Every Girl's Library, Volume 8 of 10
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Title: Every Girl's Library, Volume 8 of 10
Editor: Percy Keese Fitzhugh
Release date: June 23, 2012 [eBook #40063]
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Language: English
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK EVERY GIRL'S LIBRARY, VOLUME 8 OF 10 ***
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WALLACE MORGAN'S (The Originator
of Fluffy Ruffles) FAMOUS PICTURE
[Illustration: W. MORGAN.]
[Illustration: Anna Sewell]
EVERY GIRL'S LIBRARY
A Collection of Appropriate and Instructive Reading for Girls of All
Ages from the Best Authors of All Time
In Ten Volumes
Edited by
PERCY KEESE FITZHUGH
_With a General Introduction by the Editor and Critical and Interpretive
Essays by_
ELLA WHEELER WILCOX
MARGARET E. SANGSTER
STELLA GEORGE STERN PERRY
NEW YORK
The Pearson Publishing Co.
MCMX
Copyright, 1910, by
THE PEARSON PUBLISHING CO.
Entered at Stationers' Hall
London, England
_Typography, Plates, Presswork and Binding by
The J. J. Little & Ives Co., New York._
CONTENTS
BERNARDIN DE SAINT PIERRE
Paul and Virginia 1
ANNA SEWELL
Black Beauty's New Home (_Black Beauty_) 49
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
Portia and Shylock (_The Merchant of Venice_) 69
Romeo and Juliet 86
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY
To a Skylark 95
ROBERT SOUTHEY
The Battle of Blenheim 100
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
Will o' the Mill 104
An Apology for Idlers 141
The Wind 155
Keepsake Mill 155
The Moon 156
Looking-glass River 157
Winter-Time 158
My Shadow 159
Autumn Fires 160
ROBERT STORY
The Whistler 161
AGNES STRICKLAND
Henrietta Maria, Wife of Charles I 163
JOHN SUCKLING
Why So Pale and Wan? 211
I Prithee, Send Me Back My Heart 212
JONATHAN SWIFT
A Voyage to Lilliput (_Gulliver's Travels_) 214
ROBERT TANNAHILL
The Braes o' Balquhither 239
The Flower o' Dumblane 240
ALFRED TENNYSON
Lady Clare 242
Lady Clara Vere de Vere 246
Come Into the Garden, Maud 249
Break, Break, Break 251
The Miller's Daughter 252
St. Agnes 253
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
The Princess Angelica (_The Rose and the Ring_) 255
The Cane-bottom'd Chair 300
A Tragic Story 302
To Mary 303
Little Billee 304
Fairy Days 305
Mrs. Katherine's Lantern 307
Lucy's Birthday 309
Piscator and Piscatrix 310
Pocahontas 312
BERNARDIN DE SAINT PIERRE
SAINT PIERRE, BERNARDIN DE, was born in Havre, Jan., 1737, and died
in Eragny-sur-Oise, Jan., 1814. His literary fame rests wholly on
_Paul and Virginia_, one of the most beautiful works in romantic
literature. He wrote much besides this celebrated tale, but his
other works, though all of the first order of merit, are
overshadowed by the little story which made him famous. _Paul and
Virginia_ has been translated into every civilized language and its
popularity has never waned. It has been published in cheap and
costly editions; it has suggested works of art, and, like _Alice in
Wonderland_, it has been imitated scores of times.
PAUL AND VIRGINIA
Rarely, indeed, has such an attachment been seen as that which the two
children already testified for each other. If Paul complained of
anything, his mother pointed to Virginia: at her sight he smiled, and
was appeased. If any accident befell Virginia, the cries of Paul gave
notice of the disaster; but the dear little creature would suppress her
complaints if she found that he was unhappy. When I came hither, I
usually found them quite naked, as is the custom of the country,
tottering in their walk, and holding each other by the hands and under
the arms, as we see represented the constellation of the Twins. At night
these infants often refused to be separated, and were found lying in the
same cradle, their cheeks, their bosoms pressed close together, their
hands thrown round each other's neck, and sleeping, locked in one
another's arms.
When they began to speak, the first name they learned to give each other
were those of brother and sister, and childhood knows no softer
appellation. Their education, by directing them ever to consider each
other's wants, tended greatly to increase their affection. In a short
time, all the household economy, the care of preparing their rural
repasts, became the task of Virginia, whose labours were always crowned
with the praises and kisses of her brother. As for Paul, always in
motion, he dug the garden with Domingo, or followed him with a little
hatchet into the woods; and if in his rambles he espied a beautiful
flower, any delicious fruit, or a nest of birds, even at the top of the
tree, he would climb up and bring the spoil to his sister. When you met
one of these children, you might be sure the other was not far off.
One day as I was coming down that mountain, I saw Virginia at the end of
the garden running towards the house with her petticoat thrown over her
head, in order to screen herself from a shower of rain. At a distance, I
thought she was alone; but as I hastened towards her in order to help
her on, I perceived she held Paul by the arm, almost entirely enveloped
in the same canopy, and both were laughing heartily at their being
sheltered together under an umbrella of their own invention. Those two
charming faces in the middle of a swelling petticoat, recalled to my
mind the children of Leda, enclosed in the same shell.
Their sole study was how they could please and assist one another; for
of all other things they were ignorant, and indeed could neither read
nor write. They were never disturbed by inquiries about past times, nor
did their curiosity extend beyond the bounds of their mountain. They
believed the world ended at the shores of their own island, and all
their ideas and all their affections were confined within its limits.
Their mutual tenderness, and that of their mothers, employed all the
energies of their minds. Their tears had never been called forth by
tedious application to useless sciences. Their minds had never been
wearied by lessons of morality, superfluous to bosoms unconscious of
ill. They had never been taught not to steal, because everything with
them was in common: or not to be intemperate, because their simple food
was left to their own discretion; or not to lie, because they had
nothing to conceal. Their young imaginations had never been terrified by
the idea that God has punishment in store for ungrateful children, since
with them, filial affection arose naturally from maternal tenderness.
All they had been taught of religion was to love it, and if they did not
offer up long prayers in the church, wherever they were, in the house,
in the fields, in the woods, they raised toward heaven their innocent
hands, and hearts purified by virtuous affections.
All their early childhood passed thus, like a beautiful dawn, the
prelude of a bright day. Already they assisted their mothers in the
duties of the household. As soon as the crowing of the wakeful cock
announced the first beam of the morning, Virginia arose, and hastened to
draw water from a neighbouring spring: then returning to the house she
prepared the breakfast. When the rising sun gilded the points of the
rocks which overhang the inclosure in which they lived, Margaret and her
child repaired to the dwelling of Madame de la Tour, where they offered
up their morning prayer together. This sacrifice of thanksgiving always
preceded their first repast, which they often took before the door of
the cottage, seated upon the grass, under a canopy of plantain: and
while the branches of that delicious tree afforded a grateful shade, its
fruit furnished a substantial food ready prepared for them by nature,
and its long glossy leaves, spread upon the table, supplied the place of
linen. Plentiful and wholesome nourishment gave early growth and vigour
to the persons of these children, and their countenances expressed the
purity and peace of their souls. At twelve years of age the figure of
Virginia was in some degree formed; a profusion of light hair shaded her
face, to which her blue eyes and coral lips gave the most charming
brilliancy. Her eyes sparkled with vivacity when she spoke; but when she
was silent they were habitually turned upwards with an expression of
extreme sensibility, or rather of tender melancholy. The figure of Paul
began already to display the graces of youthful beauty. He was taller
than Virginia: his skin was a darker tint; his nose more aquiline; and
his black eyes would have been too piercing, if the long eyelashes by
which they were shaded had not imparted to them an expression of
softness. He was constantly in motion, except when his sister appeared,
and then, seated by her side, he became still. Their meals often passed
without a word being spoken; and from their silence, the simple elegance
of their attitudes, and the beauty of their naked feet, you might have
fancied you beheld an antique group of white marble, representing some
of the children of Niobe, but for the glances of their eyes, which were
constantly seeking to meet, and their mutual soft and tender smiles,
which suggested rather the idea of happy celestial spirits, whose nature
is love, and who are not obliged to have recourse to words for the
expression of their feelings.
In the mean time Madame de la Tour, perceiving every day some unfolding
grace, some new beauty, in her daughter, felt her maternal anxiety
increase with her tenderness. She often said to me, "If I were to die,
what will become of Virginia without fortune?"
Madame de la Tour had an aunt in France, who was a woman of quality,
rich, old, and a complete devotee. She had behaved with so much cruelty
towards her niece upon her marriage, that Madame de la Tour had
determined no extremity of distress should ever compel her to have
recourse to her hard-hearted relation. But when she became a mother, the
pride of resentment was overcome by the stronger feelings of maternal
tenderness. She wrote to her aunt, informing her of the sudden death of
her husband, and the birth of her daughter, and the difficulties in
which she was involved, burdened as she was with an infant, and without
means of support. She received no answer; but notwithstanding the high
spirit natural to her character, she no longer feared exposing herself
to mortification; and, although she knew her aunt would never pardon her
for having married a man who was not of noble birth, however estimable,
she continued to write to her, with the hope of awakening her compassion
for Virginia. Many years, however, passed without receiving any token of
her remembrance.
At length, in 1738, three years after the arrival of Monsieur de la
Bourdonnais in this island, Madame de la Tour was informed that the
Governor had a letter to give her from her aunt. She flew to Port Louis;
maternal joy raised her mind above all trifling considerations, and she
was careless on this occasion of appearing in her homely attire.
