that came from Valladolid in Spain, and other places
beyond the seas. And the great actors in this Plot are priests and Jesuits
that are come from St. Omers and other places beyond the seas, nearer home
than Spain.

'Thirdly, that Plot was chiefly guided and managed by Henry Garnet,
superior and provincial of the Jesuits then in England; and the great
actor in this design is Mr. Whitebread, superior and provincial of the
Jesuits now in England.'

The evidence of Oates was the same in substance that he gave at Coleman's
trial, but with such additional particulars as he judged necessary to keep
the popular excitement alive. Thus, in answering the question, what he
knew of any attempts to kill the king at St. James' park, he said: 'I saw
Pickering and Grove several times walking in the park together, with their
secured pistols, which were longer than ordinary pistols, and shorter than
some carbines. They had silver bullets to shoot with, and Grove would have
had the bullets to be champt for fear that if he should shoot, if the
bullets were round, the wound that might be given might be cured.'

ATT. GEN. 'Do you know any thing of Pickering's doing penance, and for
what?'

'Yes, my lord. In the month of March last, (for these persons have
followed the king several years;) but he at that time had not looked to
the flint of his pistol, but it was loose, and he durst not venture to
give fire. He had a fair opportunity, as Whitebread said; and because he
missed it through his own negligence he underwent penance, and had twenty
or thirty strokes of discipline, and Grove was chidden for his
carelessness.'

Of the 'four Irish ruffians' that went to Windsor to kill the king, Oates
could give no account. How he could reconcile it with his duty to His
Majesty to let these assassins lie in wait from August to October, without
notifying any one of their murderous intentions, he did not see fit to
explain, and of course the attorney general and the judges forgot to ask
him.

Not the least wonderful part of his evidence is that which he speaks of
the ill usage he received from Whitebread in September, who charged him
with having betrayed them: 'So, my lord, I did profess a great deal of
innocency, because I had not then been with the king, but he gave me very
ill language, and abused me, and I was afraid of a worse mischief from
them. And though, my lord, they could not prove that I had discovered it,
yet upon the bare suspicion, I was beaten and affronted, and reviled, and
commanded to go beyond sea again; nay, my lord, I had my lodgings
assaulted to have murdered me if they could.'

This is certainly the strangest way to conciliate a disaffected
conspirator, that we ever heard of! Most men would have preferred to use
bribes and caresses; but the Jesuits, it seems, knew their man, and chose
to beat him into secrecy and submission!

Bedlow's evidence, as usual, was mainly confirmatory of the statements of
Oates, embellished by such new incidents as his feebler powers of
invention could frame. He was, however, not quite satisfied with this
subordinate part; and therefore at the close of his evidence pretends to
recollect that he had omitted one thing very material: 'At the same time
that there was a discourse about these three gentleman being to destroy
the king at New-Market, there was a discourse of a design to kill several
noble persons, and the several parts assigned to every one. Knight was to
kill the Earl of Shaftsbury, Pritchard, the Duke of Buckingham, Oniel, the
Earl of Ossory, Obrian, the Duke of Ormond,' An assassination of noblemen
on a truly magnificent scale!

Nothing appearing in Bedlow's evidence to implicate Fenwick and
Whitebread, and two witnesses being necessary to prove the charge, they
were sent back to prison. When they were subsequently brought up for trial
for the same offence, and pleaded that they could not a second time be
tried, their plea was overruled, although founded on one of the commonest
principles of law, and sanctioned by a thousand precedents. The reasoning
of Scroggs and North, the Chief Justice of the Common Pleas, is so curious
that it is worth quoting. Whitebread, after objecting that he is informed
that no man can be put in jeopardy of his life the second time for the
same cause: 'I speak it not for my sake only, but for the sake of the
whole nation; no man should be tried twice for the same cause; by the same
reason a man may be tried twenty or one hundred times.'

SCROGGS. 'You say well, it is observed, Mr. Whitebread; but you must know
that you were not put in jeopardy of your life for the same thing, for
first the jury were discharged of you; it is true, it was supposed when
you were indicted that there would be two witnesses against you, but that
fell out otherwise, and the law of the land requiring two witnesses to
prove you guilty of treason, it was thought reasonable that you should not
be put upon the jury at all, but you were discharged, and then you were in
no jeopardy of your life.'

'Under favor, my lord, I was in jeopardy, for I was given in charge to the
jury; and 'tis the case in Seyer, 31 Eliz., he was indicted for a burglary
committed the 31st of August, and pleaded to it, and afterward another
indictment was preferred, and all the judges did declare that he could not
be indicted the second time for the same fact, because he was in jeopardy
of his life again.'

C. J. NORTH. 'The oath the jury take is, _that they shall well and truly
try, and true deliverance make_ of such prisoners as they shall have in
charge; the charge of the jury is not full 'till the court give them a a
charge at last, after evidence had; and because there was a mistake in
your case, that the evidence was not so full as might be, the jury before
they ever considered concerning you at all they were discharged, and so
you were not in jeopardy; and, I in my experience, know it to be often
done, and 'tis the course of law.'

In this opinion all the judges coincided. Sad indeed was the condition of
things in poor England when all her judges could resort to such miserable
quibbles; or worse than this, could deliberately falsify the law, to
condemn to an ignominious death two defenceless prisoners!