Monsieur de la Bourdonnais gave her a letter from her aunt, in which she
informed her, that she deserved her fate for marrying an adventurer and
a libertine: that the passions brought with them their own punishment;
that the premature death of her husband was a just visitation from
Heaven; that she had done well in going to a distant island, rather than
dishonour her family by remaining in France; and that, after all, in the
colony where she had taken refuge, none but the idle failed to grow
rich. Having thus censured her niece, she concluded by eulogizing
herself. To avoid, she said, the almost inevitable evils of marriage,
she had determined to remain single. In fact, as she was of a very
ambitious disposition, she had resolved to marry none but a man of high
rank; but although she was very rich, her fortune was not found a
sufficient bribe, even at court, to counterbalance the malignant
dispositions of her mind, and the disagreeable qualities of her person.
After mature deliberations, she added, in a post-script, that she had
strongly recommended her niece to Monsieur de la Bourdonnais. This she
had indeed done, but in a manner of late too common, which renders a
patron perhaps even more to be feared than a declared enemy; for, in
order to justify herself for her harshness, she had cruelly slandered
her niece, while she affected to pity her misfortunes.
Madame de la Tour, whom no unprejudiced person could have seen without
feelings of sympathy and respect, was received with the utmost coolness
by Monsieur de la Bourdonnais, biased as he was against her. When she
painted to him her own situation and that of her child, he replied in
abrupt sentences,--"We will see what can be done--there are so many to
relieve--all in good time--why did you displease your aunt?--you have
been much to blame."
Madame de la Tour returned to her cottage, her heart torn with grief,
and filled with all the bitterness of disappointment. When she arrived
she threw her aunt's letter on the table, and exclaimed to her friend,
"There is the fruit of eleven years of patient expectation!" Madame de
la Tour being the only person in the little circle who could read, she
again took up the letter, and read it aloud. Scarcely had she finished,
when Margaret exclaimed, "What have we to do with your relations?
Has God then forsaken us? He only is our father! Have we not hitherto
been happy? Why then this regret? You have no courage." Seeing Madame de
la Tour in tears, she threw herself upon her neck, and pressing her in
her arms,--"My dear friend!" cried she, "my dear friend!"--but her
emotion choked her utterance. At this sight Virginia burst into tears,
and pressed her mother's and Margaret's hand alternately to her lips and
heart; while Paul, his eyes inflamed with anger, cried, clasping his
hands together, and stamping with his foot, not knowing whom to blame
for this scene of misery. The noise soon brought Domingo and Mary to the
spot, and the little habitation resounded with cries of distress,--"Ah,
madam!--My good mistress!--My dear mother!--Do not weep!" These tender
proofs of affection at length dispelled the grief of Madame de la Tour.
She took Paul and Virginia in her arms, and, embracing them, said, "You
are the cause of my affliction, my children, but you are also my only
source of delight! Yes, my dear children, misfortune has reached me, but
only from a distance: here I am surrounded with happiness." Paul and
Virginia did not understand this reflection; but when they saw that she
was calm, they smiled, and continued to caress her. Tranquillity was
thus restored in this happy family, and all that had passed was but as a
storm in the midst of fine weather, which disturbs the serenity of the
atmosphere but for a short time, and then passes away.
The amiable disposition of these children unfolded itself daily. One
Sunday, at daybreak, their mothers having gone to mass at the church of
the Shaddock Grove, the children perceived a negro woman beneath the
plantains which surrounded their habitation. She appeared almost wasted
to a skeleton, and had no other garment than a piece of coarse cloth
thrown around her. She threw herself at the feet of Virginia, who was
preparing the family breakfast, and said, "My good young lady, have pity
on a poor runaway slave. For a whole month I have wandered among these
mountains, half dead with hunger, and often pursued by the hunters and
their dogs. I fled from my master, a rich planter of the Black River,
who has used me as you see;" and she showed her body marked with scars
from the lashes she had received. She added, "I was going to drown
myself, but hearing you lived here, I said to myself, Since there are
still some good white people in this country, I need not die yet."
Virginia answered with emotion,--"Take courage, unfortunate creature!
here is something to eat;" and she gave her the breakfast she had been
preparing, which the slave in a few minutes devoured. When her hunger
was appeased, Virginia said to her,--"Poor woman! I should like to go
and ask forgiveness for you of your master. Surely the sight of you will
touch him with pity. Will you show me the way?"--"Angel of heaven!"
answered the poor negro woman. "I will follow you where you please!"
Virginia called her brother and begged him to accompany her. The slave
led the way, by winding and difficult paths, through the woods, over
mountains, which they climbed with difficulty, and across rivers,
through which they were obliged to wade. At length, about the middle of
the day, they reached the foot of a steep descent upon the borders of
the Black River. There they perceived a well-built house, surrounded by
extensive plantations, and a number of slaves employed in their various
labours. Their master was walking among them with a pipe in his mouth,
and a switch in his hand. He was a tall thin man, of a brown complexion;
his eyes were sunk in his head, and his dark eyebrows were joined in
one. Virginia, holding Paul by the hand, drew near, and with much
emotion begged him, for the love of God, to pardon his poor slave, who
stood trembling a few paces behind. The planter at first paid little
attention to the children, who he saw, were meanly dressed. But when he
observed the elegance of Virginia's form, and the profusion of her
beautiful light tresses which had escaped from beneath her blue cap;
when he heard the soft tone of her voice, which trembled, as well as her
whole frame, while she implored his compassion; he took his pipe from
his mouth, and lifting up his stick, swore with a terrible oath, that he
pardoned his slave, not for the love of Heaven, but of her who asked his
forgiveness. Virginia made a sign to the slave to approach her master;
and instantly sprang away followed by Paul.
They climbed up the steep they had descended; and having gained the
summit, seated themselves at the foot of a tree, overcome with fatigue,
hunger, and thirst. They had left their home fasting, and walked five
leagues since sunrise. Paul said to Virginia,--"My dear sister, it is
past noon, and I am sure you are thirsty and hungry: we shall find no
dinner here; let us go down the mountain again, and ask the master of
the poor slave for some food."--"Oh, no," answered Virginia, "he
frightens me too much. Remember what mamma sometimes says, 'The bread of
the wicked is like stones in the mouth.'"--"What shall we do then?" said
Paul; "these trees produce no fruit fit to eat; and I shall not be able
to find even a tamarind or a lemon to refresh you."--"God will take care
of us," replied Virginia; "he listens to the cry even of the little
birds when they ask him for food." Scarcely had she pronounced these
words when they heard the noise of water falling from a neighbouring
rock. They ran thither, and having quenched their thirst at this crystal
spring, they gathered and ate a few cresses which grew on the border of
the stream. Soon afterwards, while they were wandering backwards and
forwards, in search of more solid nourishment, Virginia perceived in the
thickest part of the forest, a young palm-tree. The kind of cabbage
which is found at the top of the palm, enfolded within its leaves, is
well adapted for food; but, although the stock of the tree is not
thicker than a man's leg, it grows to above sixty feet in height. The
wood of the tree, indeed, is composed only of very fine filaments; but
the bark is so hard that it turns the edge of the hatchet, and Paul was
not furnished even with a knife. At length he thought of setting fire to
the palm-tree; but a new difficulty occurred: he had no steel with which
to strike fire; and although the whole island is covered with rocks, I
do not believe it is possible to find a single flint. Necessity,
however, is fertile in expedients, and the most useful inventions have
arisen from men placed in the most destitute situations. Paul determined
to kindle a fire after the manner of the negroes. With the sharp end of
a stone he made a small hole in the branch of a tree that was quite dry,
and which he held between his feet: he then, with the edge of the same
stone, brought to a point another dry branch of a different sort of
wood, and, afterwards, placing the piece of pointed wood in the small
hole of the branch which he held with his feet and turning it rapidly
between his hands, in a few minutes smoke and sparks of fire issued from
the point of contact. Paul then heaped together dried grass and
branches, and set fire to the foot of the palm-tree, which soon fell to
the ground with a tremendous crash. The fire was further useful to him
in stripping off the long, thick, and pointed leaves, within which the
cabbage was inclosed. Having thus succeeded in obtaining this fruit,
they ate part of it raw, and part dressed upon the ashes, which they
found equally palatable. They made this frugal repast with delight, from
the remembrance of the benevolent action they had performed in the
morning: yet their joy was embittered by the thoughts of the uneasiness
which their long absence from home would occasion their mothers.
Virginia often recurred to this subject; but Paul, who felt his strength
renewed by their meal, assured her that it would not be long before they
reached home, and, by the assurance of their safety, tranquillized the
minds of their parents.
After dinner they were much embarrassed by the recollection that they
had now no guide, and that they were ignorant of the way. Paul, whose
spirit was not subdued by difficulties, said to Virginia,--"The sun
shines full upon our huts at noon: we must pass, as we did this morning,
over that mountain with its three points, which you see yonder. Come,
let us be moving." This mountain was that of the Three Breasts, so
called from the form of its three peaks. They then descended the steep
bank of the Black River, on the northern side; and arrived, after an
hour's walk, on the banks of a large river, which stopped their further
progress. This large portion of the island, covered as it is with
forests, is even now so little known that many of its rivers and
mountains have not yet received a name. The stream, on the banks of
which Paul and Virginia were now standing, rolls foaming over a bed of
rocks. The noise of the water frightened Virginia, and she was afraid to
wade through the current: Paul therefore took her up in his arms, and
went thus loaded over the slippery rocks, which formed the bed of the
river, careless of the tumultuous noise of its waters. "Do not be
afraid," cried he to Virginia; "I feel very strong with you. If that
planter at the Black River had refused you the pardon of his slave, I
would have fought with him."--"What!" answered Virginia, "with that
great wicked man? To what have I exposed you! Gracious heaven! how
difficult it is to do good! and yet it is so easy to do wrong."