To return from this digression. The three remaining prisoners were found
guilty. The Chief Justice in charging the jury was even more violent
against the Papists than in his charge at Coleman's trial: 'Some hold that
the pope in council is infallible; and ask any Popish Jesuit of them all
and he will say the pope is himself infallible in council or he is no true
Jesuit; and if so, whatever they command is to be justified by their
authority; so that if they give a dispensation to kill a king, that king
is well killed. They indulge all sorts of sins, and no human bonds can
hold them.

'They have some parts of the foundation 'tis true, but they are
adulterated and mixed with horrid principles and impious practises. They
eat their God, they kill their king, and saint the murderer. This is a
religion that quite unhinges all piety, all morality, all conversation,
and to be abominated by all mankind.

'I return now to the fact which is proved by two witnesses, and by the
concurrent evidence of the letter and the maid; and the matter is as plain
and notorious as can be, that there was an intention of bringing in popery
by a cruel and bloody way; for I believe they never could have prayed us
into their religion. I leave it therefore for you to consider whether you
have not as much evidence from these two men as can be expected in a case
of this nature; and whether Mr. Oates be not rather justified by the
testimony offered against him, than discredited. Let prudence and
conscience direct your verdict, and you will be too hard for their art and
cunning.

'Gentlemen, if you think you shall be in long we will adjourn the court
till the afternoon and take your verdict then.'

JURY. 'No, my lord, we shall not be long.'

After a very short recess the jury returned with a verdict of guilty
against all.

C. J. 'You have done, gentlemen, like very good subjects and very good
Christians; that is to say, like very good Protestants. And now, much good
may their thirty thousand masses do them!'

Before the court pronounced sentence Ireland loudly complained that he had
had no time to call his witnesses: 'So that we could have none but only
those that came in by chance, and those things they have declared, though
true, were not believed.' His objection was overruled, and the Recorder,
Sir George Jeffries, proceeded to pass sentence. The spirit that pervaded
his speech may be seen in this extract: 'I am sure this was so horrid a
design, that nothing but a conclave of devils in hell, or a college of
such Jesuits as yours on earth, could have thought upon.'

At the trial of Berry, Green and Hill, for the murder of Sir Edmondbury
Godfrey, the improbabilities of the testimony and the contradictions of
the witnesses were so glaring that it seems incredible that any man could
believe them. As a specimen: Praunce, the chief witness, said that the
body was taken to Hill's lodgings where it remained two days in a certain
room he mentioned. In defence, it was shown by all the family, that that
room was an open one; that scarcely an hour passed but some one went
through it. But instead of receiving this testimony, the Chief Justice
told the witnesses that it was very suspicious they had not seen the body,
and that it was well for them they were not indicted. But we have not
space to quote further. The extracts we have already made will be
sufficient to show Scrogg's utter contempt for those duties which the law
imposed upon him as the counsel for the prisoners; his abusive and
threatening demeanor toward their witnesses; his appeals to the passions
of the jury, their bigotry and their fears; and in a word, his total
destitution of every quality that marks the honest, fair-minded, and
impartial judge.

We intended to speak of the disgraceful and cowardly part which Charles
the Second bore in these proceedings. Convinced that the Plot was a mere
fiction, he saw day by day his innocent and faithful subjects led to the
gallows without making an effort for their safety, or giving utterance to
a word of disapprobation. It was not until the Queen was attacked, that
the selfish monarch interfered. A word from him turned the abuse of
Scroggs into an opposite channel, and Oates and Bedlow were now as
bitterly reviled as the Jesuits had been before. We believe that Charles
was a willing spectator if not an active promoter of these legal
butcheries, hoping that thereby a vent would be given to the popular fury,
and he himself, by such a sacrifice, regain the lost affections of his
people.

We intended also to speak of the conduct of the leading English statesmen
during this period; of Lauderdale, of Shaftsbury, of Danby, and of
Buckingham; but our limits are already overpassed. We can only say that
the character of the monarch was truly reflected in the character of his
counsellors; that as England has never had so faithless and profligate a
king, she has never been disgraced by such unscrupulous, despicable, and
short-sighted ministers.




THE INFANT'S BURIAL.

BY THE SHEPHERD OF SHARONDALE, VALLEY OF VIRGINIA.

    'Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.'


  I.

          'Dust unto dust!' Sweet child!
    Was that dark sentence ever meant for thee?
    For that bright form, that tablet undefiled,
          Creation's mystery?
  No no, it could not be, for GOD is just;
  That beauteous brow! oh, who could call that dust?
          And yet methought I heard
    Those words slow uttered o'er thy tiny grave,
    As though that Eden-calm had e'er been stirred
          By Passion's stormy wave.
  It should have been, 'Angels an Angel meet;
  Seraphs on high a sister-seraph greet!'


  II.

          'Earth unto earth;' 'tis well
    That sordid earth should pass to earth again:
    In those dark fanes where truth has ceased to dwell,
          Why should the shrine remain?
  Deep in the dust let all such pass away;
  Why should they not?--clay mingles but with clay:
          Such is dark Manhood's prime,
    From whose high nature all of Heaven has past,
    Whose once pure mould is deeply dyed with crime;
          Bound down with fetters fast:
  Gone, gone is all of holiness and worth,
  And what remains is naught indeed but earth.


  III.

          'Ashes to ashes?' Yes!
    _Let_ it be thus with those whom age has chilled,
    Whose life is but the dying ember's glow--
          _There_ let it be fulfilled!
  Say, 'When the altar-fires but dimly burn,
  'Ashes to ashes, dust to dust' return!'
          And with that aged band,
    The blackened craters of whose hearts are charred
    By scathéd hopes and Hate's undying brand;
          Let not this fate be marred:
  Ope wide thy portals, Grave! Death, pass them down!
  For these, and such as these, are all thine own.


  IV.

          But oh, my beauteous one!
    This gloomy path should not by thee be trod;
    The grave, the worm, should not by _thee_ be known--
          Go thou direct to GOD!
  Thy passport white at Heaven's gate unroll,
  (No dark hand-writing e'er hath soiled that scroll.)
          'Twas thus the Saviour spoke:
    'Those little children; suffer them to come.'
    The mandate thou didst hear; the fetters broke
          Which kept thee from thy home:
  Awhile life's threshhold thou didst press with glee,
  Then turned away; _this_ life was not for thee!




A PISCATORIAL ECLOGUE.

VEL ISAACUS WALTON IN NOVAM SCALAM REDIVIVUS.

BY PETER VON GEIST.


PISCATOR. You are happily met, my fair young lady!

DISCIPULA. A very good morrow to you, Mr. PISCATOR. You are early a-foot,
with your rod and lines.

PISCATOR. A veteran of the angle will be stirring early; there is a brace
of fish waiting for my hook on the other side of our lake. But you, my
gentle maiden, have you come down to the beach to see the sun rise? and
mayhap to pluck a rose with the dew on't? I think you have found it; for I
think I can see the rose on your cheek, and the dew in your eye. It is
sweet to be up betimes in the morning, when the air and the new sunlight
are as clear and calm as your own thoughts.

DISCIPULA. It is even so, as you and I know right well. A pleasant sail to
you; God send a dozen fish, and may you kill them merrily. But honest Mr.
Piscator, do you go alone to-day?

PISCATOR. I think so to do; for you are to note, a companion of patience
and sober demeanor, free from profane jests and scurrilous discourse, is
worth gold, but is not so easy to be come at. And none other than such
jumps with my humor.

DISCIPULA. And when, my good Mr. Piscator, will you give me another lesson
in the art of angling? For you must know the last has only increased my
desire to learn something more of it. Or do you think that we women can
never attain skill in that noble and gentle art?

PISCATOR. That it is a noble and a gentle art I am ready to maintain; and
that women have attained skill in it is not to be doubted; as you will
read in books of old time, that ladies both hunted, and hawked, and
fished.

DISCIPULA. But the lesson, my honest master? When shall I have another
lesson?

PISCATOR. You shall even suit your own convenience. And some fine morning,
when you are so disposed, we will take a walk down the river; when I will
teach you to cast your line for trout; for indeed, it requires a sharp wit
and much practice to throw your fly so that the trout will rise at it.

DISCIPULA. Not in the river, if it please you, good Mr. Piscator, not in
the river! Teach me to fish in the lake.

PISCATOR. Without doubt, my fair young lady, it must be as you desire. And
yet, it is not every woman that would have the courage to cross the pond
in a skiff that rocks to every ripple.

DISCIPULA. Trust me for that. You should know that I am not wont to be
frightened at trifles.

PISCATOR. Truly, it is so; and I do not question your courage. Then on any
day that you will appoint, GOD willing, I will give you a sail; or indeed,
this morning, if duty does not incline you in another direction, and you
will step with me into my little boat yonder.

DISCIPULA. That shall I with right good will. But I shall have to make you
wait while I get my fishing tackle.

PISCATOR. Of necessity you shall not do that; for I remember now, I can
fit you with a spare harness of my own.

DISCIPULA. Then let us be going, say I. And is this the skiff? What a
painted little cockle-shell of a boat, with its two masts! I suppose it
will bear us both?

PISCATOR. It will bear twenty like you and me. Please let me help you to
step in; and though you feel it to give under your feet, and as it were,
slide away from beneath you, yet now when you are set down on the bench,
you perceive it is perfectly steady.

DISCIPULA. Oh, I shall not be in the least afraid. What a tiny little
schooner! But is it not bold to spread both sails? And see, now that we
come round to the wind, how the skiff keels over.

PISCATOR. It is entirely safe, my fair scholar; for since you have chosen
me to be your instructor and master in the science of the angle, you must
be content to be called my scholar. It is entirely safe; and you must
observe, that however much it may keel over, it cannot upset; for if
struck by a sudden squall, or flaw of the wind, the masts will go by the
board, and so it will right.

DISCIPULA. Excellently well contrived. But has not the breeze suddenly
died away? Yet the sails are distended, and miniature waves are thrown off
from either side of the bow.

PISCATOR. The breeze seems to have decreased, because we are moving in the
same direction with it; and you will see, now when I bring the boat more
toward the wind, that it blows as strong as before, and our motion is well
nigh stopped.

DISCIPULA. That I can very well see; and I pray you, my master, not to
bring the skiff so far into the wind to prove your proposition to me as to
capsize it. The masts bend over toward the water more than it is pleasant
to see.

PISCATOR. There is no danger; and after half an hour's experience you will
become used to it, and lose all apprehension. I think I will alter our
course a couple of points; so if you have a mind, since I cannot well
leave the tiller, you may unloose the cord that fastens the forward sail
to the side of the boat; wait a moment till we come round, and the sail
hangs loose in the wind; now loose the rope, and let it out about a foot;
so, wind it round as it was before. Neatly done! Next, let out the other
sail in the same way and to the same length. It was well executed! Really,
you are destined to become a sailor's wife after all.

DISCIPULA. Marry, I hope so. But why 'after all?'