When Paul had crossed the river, he wished to continue the journey
carrying his sister: and he flattered himself that he could ascend in
that way the mountain of the Three Breasts, which was still at the
distance of half a league; but his strength soon failed, and he was
obliged to set down his burden, and to rest himself by her side.
Virginia then said to him, "My dear brother the sun is going down; you
have still some strength left, but mine has quite failed: do leave me
here, and return home alone to ease the fears of our mothers."--"Oh no,"
said Paul, "I will not leave you; if night overtakes us in this wood I
will light a fire, and bring down another palm-tree: you shall eat the
cabbage, and I will form a covering of the leaves to shelter you." In
the mean time, Virginia being a little rested, she gathered from the
trunk of an old tree, which overhung the bank of the river some long
leaves of the plant called hart's tongue, which grew near its root. Of
these leaves she made a sort of buskin, with which she covered her feet,
that were bleeding from the sharpness of the stony paths; for in her
eager desire to do good, she had forgotten to put on her shoes. Feeling
her feet cooled by the freshness of the leaves, she broke off a branch
of bamboo, and continued her walk, leaning with one hand on the staff,
and with the other on Paul.
They walked on in this manner slowly through the woods; but from the
height of the trees, and the thickness of their foliage, they soon lost
sight of the mountain of the Three Breasts, by which they had hitherto
directed their course, and also of the sun, which was now setting. At
length they wandered, without perceiving it, from the beaten path in
which they had hitherto walked, and found themselves in a labyrinth of
trees, underwood, and rocks, whence there appeared to be no outlet. Paul
made Virginia sit down, while he ran backwards and forwards, half
frantic, in search of a path which might lead them out of this thick
wood; but he fatigued himself to no purpose. He then climbed to the top
of a lofty tree, whence he hoped at least to perceive the mountain of
the Three Breasts: but he could discern nothing around him but the tops
of trees, some of which were gilded with the last beams of the setting
sun. Already the shadows of the mountains were spreading over the
forests in the valleys. The wind lulled, as is usually the case at
sunset. The most profound silence reigned in those awful solitudes,
which was only interrupted by the cry of the deer, who came to their
lairs in that unfrequented spot. Paul, in the hope that some hunter
would hear his voice, called out as loud as he was able,--"Come, come to
the help of Virginia." But the echoes of the forest alone answered his
call, and repeated again and again, "Virginia--Virginia."
Paul at length descended from the tree, overcome with fatigue and
vexation. He looked around in order to make some arrangement for passing
the night in that desert; but he could find neither fountain, nor
palm-tree, nor even a branch of dry wood fit for kindling a fire. He
was then impressed, by experience, with the sense of his own weakness,
and began to weep. Virginia said to him,--"Do not weep, my dear brother,
or I shall be overwhelmed with grief. I am the cause of all your sorrow,
and of all that our mothers are suffering at this moment. I find we
ought to do nothing, not even good, without consulting our parents. Oh,
I have been very imprudent!"--and she began to shed tears. "Let us pray
to God, my dear brother," she again said, "and he will hear us." They
had scarcely finished their prayer, when they heard the barking of a
dog. "It must be the dog of some hunter," said Paul, "who comes here at
night, to lie in wait for the deer." Soon after, the dog began barking
again with increased violence. "Surely," said Virginia, "it is Fidele,
our own dog: yes,--now I know his bark. Are we then so near home?--at
the foot of our own mountain?" A moment after Fidele was at their feet,
barking, howling, moaning, and devouring them with caresses. Before they
could recover from their surprise, they saw Domingo running towards
them. At the sight of the good old negro, who wept for joy, they began
to weep too, but had not the power to utter a syllable. When Domingo had
recovered himself a little, "Oh, my dear children," said he, "how
miserable have you made your mothers! How astonished they were when they
returned with me from mass, on not finding you at home! Mary, who was at
work at a little distance, could not tell us where you were gone. I ran
backwards and forwards in the plantation, not knowing where to look for
you. At last I took some of your old clothes, and showing them to
Fidele, the poor animal, as if he understood me, immediately began to
scent your path; and conducted me, wagging his tail all the while, to
the Black River. I there saw a planter, who told me you had brought back
a Maroon negro woman, his slave, and that he had pardoned her at your
request. But what a pardon; he showed her to me with her feet chained to
a block of wood, and an iron collar with three hooks fastened round her
neck! After that, Fidele, still on the scent, led me up the steep bank
of the Black River, where he again stopped, and barked with all his
might. This was on the brink of a spring, near which was a fallen
palm-tree, and a fire, still smoking. At last he led me to this very
spot. We are now at the foot of the mountain of the Three Breasts, and
still four good leagues from home. Come eat, and recover your strength."
Domingo then presented them with a cake, some fruit, and a large gourd
full of beverage composed of wine, water, lemon-juice, sugar, and
nutmeg, which their mothers had prepared to invigorate and refresh them.
Virginia sighed at the recollection of the poor slave, and at the
uneasiness they had given their mothers. She repeated several times,
"Oh, how difficult it is to do good!" While she and Paul were taking
refreshments, it being already night, Domingo kindled a fire: and having
found among the rocks a particular kind of twisted wood, called bois de
ronde, which burns when quite green, and throws out a great blaze, he
made a torch of it, which he lighted. But when they prepared to
continue their journey, a new difficulty occurred; Paul and Virginia
could no longer walk, their feet being violently swollen and inflamed.
Domingo knew not what to do; whether to leave them and go in search of
help, or remain and pass the night with them on that spot. "There was a
time," said he, "when I could carry you both together in my arms! But
now you are grown big, and I am grown old." While he was in this
perplexity, a troop of Maroon negroes appeared at a short distance from
them. The chief of the band, approaching Paul and Virginia, said to
them,--"Good little white people, do not be afraid. We saw you pass this
morning, with a negro woman of the Black River. You went to ask pardon
for her of her wicked master; and we, in return for this, will carry you
home upon our shoulders." He then made a sign, and four of the strongest
negroes immediately formed a sort of litter with the branches of trees
and lianas, and having seated Paul and Virginia on it, carried them upon
their shoulders. Domingo marched in front with his lighted torch, and
they proceeded amidst the rejoicings of the whole troop, who overwhelmed
them with their benedictions. Virginia, affected by this scene, said to
Paul, with emotion,--"Oh, my dear brother! God never leaves a good
action unrewarded."
It was midnight when they arrived at the foot of their mountain, on the
ridges of which several fires were lighted. As soon as they began to
ascend, they heard voices exclaiming--"Is it you, my children?" They
answered immediately, and the negroes also,--"Yes, yes, it is." A moment
after they could distinguish their mothers and Mary coming towards them
with lighted sticks in their hands. "Unhappy children," cried Madame de
la Tour, "where have you been? what agonies you have made us
suffer!"--"We have been," said Virginia, "to the Black River, where we
went to ask pardon for a poor Maroon slave, to whom I gave our breakfast
this morning, because she seemed dying of hunger; and these Maroon
negroes have brought us home." Madame de la Tour embraced her daughter,
without being able to speak; and Virginia, who felt her face wet with
her mother's tears, exclaimed, "Now I am repaid for all the hardships I
have suffered." Margaret, in a transport of delight, pressed Paul in her
arms, exclaiming, "And you also, my dear child, you have done a good
action." When they reached the cottages with their children, they
entertained all the negroes with a plentiful repast, after which the
latter returned to the woods praying Heaven to shower down every
description of blessing on those good white people.
Every day was to these families a day of happiness and tranquillity.
Neither ambition nor envy disturbed their repose. They did not seek to
obtain a useless reputation out of doors, which may be procured by
artifice and lost by calumny; but were contented to be the sole
witnesses and judges of their own actions. In this island, where, as is
the case in most colonies, scandal forms the principal topic of
conversation, their virtues, and even their names, were unknown. The
passer-by on the road to the Shaddock Grove, indeed, would sometimes ask
the inhabitants of the plain, who lived in the cottages up there? and
was always told, even by those who did not know them, "They are good
people." The modest violet thus, concealed in thorny places, sheds all
unseen its delightful fragrance around.
Slander, which, under an appearance of justice, naturally inclines the
heart to falsehood or to hatred, was entirely banished from their
conversation; for it is impossible not to hate men if we believe them to
be wicked, or to live with the wicked without concealing that hatred
under a false pretence of good feeling. Slander thus puts us ill at ease
with others and with ourselves. In this little circle, therefore, the
conduct of individuals was not discussed, but the best manner of doing
good to all; and although they had but little in their power, their
unceasing good-will and kindness of heart made them constantly ready to
do what they could for others. Solitude, far from having blunted these
benevolent feelings, had rendered their dispositions even more kindly.
Although the petty scandals of the day furnished no subject of
conversation to them, yet the contemplation of nature filled their minds
with enthusiastic delight. They adored the bounty of that Providence,
which, by their instrumentality, had spread abundance and beauty amid
these barren rocks, and had enabled them to enjoy those pure and simple
pleasures, which are ever grateful and ever new.