PISCATOR. Nay, I meant nothing; except, that whereas I formerly thought
you rather affected the land, now I find that you are courageous on the
water; and therefore, I say you deserve a Commodore. Observe now, we are
running more nearly with the wind, and move faster. It is a favorable
breeze; for our fishing-ground is in the south-eastern corner of the lake,
behind that highland which you see yonder; and this blows from the western
quarter. We shall soon be there.

DISCIPULA. Be in no hurry; I am in none. Is it not a fine morning? Those
white, high-flying clouds, rolled up into fleeces like wool, with ragged
patches of the sky between them, above us, and the broad blue bosom of the
lake, with the multitude of little waves leaping up and dancing all over
its surface beneath us, and our boat, in the midst of both sky and water,
gliding calmly along like a bird with his wings spread floating in the
air! Is it not a lovely morning? Yes, yes; I must be a sailor's wife, and
live on the ocean! Or perhaps, rather, a fisherman's wife, and sail on a
lake like this. If I should happen to meet with one of the latter class,
of approved character, somewhat mature in years and grave in demeanor,
kind of disposition and manly of countenance, one who would let me go
sailing with him every day, (of course I am not describing you, Mr.
Piscator,) I think--yes, I am quite certain, that he would content me.

PISCATOR. Nay, nay, my fair young lady, you are pleased to mock! 'Mature
in years and grave in demeanor,' said you? A gallant young sailor for you,
say I! There are many who sigh for the favor which you have so freely
granted me to-day. Ah, you should not jeer.

DISCIPULA. I tell you, Mr. Piscator, none but you for me this day! I am
not going to think of any body but you; for I tell you plainly, I like you
very much.

PISCATOR. Ah, yes, yes; certainly--without doubt, I hope so; surely, why
should you not?

DISCIPULA. And what a beautiful island! The grass grows down almost to the
water's edge, leaving a narrow belt of white sand; how it glistens in the
sun-light! and those half-a-dozen tall trees in the centre, how do you
suppose they came to grow there alone so?

PISCATOR. That is a question which I have often asked, but have never been
able to satisfy myself, as to how they came there. They have stood for
more generations than one, and will cast their shadows on the water when
other boats than ours sail past them, and other eyes than ours wonder at
them. Now we are nearly at our journey's end; when we pass through the
opening between that island ahead of us, and the main land, we shall be on
our fishing-ground.

DISCIPULA. Is it possible that we have reached here so quick? It is not
half so far as I thought it was. And yet, on looking back, there is a wide
waste lying between us and the cove from which we started. How diminutive
the house on the high ground back of the landing-place looks; like a
mole-hill, and the trees around it like shrubs! Well sped, little bark! A
swift and an easy-paced courser are you; steadily now, through this narrow
strait; steadily and gently, for your race is almost run.

PISCATOR. The channel begins to widen again; and lo! here we are in a lake
by itself as it were; a sheet of water full a mile long and a quarter of a
mile wide. And herein the fish mostly do congregate. I will hold on to
near the middle, and then drop the anchor.

DISCIPULA. It is indeed a fine sheet; smooth as any mirror; clearer than
glass. I suppose the fish assemble here when they get tired of the
roughness and commotion of the lake without, because it is so calm and
still. Is it not so?

PISCATOR. It may be so; it is a good reason, and I will believe that it is
so, since you have supposed it. This is as good a place as any, and here
we will cast our lines; and there is so little wind stirring, that we
shall only need to furl our sails, and the boat will remain at rest. Now
then, here is your rod, nicely put together, with a fly on the hook. A
pike will rise as quick at an artificial fly as at a live one; a greedy
fish is that pike; and if we should have occasion, I have other kinds of
bait. Take it, and throw your line out as I taught you before. But what
are you regarding so intently?

DISCIPULA. I am looking at the shadow of the trees in the water; an
inverted forest in the lake. Fish a little while alone, and let me look.

PISCATOR. It has become so late in the day that I have not much hope of
taking many now. However, I can but try. This same rod and line have done
me good service in this same place, before to-day. Ah, I see a pike! I'll
have him! Look! look how slowly and warily he comes up toward the bait!
When he gets within a few feet of it, he will make a dash, and gorge it
without stopping to think. Ah, there he goes with it; and here he comes
back with it, straight up into the boat. Upon my word, a reasonable fish;
he wont weigh short of three pounds.

DISCIPULA. Oh, Mr. Piscator! here's a new heaven and a new earth beneath
us! Waving trees with birds flitting among their branches, and far down
below, flying clouds and blue sky. A perfect hemisphere, and we are
hanging over it, without any thing to support us! I shouldn't be
surprised, to feel myself this minute tumbling down into it, down to the
new heaven! I have been expecting to, for some time past; and what a fall
would that be! Do you suppose we should stop when we got there?

PISCATOR. If we did not, where should we go to?

DISCIPULA. Ah, where!

PISCATOR. These fish do not seem inclined to bite this morning. Yet there
is one larger than that I caught before. I must have him, too. Observe how
wistfully he eyes the bait; let the fly skim slowly along the water, just
over him; that is the way, Sir, to swallow a hook; and now come up, and
slide into the basket, out of sight, and keep your brother company.

DISCIPULA. Mr. Piscator, when you make such a splashing in the water, you
ruffle and wrinkle my submarine prospect. Please don't.

PISCATOR. I think it will be profitless trying to take any more this
forenoon; toward night they will bite again. And what shall we do in the
mean time? Usually, when I come out here alone, I go ashore, and rest
myself during these hours, amid the fragrant shades of the thick trees,
that screen me from the mid-day heat. Would you like to take such a
ramble?--or are you inclined to stay here, and gaze into the water?

DISCIPULA. I suppose the picture will keep till we come back. Let us go
ashore, and wander around in the woods, and find romantic grottoes, and
weave flower-wreaths, and build castles in the air.

PISCATOR. And half a mile inland, you can see its summit from here, is a
hill that commands a vast tract of lake and woodland.

DISCIPULA. Yes, yes; let us go!

PISCATOR. Well, scholar, here we are again, after our long tramp. You see
I am a better land-pilot than you just now took me to be; for I have
brought us out to the right spot; more by token, yonder is the boat, safe
and sound. I am afraid you are fatigued with our long travels?

DISCIPULA. Not much; but I would like to sit down on the green carpet,
under this shade, for a few minutes.

PISCATOR. It must be, at the least, four of the clock; and although your
nature, my fair young lady, is probably too ethereal to think of such
homely matters, I do not profess mine to be such, and am ready to
acknowledge, that _a little dinner_ would not be unacceptable.

DISCIPULA. Unacceptable? No; but where are we to get it?

PISCATOR. I always bring with me, on my excursions, a hand-basket,
containing----

DISCIPULA. Why in the world!--why _didn't_ you let me know that before?
Let us have it as quick as possible!

PISCATOR. It is in the boat, and if you will remain a moment, I will bring
it up here.

DISCIPULA. Oh yes, do! And be quick, my good master!--as quick as you can!

PISCATOR. Nimble as any page, that waits on lady bright. Here we have the
provisions; and if we could manage to find something for a table-cover, we
might dispense with knives and---- Right, scholar, put your hand into the
basket and help yourself.

DISCIPULA. Ham sandwich! Oh, Mr. Piscator, this is good! Is there enough
of it?

PISCATOR. Enough for us two; and therefore you need not fear to help
yourself heartily, as I am glad to see that you are not. Never was
sumptuous feast to an epicure on gala-day better than my simple fare to me
on this beach, after a morning's sail and ramble.

DISCIPULA. Most excellent! I'll come out here every time I can get a
chance, for the sake of dining with you under the old beech tree.

PISCATOR. It brings to my mind the story of the king, who, after the
chase, took some bread and water at the hut of a woodsman; which, as it is
no doubt well known, I shall not repeat unto you. But the bottom of the
basket begins to appear. What! done already? Good despatch! And now,
scholar, we will immediately to our sport, for we have no time to waste.

DISCIPULA. Yes, yes, immediately to work; I long to try my hand. Here's
the boat; I should think it would have got tired waiting so long for us.
But it looks very patient.

PISCATOR. You may get in, while I loose, and shove off. There appears to
be a sharp breeze blowing on the lake without, yet our pond is as
unruffled as when we left it. We will return to the same spot we were in
before, and cast out our lines.

DISCIPULA. Is this my rod? Fix the bait for me skilfully, and I'll catch
them.

PISCATOR. I cannot promise you great success at first, considering your
inexperience----

DISCIPULA. Oh, I'm going to catch an hundred!

PISCATOR. I hope you may; certainly--I hope you will; and you can only
try. There, your fly is fastened to the hook as well as my art is able.
Come, and sit on this side, and I will give you some instructions how to
use it. First, see that the line is clear of the rod; then give it one
swing round your head; so--and cast it quickly but softly, as far from you
as you can on the water. Neatly done! Now draw it slowly along the
surface, and you shall presently see a fish rise at it. Be more moderate;
you draw it too rapidly. Ha! there it goes under! Wait till you feel him
pulling on the line; now give him a little jerk to the right; there you
have him, fairly hooked! You must be careful, or you'll lose him yet. No;
he's not very heavy, and you may raise him strait out of the water, and
land him in the boat; so!

DISCIPULA. Ah, my master, will you tell me that I can't catch fish? Poor
little fish! Oh, but he's a small one: take him off, master, and put him
into the hold. I hunt for nobler game.

PISCATOR. Not a good thought, not a good thought for an angler. Hunt for
nobler game, if you like; but a fisherwoman must not despise the smallest
that comes to her net. Every thing counts.

DISCIPULA. Despise? No; oh no! I would like to catch fifty just such; that
is, if there are no larger ones to angle for.

PISCATOR. Well, your bait is set again. Cast out as before, and I wish you
better luck.

DISCIPULA. Now I am going to catch a large one--a foot long. But, Mr.
Piscator, why do you not use your line?

PISCATOR. I will not interfere with your sport; and beside, I may want to
give you advice how to manage yours. It is not, in general, a good plan to
let the fish see you when you are angling; they are apt to be frightened
away. However, in this case, I shall say nothing against it; because if
they have an eye for beauty, as is commonly believed, your showing
yourself should have a contrary effect. In truth, the influence of beauty
is much to be marvelled at. I remember myself when I was young, and had
not yet learned their vanity, how easy I was to be led away and bewitched
by a fair face and a sparkling eye. That was some time ago; you draw your
fly too fast; it was some years ago; and yet I am fain to confess, that
even now, in nothing do I take more pleasure, than in looking on a ruddy
cheek, a polished brow, the long lashes of a soft blue eye, and upon heavy
folds of auburn hair; and it is for this reason that I have placed you
opposite to me now.