Paul, at twelve years of age, was stronger and more intelligent than
most European youths are at fifteen; and the plantations, which Domingo
merely cultivated, were embellished by him. He would go with the old
negro into the neighbouring woods, where he would root up the young
plants of lemon, orange, and tamarind trees, the round heads of which
are so fresh and green, together with date-palm trees, which produce
fruit filled with a sweet cream, possessing the fine perfume of the
orange flower. These trees, which had already attained to a considerable
size, he planted round their little enclosure. He had also sown the seed
of many trees which the second year bear flowers or fruit; such as the
agathis, encircled with long clusters of white flowers which hang from
it like the crystal pendants of a chandelier; the Persian lilac, which
lifts high in the air its grey flax-coloured branches; the pappaw tree,
the branchless trunk of which forms a column studded with green melons,
surmounted by a capital of broad leaves similar to those of the
fig-tree.
The seeds and kernels of the gum tree, terminalia, mango, alligator
pear, the guava, the bread-fruit tree, and the narrow-leaved rose-apple,
were also planted by him with profusion: and the greater number of these
trees already afforded their young cultivator both shade and fruit. His
industrious hands diffused the riches of nature over even the most
barren parts of the plantation. Several species of aloes, the Indian
fig, adorned with yellow flowers spotted with red, and the thorny torch
thistle, grew upon the dark summits of the rocks, and seemed to aim at
reaching the long lianas, which, laden with blue or scarlet flowers,
hung scattered over the steepest parts of the mountain.
I loved to trace the ingenuity he had exercised in the arrangement of
these trees. He had so disposed them that the whole could be seen at a
single glance. In the middle of the hollow he had planted shrubs of the
lowest growth; behind grew the more lofty sorts; then trees of the
ordinary height; and beyond and above all, the venerable and lofty
groves which bordered the circumference. Thus this extensive inclosure
appeared, from its centre, like a verdant amphitheatre decorated with
fruits and flowers, containing a variety of vegetables, some strips of
meadow land, and fields of rice and corn. But, in arranging these
vegetable productions to his own taste, he wandered not too far from the
designs of Nature. Guided by her suggestions, he had thrown upon the
elevated spots such seeds as the winds would scatter about, and near the
borders of the springs those which float upon the water. Every plant
thus grew in its proper soil, and every spot seemed decorated by
Nature's own hand. The streams which fell from the summits of the rocks
formed in some parts of the valley sparkling cascades, and in others
were spread into broad mirrors, in which were reflected, set in verdure,
the flowering trees, the over-hanging rocks, and the azure heavens.
Notwithstanding the great irregularity of the ground, these plantations
were, for the most part, easy of access. We had, indeed, all given him
our advice and assistance, in order to accomplish this end. He had
conducted one path entirely round the valley, and various branches from
it led from the circumference to the centre. He had drawn some advantage
from the most rugged spots, and had blended, in harmonious union, level
walks with the inequalities of the soil, and trees which grow wild with
the cultivated varieties. With that immense quantity of large pebbles
which now block up these paths, and which are scattered over most of the
ground of this island, he formed pyramidal heaps here and there, at the
base of which he laid mold, and planted rose-bushes, the Barbadoes
flower-fence, and other shrubs which love to climb the rocks. In a short
time the dark and shapeless heaps of stones he had constructed were
covered with verdure, or with the glowing tints of the most beautiful
flowers. Hollow recesses on the borders of the streams shaded by the
overhanging boughs of aged trees, formed rural grottoes, impervious to
the rays of the sun, in which you might enjoy a refreshing coolness
during the mid day heat. One path led to a clump of forest trees, in the
centre of which, sheltered from the wind, you found a fruit-tree, laden
with produce. Here was a corn-field; there, an orchard; from one avenue
you had a view of the cottages; from another, of the inaccessible summit
of the mountain. Beneath one tufted bower of gum-trees, interwoven with
lianas, no object whatever could be perceived: while the point of the
adjoining rock, jutting out from the mountain, commanded a view of the
whole inclosure, and of the distant ocean, where, occasionally, we
could discern the distant sail, arriving from Europe, or bound thither.
On this rock the two families frequently met in the evening, and enjoyed
in silence the freshness of the flowers, the gentle murmurs of the
fountain, and the last blended harmonies of light and shade.
Nothing could be more charming than the names which were bestowed upon
some of the delightful retreats of this labyrinth. The rock of which I
have been speaking, whence they could discern my approach at a
considerable distance, was called the Discovery of Friendship. Paul and
Virginia had amused themselves by planting a bamboo on that spot; and
whenever they saw me coming, they hoisted a little white handkerchief,
by way of signal at my approach, as they had seen a flag hoisted on the
neighbouring mountain on the sight of a vessel at sea. The idea struck
me of engraving an inscription on the stalk of this reed; for I never,
in the course of my travels, experienced anything like the pleasure in
seeing a statue or other monument of ancient art, as in reading a
well-written inscription. It seems to me as if a human voice issued from
the stone, and, making itself heard after the lapse of ages, addressed
man in the midst of a desert, to tell him that he is not alone, and that
other men, on that very spot, had felt, and thought, and suffered like
himself. If the inscription belongs to an ancient nation, which no
longer exists, it leads the soul through infinite space, and strengthens
the consciousness of its immortality, by demonstrating that a thought
has survived the ruins of an empire. I inscribed then, on the little
staff of Paul and Virginia's flag, the following lines of Horace:--
Fratres Helenæ, lucida sidera,
Ventorumque regat pater,
Obstrictis, aliis, præter Iapiga.
"May the brothers of Helen, bright stars like you, and the Father of the
winds, guide you; and may you feel only the breath of the zephyr."
There was a gum-tree, under the shade of which Paul was accustomed to
sit, to contemplate the sea when agitated by storms. On the bark of this
tree, I engraved the following lines from Virgil:--
Fortunatus et ille deos qui novit agrestes!
"Happy art thou, my son, in knowing only the pastoral divinities."
And over the door of Madame de la Tour's cottage, where the families so
frequently met, I placed this line:--
At secura quies, et nescia fallere vita.
"Here dwell a calm conscience, and a life that knows not deceit."
But Virginia did not approve of my Latin: she said, that what I had
placed at the foot of her flagstaff was too long and too learned. "I
should have liked better," added she, "to have seen inscribed, EVER
AGITATED, YET CONSTANT."--"Such a motto," I answered, "would have been
still more applicable to virtue." My reflection made her blush.
The delicacy of sentiment of these happy families was manifested in
everything around them. They gave the tenderest names to objects in
appearance the most indifferent. A border of orange, plantain, and
rose-apple trees, planted round a green sward where Virginia and Paul
sometimes danced, received the name of Concord. An old tree, beneath the
shade of which Madame de la Tour and Margaret used to recount their
misfortunes, was called the Burial-place of Tears. They bestowed the
names of Brittany and Normandy on two little plots of ground, where they
had sown corn, strawberries, and peas. Domingo and Mary, wishing, in
imitation of their mistresses, to recall to mind Angola and
Foullepointe, the places of their birth in Africa, gave those names to
the little fields where the grass was sown with which they wove their
baskets, and where they had planted a calabash-tree. Thus by cultivating
the productions of their respective climates, these exiled families
cherished the dear illusions which bind us to our native country, and
softened their regrets in a foreign land. Alas! I have seen these trees,
these fountains, these heaps of stones, which are now so completely
overthrown,--which now, like the desolated plains of Greece, present
nothing but masses of ruin and affecting remembrances, all but called
into life by the many charming appellations thus bestowed upon them!
But perhaps the most delightful spot of this inclosure was that called
Virginia's resting-place. At the foot of the rock which bore the name of
the Discovery of Friendship, is a small crevice, whence issues a
fountain, forming, near its source, a little spot of marshy soil in the
middle of a field of rich grass. At the time of Paul's birth I had made
Margaret a present of an Indian cocoa which had been given me, and which
she planted on the border of this fenny ground, in order that the tree
might one day serve to mark the epoch of her son's birth. Madame de la
Tour planted another cocoa with the same view, at the birth of Virginia.
These nuts produced two cocoa-trees, which formed the only records of
the two families; one was called Paul's tree, the other, Virginia's.
Their growth was in the same proportion as that of the two young
persons, not exactly equal: but they rose, at the end of twelve years,
above the roofs of the cottages. Already their tender stalks were
interwoven, and clusters of young cocoas hung from them over the basin
of the fountain. With the exception of these two trees, this nook of the
rock was left as it had been decorated by nature. On its embrowned and
moist sides broad plants of maiden-hair glistened with their green and
dark stars; and tufts of wave-leaved hart's tongue, suspended like long
ribbons of purpled green, floated on the wind. Near this grew a chain of
the Madagascar periwinkle, the flowers of which resemble the red
gilliflower; and the long-podded capsicum, the seed-vessels of which are
of the color of blood, and more resplendent than coral. Near them, the
herb balm, with its heart-shaped leaves, and the sweet basil, which has
the odour of the clove, exhaled the most delicious perfumes. From the
precipitous side of the mountain hung the graceful lianas, like floating
draperies, forming magnificent canopies of verdure on the face of the
rocks. The sea-birds, allured by the stillness of these retreats,
resorted here to pass the night. At the hour of sunset we could perceive
the curlew and the stint skimming along the seashore; the frigate-bird
poised high in air; and the white bird of the tropic, which abandons,
with the star of day, the solitudes of the Indian ocean. Virginia took
pleasure in resting herself upon the border of this fountain, decorated
with wild and sublime magnificence. She often went thither to wash the
linen of the family beneath the shade of the two cocoa-trees, and
thither too she sometimes led her goats to graze. While she was making
cheeses of their milk, she loved to see them browse on the maiden-hair
fern which clothed the steep sides of the rock, and hung suspended by
one of its cornices, as on a pedestal. Paul, observing that Virginia was
fond of this spot, brought thither, from the neighbouring forest, a
great variety of birds' nests. The old birds following their young, soon
established themselves in this new colony. Virginia, at stated times,
distributed amongst them grains of rice, millet, and maize. As soon as
she appeared, the whistling blackbird, the amadavid bird, whose note is
so soft, the cardinal, with its flame-coloured plumage, forsook their
bushes; the paroquet, green as an emerald, descended from the
neighbouring fan-palms, the partridge ran along the grass; all advanced
promiscuously towards her, like a brood of chickens: and she and Paul
found an exhaustless source of amusement in observing their sports,
their repasts, and their loves.
Amiable children! thus passed your earlier days in innocence, and in
obeying the impulses of kindness. How many times, on this very spot,
have your mothers, pressing you in their arms, blessed Heaven for the
consolation your unfolding virtues prepared for their declining years,
while they at the same time enjoyed the satisfaction of seeing you begin
life under the happiest auspices! How many times, beneath the shade of
those rocks, have I partaken with them of your rural repasts, which
never costs any animal its life! Gourds full of milk, fresh eggs, cakes
of rice served up on plantain leaves, with baskets of mangoes, oranges,
dates, pomegranates, pine-apples, furnished a wholesome repast, the most
agreeable to the eye, as well as delicious to the taste, that can
possibly be imagined.
Like the repast, the conversation was mild, and free from everything
having a tendency to do harm. Paul often talked of the labours of the
day and of the morrow. He was continually planning something for the
accommodation of their little society. Here he discovered that the paths
were rugged; there, that the seats were uncomfortable: sometimes the
young arbours did not afford sufficient shade, and Virginia might be
better pleased elsewhere.
During the rainy season the two families met together in the cottage,
and employed themselves in weaving mats of grass, and baskets of bamboo.
Rakes, spades, and hatchets were ranged along the walls in the most
perfect order; and near these instruments of agriculture were heaped its
products--bags of rice, sheaves of corn, and baskets of plantains. Some
degree of luxury usually accompanies abundance; and Virginia was taught
by her mother and Margaret to prepare sherbet and cordials from the
juice of the sugar-cane, the lemon and the citron.
When night came, they all supped together by the light of a lamp; after
which Madame de la Tour or Margaret related some story of travellers
benighted in those woods of Europe that are still infested by banditti;
or told a dismal tale of some shipwrecked vessel, thrown by the tempest
upon the rocks of a desert island. To these recitals the children
listened with eager attention, and earnestly hoped that Heaven would one
day grant them the joy of performing the rites of hospitality towards
such unfortunate persons. When the time for repose arrived, the two
families separated and retired for the night, eager to meet again the
following morning. Sometimes they were lulled to repose by the beating
of the rains, which fell in torrents upon the roofs of their cottages,
and sometimes by the hollow winds, which brought to their ear the
distant roar of the waves breaking upon the shore. They blessed God for
their own safety, the feeling of which was brought home more forcibly to
their minds by the sound of remote danger.
Madame de la Tour occasionally read aloud some affecting history of the
Old or New Testament. Her auditors reasoned but little upon these sacred
volumes, for their theology centered in a feeling of devotion towards
the Supreme Being, like that of nature; and their morality was an active
principle, like that of the Gospel. These families had no particular
days devoted to pleasure, and others to sadness. Every day was to them a
holiday, and all that surrounded them one holy temple, in which they
ever adored the Infinite Intelligence, the Almighty God, the friend of
human kind. A feeling of confidence in his supreme power filled their
minds with consolation for the past, with fortitude under present
trials, and with hope in the future. Compelled by misfortune to return
almost to a state of nature, these excellent women had thus developed in
their own and their children's bosoms the feelings most natural to the
human mind, and its best support under affliction.
But, as clouds sometimes arise, and cast a gloom over the best regulated
tempers, so whenever any member of this little society appeared to be
labouring under dejection, the rest assembled around, and endeavoured to
banish her painful thoughts by amusing the mind rather than by grave
arguments against them. Each performed this kind office in their own
appropriate manner: Margaret, by her gayety; Madame de la Tour, by the
gentle consolations of religion; Virginia, by her tender caresses; Paul,
by his frank and engaging cordiality. Even Mary and Domingo hastened to
offer their succour, and to weep with those that wept. Thus do weak
plants interweave themselves with each other, in order to withstand the
fury of the tempest.
During the fine season, they went every Sunday to the church of the
Shaddock Grove, the steeple of which you see yonder upon the plain. Many
wealthy members of the congregation, who came to church in palanquins,
sought the acquaintance of these united families, and invited them to
parties of pleasure. But they always repelled these overtures with
respectful politeness, as they were persuaded that the rich and powerful
seek the society of persons in an inferior station only for the sake of
surrounding themselves with flatterers, and that every flatterer must
applaud alike all the actions of his patron, whether good or bad. On the
other hand, they avoided, with equal care, too intimate an acquaintance
with the lower class, who are ordinarily jealous, calumniating, and
gross. They thus acquired, with some, the character of being timid, and
with others, of pride: but their reserve was accompanied with so much
obliging politeness, above all towards the unfortunate and the unhappy,
that they insensibly acquired the respect of the rich and the confidence
of the poor.
After service, some kind office was often required at their hands by
their poor neighbours. Sometimes a person troubled in mind sought their
advice; sometimes a child begged them to visit its sick mother, in one
of the adjoining hamlets. They always took with them a few remedies for
the ordinary diseases of the country, which they administered in that
soothing manner which stamps a value upon the smallest favours. Above
all, they met with singular success in administering to the disorders of
the mind, so intolerable in solitude, and under the infirmities of a
weakened frame. Madame de la Tour spoke with such sublime confidence of
the Divinity, that the sick, while listening to her, almost believed
him present. Virginia often returned home with her eyes full of tears,
and her heart overflowing with delight, at having had an opportunity of
doing good; for to her generally was confided the task of preparing and
administering the medicines--a task which she fulfilled with angelic
sweetness. After these visits of charity, they sometimes extended their
walk by the Sloping Mountain, till they reached my dwelling, where I
used to prepare dinner for them on the banks of the little rivulet which
glides near my cottage. I procured for these occasions a few bottles of
old wine, in order to heighten the relish of our Oriental repast by the
more genial productions of Europe. At other times we met on the seashore
at the mouth of some little river, or rather mere brook. We brought from
home the provisions furnished us by our gardens, to which we added those
supplied us by the sea in abundant variety. We caught on these shores
the mullet, the roach, and the sea-urchin, lobsters, shrimps, crabs,
oysters, and all other kinds of shell-fish. In this way, we often
enjoyed the most tranquil pleasures in situations the most terrific.
Sometimes, seated upon a rock, under the shade of the velvet
sunflower-tree, we saw the enormous waves of the Indian Ocean break
beneath our feet with a tremendous noise. Paul, who could swim like a
fish, would advance on the reefs to meet the coming billows; then, at
their near approach, would run back to the beach, closely pursued by the
foaming breakers, which threw themselves, with a roaring noise, far on
the sands. But Virginia, at this sight, uttered piercing cries, and said
that such sports frightened her too much.
Other amusements were not wanting on these festive occasions. Our
repasts were generally followed by the songs and dances of the two young
people. Virginia sang the happiness of pastoral life, and the misery of
those who were impelled by avarice to cross the raging ocean, rather
than cultivate the earth, and enjoy its bounties in peace. Sometimes she
performed a pantomime with Paul, after the manner of the negroes. The
first language of man is pantomime: it is known to all nations, and is
so natural and expressive, that the children of the European inhabitants
catch it with facility from the negroes. Virginia, recalling, from among
the histories which her mother had read to her, those which had affected
her most, represented the principal events in them with beautiful
simplicity. Sometimes at the sound of Domingo's tan-tam she appeared
upon the green sward, bearing a pitcher upon her head, and advanced with
a timid step towards the source of a neighbouring fountain to draw
water. Domingo and Mary, personating the shepherds of Midian, forbade
her to approach, and repulsed her sternly. Upon this Paul flew to her
succour, beat away the shepherds, filled Virginia's pitcher, and placing
it upon her head, bound her brows at the same time with a wreath of the
red flowers of the Madagascar periwinkle, which served to heighten the
delicacy of her complexion. Then joining in their sports, I took upon
myself the part of Raguel, and bestowed upon Paul my daughter Zephora
in marriage.
Another time Virginia would represent the unhappy Ruth, returning poor
and widowed with her mother-in-law, who, after so prolonged an absence,
found herself as unknown as in a foreign land. Domingo and Mary
personated the reapers. The supposed daughter of Naomi followed their
steps, gleaning here and there a few ears of corn. When interrogated by
Paul,--a part which he performed with the gravity of a patriarch,--she
answered his questions with a faltering voice. He then, touched with
compassion, granted an asylum to innocence, and hospitality to
misfortune. He filled her lap with plenty; and, leading her towards us
as before the elders of the city, declared his purpose to take her in
marriage. At this scene, Madame de la Tour, recalling the desolate
situation in which she had been left by her relations, her widowhood,
and the kind reception she had met with from Margaret, succeeded now by
the soothing hope of a happy union between their children, could not
forbear weeping; and these mixed recollections of good and evil caused
us all to unite with her in shedding tears of sorrow and of joy.
These dramas were performed with such an air of reality that you might
have fancied yourself transported to the plains of Syria or of
Palestine. We were not unfurnished with decorations, lights, or an
orchestra, suitable to the representation. The scene was generally
placed in an open space of the forest, the diverging paths from which
formed around us numerous arcades of foliage, under which we were
sheltered from the heat all the middle of the day; but when the sun
descended towards the horizon, its rays, broken by the trunks of the
trees, darted amongst the shadows of the forest in long lines of light,
producing the most magnificent effect. Sometimes its broad disk appeared
at the end of an avenue, lighting it up with insufferable brightness.