DISCIPULA. Why, Mr. Piscator! Did you mean that for a compliment?

PISCATOR. Certainly no. I seldom speak but what I think, for flattery I
like neither to give nor receive. Ah, yes; there are witches in the world
yet. And their witchcraft consists not in magic filters, and potent herbs
gathered at midnight under the full moon; far more subtle and powerful is
it. Like the poisons of eastern countries, it is communicated by a touch,
by a look, by the breath of a word. This is the witchcraft that they use;
therewith lure they men to commit folly. It would seem to be their chief
delight, their main occupation. But I am willing to believe that you are
not so evil-minded; and that when you bewitch men, it is not because you
love to do it, but that it is altogether involuntary.

DISCIPULA. Oh, of course, altogether involuntary. If I had my way, I never
would cause a single flutter in any body's breast--not I. But you see how
it is, I can't help it, and therefore it is not my fault. These fish do
not bite well. There is one, he will weigh four pounds, that has been
playing round and round the hook, but won't touch it. Haven't you got some
kind of sweet smelling oil or perfume to scent the bait with?

PISCATOR. I have some lavender-leaves, and if you will draw up the line, I
will rub the fly over with them, for fish love the smell of lavender. Try
him with that. Ah, I see him--a respectable fish. He is coming up toward
the hook; I think he will take it.

DISCIPULA. He stops and eyes it, as though he half suspected that it would
not be pleasant to the taste, for all its fair looks. But I'll have him,
in spite of his wits. You scrutinize too closely, Sir Pike! You had better
take it at once, without useless inspection. What a noble fellow! How
gracefully he moves through the water! I will make it float carelessly
away from him, dancing on the silver surface, as though it had just fallen
fresh from Heaven; and beside, distance lends enchantment. Ha! see him
make a dive at it! There you have it, Sir! and there I have you!

PISCATOR. Take care, or you'll be over! Hold hard, or he'll have _you_
too! Upon my word, I was afraid you would go overboard! You should not, in
your eagerness, lean out over the water so far. But you have got the
better of him, and now pull him into the boat and let me take him off.

DISCIPULA. I came near losing my balance; I thought I was gone! Lucky
escape!--but my heart beats yet.

PISCATOR. A fine fish. He has swallowed the bait whole; your large fish
always do. O! I don't know as I can take it out, without hurting him.

DISCIPULA. Poor fish! He does not look quite so spruce and independent as
he did a little while ago. Did your mouth water for that tempting fly. It
will never water again! What deep sighs heave his little breast! but they
will soon be over. Fix the bait, Mr. Piscator, and rub some more lavender
on it. I'll catch another, in less than a minute.

PISCATOR. It is done already. And this time, do not lean over so far, or
you will be in danger of being pulled in, by some fish of greater strength
than usual. Really, I think you are a good angler; you seem to possess the
skill by intuition. Is it not fine sport? I see by the increased flush and
light of your countenance, that you are of the same opinion. It is truly a
gentle, a feminine sport.

DISCIPULA. There is one with the beautifulest eyes, and covered all over
with gold and silver. But he is exceedingly shy. Come, Sir, if you are so
distant, I shall have to approach you myself. I desire a nearer
acquaintance with your beautiful eyes, and your gold and silver scales.
Oh! if you move off in that direction, I shall retire in this! Ah, you've
thought better of it, and are coming back. I knew you would. Observe, Mr.
Piscator, how he turns round and hesitates and doubts what to do. There is
no use in his deliberating; it is inevitable; he has got to do it. Now he
turns back. He seems to have made up his mind that he must have it at all
hazards. And see him shut his eyes and make a dash. I am afraid he finds
it unpalatable! Too rash! too rash! You should have considered better!
Take him off, master; he is nothing very great, after all.

PISCATOR. I see a large one, lying here at the left, deep in the water; of
the kind which we call sucker. It is his nature to lie perfectly still as
though asleep, and not to move till he is touched. Reach here the hook,
while I fasten some pieces of lead to it, enough to sink it; and then I
will tell you how to hook him.

DISCIPULA. I see! I know! I can do it myself, I will let the bait sink
gently down into the water, a little forward of him, thus. Ah, it fell
right on his back! He must be asleep, for he doesn't stir, nor seem to
notice it. Now then, a little forward of him; and so, slowly, softly,
float up toward his nose. He appears to be inspecting the fly; he sleeps
with his mouth wide open; as a natural history philosopher might examine a
butterfly; and since it is so closely presented, suppose you try the sense
of taste too, Sir! It is pleasant to the eye, you will find it also good
for food, and to be desired to make one wise. Allow it to fall
imperceptibly into your mouth; nay, you cannot judge of its merits from a
half trial, like that; it must be taken entirely in. Don't exert yourself,
in the least; another inspiration, and you are possessed. Ha! is it not
good?--is it not sweet? He must be very fond of it, he holds on to it so
hard! Astonished fish! he wakes up, and opens his eyes with wonder; there
is more in it than he dreamed of! Strait up to the light here, and show
your agitated countenance. Now please to open your lips, and disclose the
cause of all your sorrows, while kind Mr. Piscator extracts it.

PISCATOR. Well hooked! Indeed, scholar, it was well done of you. But the
heavens are becoming overcast; it threatens storm. Would it not be wise to
set out on our return?

DISCIPULA. Oh no, no! I can't think of going yet? 'Wise!' It seems to me
that it would be very foolish, while the lake contains so many more fish
as good as any that we have already caught.