The foliage of the trees, illuminated from beneath by its saffron beams,
glowed with the lustre of the topaz and the emerald. Their brown and
mossy trunks appeared transformed into columns of antique bronze; and
the birds, which had retired in silence to their leafy shades to pass
the night, surprised to see the radiance of the second morning, hailed
the star of day all together with innumerable carols.
Night often overtook us during these rural entertainments; but the
purity of the air and the warmth of the climate, admitted of our
sleeping in the woods, without incurring any danger by exposure to the
weather, and no less secure from the molestation of robbers. On our
return the following day to our respective habitations, we found them in
exactly the same state in which they had been left. In this island, then
unsophisticated by the pursuits of commerce, such were the honesty and
primitive manners of the population, that the doors of many houses were
without a key, and even a lock itself was an object of curiosity to not
a few of the native inhabitants.
There were, however, some days in the years celebrated by Paul and
Virginia in a more peculiar manner; these were the birthdays of their
mothers. Virginia never failed the day before to prepare some wheaten
cakes, which she distributed among a few poor white families, born in
the island, who had never eaten European bread. These unfortunate
people, uncared for by the blacks, were reduced to live on tapioca in
the woods; and as they had neither the insensibility which is the result
of slavery, nor the fortitude which springs from a liberal education, to
enable them to support their poverty, their situation was deplorable.
These cakes were all that Virginia had it in her power to give away, but
she conferred the gift in so delicate a manner as to add tenfold to its
value. In the first place, Paul was commissioned to take the cakes
himself to these families, and get their promise to come and spend the
next day at Madame de la Tour's. Accordingly, mothers of families, with
two or three thin, yellow, miserable looking daughters, so timid that
they dared not look up, made their appearance. Virginia soon put them at
their ease; she waited upon them with refreshments, the excellence of
which she endeavoured to heighten by relating some particular
circumstance which, in her own estimation, vastly improved them. One
beverage had been prepared by Margaret; another, by her mother: her
brother himself had climbed some lofty tree for the very fruit she was
presenting. She would then get Paul to dance with them, nor would she
leave them till she saw that they were happy. She wished them to partake
of the joy of her own family. "It is only," she said, "by promoting the
happiness of others, that we can secure our own." When they left, she
generally presented them with some little article they seemed to fancy,
enforcing their acceptance of it by some delicate pretext, that she
might not appear to know they were in want. If she remarked that their
clothes were much tattered, she obtained her mother's permission to give
them some of her own, and then sent Paul to leave them secretly at their
cottage doors. She thus followed the divine precept,--concealing the
benefactor, and revealing only the benefit.
Your Europeans, whose minds are imbued from infancy with prejudices at
variance with happiness, cannot imagine all the instruction and pleasure
to be derived from nature. Your souls, confined to a small sphere of
intelligence, soon reach the limit of its artificial enjoyments: but
nature and the heart are inexhaustible. Paul and Virginia had neither
clock, nor almanack, nor books of chronology, history or philosophy. The
periods of their lives were regulated by those of the operations of
nature, and their familiar conversation had a reference to the changes
of the seasons. They knew the time of day by the shadows of the trees;
the seasons, by the times when those trees bore flowers or fruit; and
the years, by the number of their harvests. These soothing images
diffused an inexpressible charm over their conversation. "It is time to
dine," said Virginia, "the shadows of the plantain-trees are at their
roots:" or, "Night approaches, the tamarinds are closing their leaves."
"When will you come and see us?" inquired some of her companions in the
neighbourhood. "At the time of the sugar-canes," answered Virginia.
"Your visit will be then still more delightful," resumed her young
acquaintances. When she was asked what was her own age and that of
Paul,--"My brother," said she, "is as old as the great cocoa-tree of the
fountain; and I am as old as the little one: the mangoes have borne
fruit twelve times, and the orange-trees have flowered four-and-twenty
times, since I came into the world." Their lives seemed linked to that
of the trees, like those of Fauns or Dryads. They knew no other
historical epochs than those of the lives of their mothers, no other
chronology than that of their orchards, and no other philosophy than
that of doing good, and resigning themselves to the will of Heaven.
What need, indeed, had these young people of riches or learning such as
ours? Even their necessities and their ignorance increased their
happiness. No day passed in which they were not of some service to one
another, or in which they did not mutually impart some instruction. Yes,
instruction; for if errors mingled with it, they were, at least, not of
a dangerous character. A pure-minded being has none of that description
to fear. Thus grew these children of nature. No care had troubled their
peace, no intemperance had corrupted their blood, no misplaced passion
had depraved their hearts. Love, innocence, and piety, possessed their
souls; and those intellectual graces were unfolding daily in their
features, their attitudes, and their movements. Still in the morning of
life, they had all its blooming freshness: and surely such in the garden
of Eden appeared our first parents, when coming from the hands of God,
they first saw, and approached each other, and conversed together, like
brother and sister. Virginia was gentle, modest, and confiding as Eve;
and Paul, like Adam, united the stature of manhood with the simplicity
of a child.
Sometimes, if alone with Virginia, he has a thousand times told me, he
used to say to her, on his return from labor,--"When I am wearied, the
sight of you refreshes me. If from the summit of the mountain I perceive
you below in the valley, you appear to me in the midst of our orchard
like a blooming rosebud. If you go towards our mother's house, the
partridge, when it runs to meet its young, has a shape less beautiful,
and a step less light. When I lose sight of you through the trees, I
have no need to see you in order to find you again. Something of you, I
know not how, remains for me in the air through which you have passed,
on the grass whereon you have been seated. When I come near you, you
delight all my senses. The azure of the sky is less charming than the
blue of your eyes, and the song of the amadavid bird less soft than the
sound of your voice. If I only touch you with the tip of my finger, my
whole frame trembles with pleasure. Do you remember the day when we
crossed over the great stones of the river of the Three Breasts? I was
very tired before we reached the bank: but, as soon as I had taken you
in my arms, I seemed to have wings like a bird. Tell me by what charm
you have thus enchanted me? Is it by your wisdom?--Our mothers have more
than either of us. Is it by your caresses?--They embrace me much oftener
than you. I think it must be by your goodness. I shall never forget how
you walked barefooted to the Black River, to ask pardon for the poor
runaway slave. Here, my beloved, take this flowering branch of a
lemon-tree, which I have gathered in the forest: you will let it remain
at night near your bed. Eat this honeycomb too, which I have taken for
you from the top of a rock. But first lean on my bosom, and I shall be
refreshed."
Virginia would answer him,--"Oh, my dear brother, the rays of the sun in
the morning on the tops of the rocks give me less joy than the sight of
you. I love my mother,--I love yours; but when they call you their son,
I love them a thousand times more. When they caress you, I feel it more
sensibly than when I am caressed myself. You ask me what makes you love
me. Why, all creatures that are brought up together love one another.
Look at our birds; reared up in the same nests, they love each other as
we do; they are always together like us. Hark! how they call and answer
from one tree to another. So when the echoes bring to my ears the air
which you play on your flute on the top of the mountain, I repeat the
words at the bottom of the valley. You are dear to me more especially
since the day when you wanted to fight the master of the slave for me.
Since that time how often have I said to myself, 'Ah, my brother has a
good heart; but for him, I should have died of terror.' I pray to God
every day for my mother and for yours, and for our poor servants; but
when I pronounce your name, my devotion seems to increase;--I ask so
earnestly of God that no harm may befall you! Why do you go so far, and
climb so high, to seek fruits and flowers for me? Have we not enough in
our garden already? How much you are fatigued,--you look so warm!"--and
with her little white handkerchief she would wipe the damp from his
face, and then imprint a tender kiss on his forehead.
For some time past, however, Virginia had felt her heart agitated by new
sensations. Her beautiful blue eyes lost their lustre, her cheek its
freshness, and her frame was overpowered with a universal languor.
Serenity no longer sat upon her brow, nor smiles played upon her lips.
She would become all at once gay without cause for joy, and melancholy
without any subject for grief. She fled her innocent amusements, her
gentle toils, and even the society of her beloved family; wandering
about the most unfrequented parts of the plantations, and seeking
everywhere the rest which she could nowhere find. Sometimes, at the
sight of Paul, she advanced sportively to meet him; but, when about to
accost him, was overcome by a sudden confusion; her pale cheeks were
covered with blushes, and her eyes no longer dared to meet those of her
brother. Paul said to her,--"The rocks are covered with verdure, our
birds begin to sing when you approach, everything around you is gay, and
you only are unhappy." He then endeavoured to soothe her by his
embraces, but she turned away her head, and fled, trembling, towards her
mother. The caresses of her brother excited too much emotion in her
agitated heart, and she sought, in the arms of her mother, refuge from
herself. Paul, unused to the secret windings of the female heart, vexed
himself in vain in endeavouring to comprehend the meaning of these new
and strange caprices. Misfortunes seldom come alone, and a serious
calamity now impended over these families.
One of those summers, which sometimes desolate the countries situated
between the tropics, now began to spread its ravages over this island.