PISCATOR. You do not expect to take them all?

DISCIPULA. All in this place; what should hinder?

PISCATOR. They will not bite for ever in the same place. They are a
cunning animal, and get frightened.

DISCIPULA. Then let us remove to another spot.

PISCATOR. That we might do, if there were time; but the sun is entirely
hidden by clouds, and is near his going down. We shall presently have a
thunder-storm. And then a stiff breeze from the south, which will waft us
speedily toward our landing place; had we not better begin to think of
leaving?

DISCIPULA. Wait till I catch one fish more; I had a nibble just then.

PISCATOR. You should handle your rod more gently. The wind blows up
fresher and fresher; it will be dark as pitch too, when night fairly comes
on. Shall we not spread our sails, and speed merrily homeward?

DISCIPULA. Well, as you will, master; though really I don't see any
occasion for all this hurry. Look at that fish! He rose almost to the
surface after my hook, and yet wouldn't take it. Oh, my poor fly! my poor
bait! See it, master! All faded and worn and torn, no painting or patching
can renew its comeliness! And there sticks out the hook, plain to view; a
blind fish might see it! Oh, my poor fly, that couldn't conceal the hook
any longer! Mr. Piscator, lend me your knife, while I cut the bait from
the line, rags, paint, iron and all, and throw it back into the water,
thus. Now then, little fish! silly fish! come all of you, and see what has
befooled you! What some of your tribe have swallowed because they thought
it was good, and some because they were careless, and others because they
were hungry and must have something! What many of ye have taken in, and
more have nibbled at, and all have gazed at, and admired and longed for!
Oh, rare sport have ye made me, foolish things! And longer would I have
played with you, but the evening comes on, and I must bid you a happy
farewell. So we are under way again, are we?

PISCATOR. We are again under way; and I have hope of reaching home before
yonder cloud comes over us. And trust me, when it does come, it will bring
more wind with it.

DISCIPULA. Once more on the open bosom of the lake! How the little black
angry waves dance up one after another, and roll past us toward the
northern shore. And see that dim hill at the other extremity of the pond,
how gigantic and broken it looks. Oh, Mr. Piscator, let's go and see it!
let's go and see it! And those high perpendicular rocks, that stand out so
boldly. Yes, yes, put up the helm! we'll go and see how they look in the
twilight.

PISCATOR. But my dear child, it will take an hour and a half longer to go
round by the rocks, and before that time, I fear the storm will increase.

DISCIPULA. Oh, never fear the storm. I'll risk it! And when we get up
there, we can take a short cut across to our port; so put up the
helm!--good Mr. Piscator, kind Mr. Piscator! do let us run up to the hill!
I can assure you there is no danger.

PISCATOR. I cannot well deny any thing that you ask of me; but much I
doubt, Mr. ----

DISCIPULA. Nay, nay, doubt nothing. We shall get home safe, trust me for
that. And that cloud, that you are so fearful of, is not coming over us,
at all; it is coming down on the other shore of the lake. Please, Mr.
Pilot, to keep in a little nearer the land, or we shall pass the rocks so
far out, that we shall not be able to see them with distinctness.

PISCATOR. A wilful woman must even have her own way. My child! you will
catch your death with cold, to take off your bonnet so!

DISCIPULA. I'm not afraid of it; I want to feel the air.

PISCATOR. And where are you going now?

DISCIPULA. Going to sit down in the bow of the boat. This view is much
finer! Oh, this is grand!

PISCATOR. But, good scholar! good scholar! you will certainly fall out
there! I believe you are crazy, you look so wild!

DISCIPULA. How the boat pitches over the little waves! And, Mr. Piscator,
direct the boat toward the shore, so as to make it rock more. The heavens
are all grey, and the waters are all black, and the wind is high and wild
in its sport like an imprisoned bird let loose. Oh master, spread the
other sail, and see if we can't fly faster! Here are the rocks so grim;
but it is growing dark, and I can only just make them out. Why, Mr.
Piscator, you are not going near enough! Run close in under them!

PISCATOR. I shall say to you plainly, what you ask is impossible. It would
be running an unwarrantable hazard; as indeed coming up here at all was
unwarrantable.

DISCIPULA. At least then, good master, keep along up at this distance, if
that pleases you best; for there is a bluff just ahead, which projects
farther out than the others, and we shall pass close by it.

PISCATOR. It is high time that we commenced our return in good earnest.
And therefore, scholar, for I must remind you that you are my scholar till
I see you safe ashore; therefore, if you please, you may stand by the sail
to tack.

DISCIPULA. But just look once, how boldly and sternly it lifts up its calm
front out of the boiling waters!

PISCATOR. It is without doubt, very fine; but it is impossible to hold on
a foot farther. So if you will stand by the sail----

DISCIPULA. I wish I had a boat of my own to sail out here alone in and go
where I choose! Well, what shall I do? how shall I go to work? Oh, Mr.
Piscator! honest Mr. Piscator! let me hold the helm while you take care of
the sails.

PISCATOR. Willingly, if your hand is strong enough. Try it; shall you be
able to hold it as it is?

DISCIPULA. With the greatest ease. Now then, are you ready? What are you
letting down the sail for? That three-cornered rag from the bow-sprit wont
be enough!

PISCATOR. It would be unsafe to set the main-sail, and I think with this
breeze the fore-stay-sail will drive us sufficiently fast.

DISCIPULA. Well, suit yourself. Now are you ready?