It was near the end of December, when the sun, in Capricorn, darts over
the Mauritius, during the space of three weeks, its vertical fires. The
southeast wind, which prevails throughout almost the whole year, no
longer blew. Vast columns of dust arose from the highways, and hung
suspended in the air; the ground was everywhere broken into clefts; the
grass was burnt up; hot exhalations issued from the sides of the
mountains, and their rivulets, for the most part, became dry. No
refreshing cloud ever arose from the sea: fiery vapours, only, during
the day, ascended from the plains, and appeared, at sunset, like the
reflection of a vast conflagration. Night brought no coolness to the
heated atmosphere; and the red moon rising in the misty horizon,
appeared of supernatural magnitude. The drooping cattle, on the sides
of the hills, stretching out their necks towards heaven, and panting for
breath, made the valleys re-echo with their melancholy lowings: even the
Caffre by whom they were led, threw himself upon the earth, in search of
some cooling moisture: but his hopes were vain; the scorching sun had
penetrated the whole soil, and the stifling atmosphere everywhere
resounded with the buzzing noise of insects, seeking to allay their
thirst with the blood of men and of animals.
During this sultry season, Virginia's restlessness and disquietude were
much increased. One night, in particular, being unable to sleep, she
arose from her bed, sat down, and returned to rest again; but could find
in no attitude either slumber or repose. At length she bent her way, by
the light of the moon, towards her fountain, and gazed at its spring,
which, notwithstanding the drought, still trickled, in silver threads
down the brown sides of the rock. She flung herself into the basin: its
coolness reanimated her spirits, and a thousand soothing remembrances
came to her mind. She recollected that in her infancy her mother and
Margaret had amused themselves by bathing her with Paul in this very
spot; that he afterwards, reserving this bath for her sole use, had
hollowed out its bed, covered the bottom with sand, and sown aromatic
herbs around its borders. She saw in the water, upon her naked arms and
bosom, the reflection of the two cocoa trees which were planted at her
own and her brother's birth, and which interwove above her head their
green branches and young fruit. She thought of Paul's friendship,
sweeter than the odour of the blossoms, purer than the waters of the
fountain, stronger than the intertwining palm-tree, and she sighed.
Reflecting on the hour of the night, and the profound solitude, her
imagination became disturbed. Suddenly she flew, affrighted, from those
dangerous shades, and those waters which seemed to her hotter than the
tropical sunbeam, and ran to her mother for refuge. More than once,
wishing to reveal her sufferings, she pressed her mother's hand within
her own; more than once she was ready to pronounce the name of Paul: but
her oppressed heart left her lips no power of utterance, and, leaning
her head on her mother's bosom, she bathed it with her tears.
Madame de la Tour, though she easily discerned the source of her
daughter's uneasiness, did not think proper to speak to her on the
subject. "My dear child," said she, "offer up your supplications to God,
who disposes at his will of health and of life. He subjects you to trial
now, in order to recompense you hereafter. Remember that we are only
placed upon earth for the exercise of virtue."
The excessive heat in the mean time raised vast masses of vapor from the
ocean, which hung over the island like an immense parasol, and gathered
round the summits of the mountains. Long flakes of fire issued from time
to time from these mist-embosomed peaks. The most awful thunder soon
after re-echoed through the woods, the plains, and the valleys; the
rains fell from the skies in cataracts; foaming torrents rushed down the
sides of this mountain; the bottom of the valley became a sea, and the
elevated platform on which the cottages were built, a little island. The
accumulated waters, having no other outlet, rushed with violence through
the narrow gorge which leads into the valley, tossing and roaring, and
bearing along with them a mingled wreck of soil, trees and rocks.
The trembling families meantime addressed their prayers to God all
together in the cottage of Madame de la Tour, the roof of which cracked
fearfully from the force of the winds. So incessant and vivid were the
lightnings, that although the doors and window-shutters were securely
fastened, every object without could be distinctly seen through the
joints in the woodwork! Paul, followed by Domingo, went with intrepidity
from one cottage to another, notwithstanding the fury of the tempest;
here supporting a partition with a buttress, there driving in a stake;
and only returning to the family to calm their fears, by the expression
of a hope that the storm was passing away. Accordingly, in the evening
the rains ceased, the trade-winds of the southeast pursued their
ordinary course, the tempestuous clouds were driven away to the
northward, and the setting sun appeared in the horizon.
Virginia's first wish was to visit the spot called her Resting-place.
Paul approached her with a timid air, and offered her the assistance of
his arm; she accepted it with a smile, and they left the cottage
together. The air was clear and fresh: white vapours arose from the
ridges of the mountain, which was furrowed here and there by the
courses of torrents, marked in foam, and now beginning to dry up on all
sides. As for the garden, it was completely torn to pieces by deep
water-courses, the roots of most of the fruit-trees were laid bare, and
vast heaps of sand covered the borders of the meadows, and had choked up
Virginia's bath. The two cocoa trees, however, were still erect, and
still retained their freshness; but they were no longer surrounded by
turf, or arbours, or birds, except a few amadavid birds, which, upon the
points of the neighbouring rocks, were lamenting, in plaintive notes,
the loss of their young.
At the sight of this general desolation, Virginia exclaimed to
Paul,--"You brought birds hither, and the hurricane has killed them. You
planted this garden, and it is now destroyed. Everything then upon earth
perishes, and it is only Heaven that is not subject to change."--"Why,"
answered Paul, "cannot I give you something that belongs to heaven? but
I have nothing of my own, even upon the earth." Virginia with a blush
replied, "You have the picture of St. Paul." As soon as she had uttered
the words, he flew in quest of it to his mother's cottage. This picture
was a miniature of Paul the Hermit, which Margaret, who viewed it with
feelings of great devotion, had worn at her neck while a girl, and
which, after she became a mother, she had placed round her child's. It
had even happened, that being, while pregnant, abandoned by all the
world, and constantly occupied in contemplating the image of this
benevolent recluse, her offspring had contracted some resemblance to
this revered object. She therefore bestowed upon him the name of Paul,
giving him for his patron a saint who had passed his life far from
mankind by whom he had been first deceived and then forsaken. Virginia,
on receiving this little present from the hands of Paul, said to him,
with emotion, "My dear brother, I will never part with this while I
live; nor will I ever forget that you have given me the only thing you
have in this world." At this tone of friendship,--this unhoped-for
return of familiarity and tenderness, Paul attempted to embrace her;
but, light as a bird, she escaped him, and fled away, leaving him
astonished, and unable to account for conduct so extraordinary.
ANNA SEWELL
SEWELL, ANNA, was the daughter of Mary Sewell, an English authoress
of Quaker family. She was born in 1820, and died in 1878.
Considering the great fame of her book, _Black Beauty_, very little
has been published in connection with Anna Sewell's life. She is
said to have been of a retiring disposition, and to have shunned
the literary fame which her charming story brought her. _Black
Beauty_ made its first appearance in 1877, and since then has been
published in countless editions, some very costly, and others in
extremely cheap form. Several editions have been gotten out for the
purpose of gratuitous distribution by humane societies. The sale of
the book has been enormous, and it has been appropriately called
the Uncle Tom's Cabin of animal stories. That a story which
purports to be the autobiography of a horse should win and retain
such popularity as _Black Beauty_ enjoys, leads one to seek (if any
seeking be necessary), for the surviving quality in the book. For
animal stories have been many, and among them _Black Beauty_ stands
alone. Probably the secret is this,--that its author, by reason of
her love for and understanding of horses, was able, with the aid of
a powerful imagination, to assume, as well as a human being might,
the mental attitude of an intelligent horse.
The following selection embodies one of the most interesting
incidents of the tale.
BLACK BEAUTY'S NEW HOME
I had now lived in this happy place three years, but sad changes were
about to come over us.
We heard from time to time that our mistress was ill. The Doctor was
often at the house, and the master looked grave and anxious. Then we
heard that she must leave her home at once, and go to a warm country for
two or three years. The news fell upon the household like the tolling of
a death-bell. Everybody was sorry; but the master began directly to make
arrangements for breaking up his establishment and leaving England. We
used to hear it talked about in our stable; indeed, nothing else was
talked about.
John went about his work, silent and sad, and Joe scarcely whistled.
There was a great deal of coming and going; Ginger and I had full work.
The first of the party who went were Miss Jessie and Flora with their
governess. They came to bid us good-bye. They hugged poor Merrylegs like
an old friend, and so indeed he was. Then we heard what had been
arranged for us. Master had sold Ginger and me to his old friend, the
Earl of W----, for he thought we should have a good place there.
Merrylegs he had given to the Vicar, who was wanting a pony for Mrs.
Blomefield, but it was _on the condition that he should never be sold,
and that when he was past work he should be shot and buried_.
Joe was engaged to take care of him and to help in the house, so I
thought that Merrylegs was well off. John had the offer of several good
places, but he said he should wait a little and look round.
The evening before they left, the master came into the stable to give
some directions, and to give his horses the last pat. He seemed very
low-spirited; I knew that by his voice. I believe we horses can tell
more by the voice than many men can.
"Have you decided what to do, John?" he said. "I find you have not
accepted either of those offers."
"No, sir; I have made up my mind that if I could get a situation with
some first-rate colt-breaker and horse-trainer, it would be the right
thing for me. Many young animals are frightened and spoiled by wrong
treatment, which need not be if the right man took them in hand. I
always get on well with horses, and if I could help some of them to a
fair start I should feel as if I was doing some good. What do you think
of it, sir?"
"I don't know a man anywhere," said master, "that I should think so
suitable for it as yourself. You understand horses, and somehow they
understand you, and in time you might set up for yourself; I think you
could not do better. If in any way I can help you, write to me. I shall
speak to my agent in London, and leave your character with him."
Master gave John the name and address, and then he thanked him for his
long and faithful service; but that was too much for John. "Pray, don't,
sir, I can't bear it; you and my dear mistress have done so much for me
that I could never repay it. But we shall never forget you, sir, and
please God, we may some day see mistress back again like herself; we
must keep up hope, sir." Master gave John his hand, but he did not
speak, and they both left the stable.