PISCATOR. Ready, certainly, when I take the helm. But what are you doing?
If you undertake to let the skiff fall off before the wind you will upset
us, as sure as----

DISCIPULA. Just see if I do. Let me hold the helm. Oh yes, let me!

PISCATOR. But scholar! good scholar! dear scholar!

DISCIPULA. No, no, I wont give it up! you can't have it! Honest Mr.
Piscator, let me steer the boat, only a little way! Oh, but I will; and
there is no use in your trying to prevent me. See there now, haven't we
come round to our course in good style?

PISCATOR. A taste of power to those who are unaccustomed to it is always
dangerous, and I blame myself for permitting you to usurp the post of
pilot. Though, as you seem determined to maintain it, I cannot choose but
to sit down here quietly, and trust our lives to your skill. My life
indeed! But yours? Seriously now, my fair young lady, would it not be
wiser----

DISCIPULA. Seriously now, my careful master, I don't think it would. Why,
what would you have? Are we not skimming over the waves like a sea-bird
free? And see those two birds, how they dash by us, and wheel round over
us, and breast the gale! Oh master! wouldn't you like to be a sea-bird,
and swing sideways, with your face to the wind that almost took your
breath away, swing down, down, glance against the water, then on the other
side, swing up, up? And wouldn't it be sweet too to struggle your way up
through the storm, high over that cloud yonder, with the thunder on its
inside and the lightning on its out--then fold your wings, close your
eyes, and fall calmly down on to its dark, soft, bosom? Oh, wouldn't it be
sweet?

PISCATOR. My dear scholar, our landing place lies here, toward the
north-east, and you are running directly north.

DISCIPULA. Don't be under any apprehensions; I am only going to run out
half a mile farther, that we may get before the wind, and then we'll scud
straight toward home. And beside, we rock more, going in this direction. I
wish it would blow harder, and make more swell! You know now, Mr.
Piscator, how a wild swan feels when he sits on the water and is buoyed up
on the heaving wave, and in a breath sinks into the black abyss. If I were
a wild swan I would go to sleep and let the winds blow and the waters
heave! How the boat careens over and plunges down when the blast whistles
against the masts! Drive on! Drive on! my light gallant bark! Oh, my
master! shall I sing you a song? a little song of the sea? a pirate song?

PISCATOR. You look at this present moment as if you might sing a pirate
song, or be a pirate yourself. I observe that since you have taken off
your bonnet, the wind has somewhat disarranged your hair.

DISCIPULA. Wouldn't you like to be a pirate, though? I would; and roam
over the ocean at my own free will; and through the storm and spray, and
lightning-glances of the wild midnight, dash on my fleeing victim like the
eagle on his prey! All hands on deck to get on more sail! Stand by to
unfurl the main-sail to the tempest!

PISCATOR. Will it please you, my fair pilot, to inform me whither you are
taking us?

DISCIPULA. I am going to run into that cloud yonder; the one before us,
with the thunder on its inside and the lightning on its out.

PISCATOR. What you call a cloud appears to me to be a hill, that rises a
few rods back from the shore.

DISCIPULA. Oh, it's a cloud--a cloud! And there is a star that glimmers
through it.

PISCATOR. I see nothing but the twinkling of a taper, from the window of
some dwelling.

DISCIPULA. I tell you it's a star--a star! The cloud has settled down into
the water like a mountain; and through its base penetrates a tunnel,
through which the ray of that star comes--a long, straight cavern, arched
overhead and on either side by wreathed and rolling pillars of smoke. I'll
put up the helm and run into it! Bear up! bear up! bear stoutly up, my
brave, bold bark! and plunge forward like the horse into the smoke of
battle, through this path to the subterranean abodes!

PISCATOR. Let me take the tiller! Let it go! Put it around quick then; you
are running on the beach!

DISCIPULA. Why don't you see we are just entering the dark mouth of the
tunnel? We shall soon be into it.

PISCATOR. Hark! here it comes! Now hold hard, for there we are, grounded
and staved!

DISCIPULA. Tartarian rocks and whirlpools!

PISCATOR. Quick! ashore! The boat is going to pieces!

DISCIPULA. Ha! ha! ha! Was it well done, my master? was it well done?

PISCATOR. It _was_ well done, you little water-witch!




LINES

ON SEEING MY SISTER FILL A LITTLE BEGGAR-BOY'S BASKET WITH COLD VICTUALS.

BY R. S. CHILTON.


  Ay! fill it up, my sister dear;
    His brothers all like him are gaunt,
  And sister's too; then do not fear
    To choke the gaping mouth of want.
  Fill up! his heart beats quick and high,
  The tears stand in his sickly eye;
  Poor, wretched, ragged beggar-boy,
  He scarce can thank thee now, for joy!

  The basket's heavy; what of that?
    His heart is light, he heeds it not;
  His feet are cold and bare, poor brat!
    But this has always been his lot.
  He trudges on, or stops to steal
  Quick glances at the dainty meal;
  And then his purple lips do bless
  The heart that pitied his distress.

  At home, how will the meagre ones
    Clutch at those broken bits of bread!
  How will they banquet on those bones,
    Like ravens feasting on the dead!
  A dainty stomach would refuse
  Such food; but 'beggars cannot choose:'
  _They_ relish what the rich condemn,
  But hunger makes the sauce for them.

  Ah, sister! when the beggar-boy
    Returns, think still on hunger's pain;
  Lighten his little heart with joy,
    And fill his basket up again.
  Who _pities_ wretchednes

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