The last sad day had come; the footman and the heavy luggage had gone
off the day before, and there were only master and mistress and her
maid. Ginger and I brought the carriage up to the Hall door for the last
time. The servants brought out cushions and rugs and many other things;
and when all were arranged, master came down the steps carrying the
mistress in his arms (I was on the side next the house, and could see
all that went on); he placed her carefully in the carriage, while the
house servants stood round crying.
"Good-bye again," he said; "we shall not forget any of you," and he got
in. "Drive on, John."
Joe jumped up, and we trotted slowly through the park and through the
village, where the people were standing at their doors to have a last
look and to say, "God bless them."
When we reached the railway station, I think mistress walked from the
carriage to the waiting-room. I heard her say in her own sweet voice,
"Good-bye, John. God bless you." I felt the rein twitch, but John made
no answer; perhaps he could not speak. As soon as Joe had taken the
things out of the carriage, John called him to stand by the horses,
while he went on the platform. Poor Joe! he stood close up to our heads
to hide his tears. Very soon the train came puffing up into the station;
then two or three minutes, and the doors were slammed to; the guard
whistled and the train glided away, leaving behind it only clouds of
white smoke and some very heavy hearts.
When it was quite out of sight, John came back.
"We shall never see her again," he said--"never." He took the reins,
mounted the box, and with Joe drove slowly home; but it was not our home
now.
The next morning after breakfast, Joe put Merrylegs into the mistress'
low chaise to take him to the vicarage; he came first and said good-bye
to us, and Merrylegs neighed to us from the yard. Then John put the
saddle on Ginger and the leading rein on me, and rode us across the
country about fifteen miles to Earlshall Park, where the Earl of
W----lived. There was a very fine house and a great deal of stabling. We
went into the yard through a stone gateway and John asked for Mr. York.
It was some time before he came. He was a fine-looking, middle-aged man,
and his voice said at once that he expected to be obeyed. He was very
friendly and polite to John, and after giving us a slight look he called
a groom to take us to our boxes, and invited John to take some
refreshment.
We were taken to a light, airy stable, and placed in boxes adjoining
each other, where we were rubbed down and fed. In about half an hour
John and Mr. York, who was to be our new coachman, came in to see us.
"Now, Mr. Manly," he said, after carefully looking at us both, "I can
see no fault in these horses; but we all know that horses have their
peculiarities as well as men, and that sometimes they need different
treatment. I should like to know if there is anything particular in
either of these that you would like to mention."
"Well," said John, "I don't believe there is a better pair of horses in
the country, and right grieved I am to part with them, but they are not
alike. The black one is the most perfect temper I ever knew; I suppose
he has never known a hard word or blow since he was foaled, and all his
pleasure seems to be to do what you wish; but the chestnut, I fancy,
must have had bad treatment; we heard as much from the dealer. She came
to us snappish and suspicious, but when she found what sort of place
ours was, it all went off by degrees; for three years I have never seen
the smallest sign of temper, and if she is well treated there is not a
better, more willing animal than she is. But she has naturally a more
irritable constitution than the black horse; flies tease her more;
anything wrong in the harness frets her more; and if she were ill-used
or unfairly treated she would not be unlikely to give tit for tat. You
know that many high-mettled horses will do so."
"Of course," said York, "I quite understand; but you know it is not easy
in stables like these to have all the grooms just what they should be. I
do my best, and there I must leave it. I'll remember what you have said
about the mare."
They were going out of the stable, when John stopped, and said, "I had
better mention that we have never used the check-rein with either of
them; the black horse never had one on, and the dealer said it was the
gag-bit that spoiled the other's temper."
"Well," said York, "if they come here, they must wear the check-rein. _I
prefer a loose rein myself, and his lordship is always very reasonable
about horses; but, my lady--that's another thing_; she will have style,
and if her carriage horses are not reigned up tight she wouldn't look at
them. I always stand out against the gag-bit, and shall do so, but _it
must be tight up when my lady rides_!"
"I am sorry for it, very sorry," said John; "but I must go now, or I
shall lose the train."
He came round to each of us to pat and speak to us for the last time;
his voice sounded very sad.
I held my face close to him; that was all I could do to say good-bye;
and then he was gone, and I have never seen him since.
The next day Lord W----came to look at us; he seemed pleased with our
appearance.
"I have great confidence in these horses," he said, "from the character
my friend Mr. Gordon has given me of them. Of course they are not a
match in colour, but my idea is that they will do very well for the
carriage whilst we are in the country. Before we go to London I must try
to match Baron; the black horse, I believe, is perfect for riding."
York then told him what John had said about us.
"Well," said he, "you must keep an eye to the mare, and put the
check-rein easy; I dare say they will do very well with a little
humouring at first. I'll mention it to your lady."
In the afternoon we were harnessed and put in the carriage, and as the
stable clock struck three we were led round to the front of the house.
It was all very grand, and three or four times as large as the old house
at Birtwick, but not half so pleasant, if a horse may have an opinion.
Two footmen were standing ready, dressed in drab livery, with scarlet
breeches and white stockings. Presently we heard the rustling sound of
silk as my lady came down the flight of stone steps. She stepped round
to look at us; she was a tall, proud-looking woman, and did not seem
pleased about something, but she said nothing, and got into the
carriage. This was the first time of wearing a check-rein, and I must
say, though it certainly was a nuisance not to be able to get my head
down now and then, it did not pull my head higher than I was accustomed
to carry it. I felt anxious about Ginger, but she seemed to be quiet and
content.
The next day at three o'clock we were again at the door, and the footmen
as before; we heard the silk dress rustle, and the lady came down the
steps, and in an imperious voice she said: "_York, you must put those
horses' heads higher; they are not fit to be seen._"
York got down, and said very respectfully, "I beg your pardon, my lady,
but these horses have not been reined up for three years, and my lord
said it would be safer to bring them to it by degrees; but, if your
ladyship pleases, I can take them up a little more."
"Do so," she said.
York came round to our heads and shortened the rein himself, one hole, I
think; every little makes a difference, be it for better or worse, and
that day we had a steep hill to go up. Then I began to understand what I
had heard of. Of course I wanted to put my head forward and take the
carriage up with a will as we had been used to do; but no, I had to pull
with my head up now, and _that took all the spirit out of me, and the
strain came on my back and legs_. When we came in, Ginger said, "Now you
see what it is like; but this is not bad, and if it does not get much
worse than this I shall say nothing about it, for we are very well
treated here; but if they strain me up tight, why, let 'em look out! I
can't bear it, and I won't."
Day by day, hole by hole, our bearing-reins were shortened, and instead
of looking forward with pleasure to having my harness put on, as I used
to do, I began to dread it. Ginger too seemed restless, though she said
very little. At last I thought the worst was over; for several days
there was no more shortening, and I determined to make the best of it
and do my duty, though it was now a constant harass instead of a
pleasure; but the worst was not come.
One day my lady came down later than usual, and the silk rustled more
than ever.
"Drive to the Duchess of B----'s," she said, and then after a pause,
"Are you never going to get those horses' heads up, York? Raise them at
once, and let us have no more of this humouring and nonsense."
York came to me first, whilst the groom stood at Ginger's head. _He drew
my head back and fixed the rein so tight that it was almost
intolerable_; then he went to Ginger, who was impatiently jerking her
head up and down against the bit, as was her way now. She had a good
idea of what was coming, and the moment York took the rein off the
terret in order to shorten it, she took her opportunity, and reared up
so suddenly that York had his nose roughly hit and his hat knocked off;
the groom was nearly thrown off his legs. At once they both flew to her
head, but she was a match for them, and went on plunging, rearing, and
kicking in a most desperate manner; at last she kicked right over the
carriage pole and fell down, after giving me a severe blow on my near
quarter. There is no knowing what further mischief she might have done,
had not York promptly sat himself down flat on her head to prevent her
struggling, at the same time calling out, "Unbuckle the black horse! Run
for the winch and unscrew the carriage pole! Cut the trace here,
somebody, if you can't unhitch it!" One of the footmen ran for the
winch, and another brought a knife from the house. The groom soon set me
free from Ginger and the carriage, and led me to my box. He just turned
me in as I was, and ran back to York. I was much excited by what had
happened, and if I had ever been used to kick or rear I am sure I should
have done it then; but I never had, and there I stood, angry, sore in my
leg, my head still strained up to the terret on the saddle, and no power
to get it down. I was very miserable, and felt much inclined to kick the
first person who came near me.
Before long, however, Ginger was led in by two grooms, a good deal
knocked about and bruised. York came with her and gave his orders, and
then came to look at me. In a moment he let down my head.
"Confound these check-reins!" he said to himself; "I thought we should
have some mischief soon. Master will be sorely vexed. But here, if a
woman's husband can't rule her, of course a servant can't; so I wash my
hands of it, and if she can't get to the Duchess's garden party I can't
help it."
York did not say this before the men; he always spoke respectfully when
they were by. Now he felt me all over, and soon found the place above my
hock where I had been kicked. It was swelled and painful; he ordered it
to be sponged with hot water, and then some lotion was put on.
Lord W----was much put out when he learned what had happened; he blamed
York for giving way to his mistress, to which he replied that in future
he would much prefer to receive his orders only from his lordship; but I
think nothing came of it, for things went on the same as before. I
thought York might have stood up better for his horses, but perhaps I am
no judge.
Ginger was never put into the carriage again, but when she was well of
her bruises one of Lord W----'s younger sons said he should like to have
her; he was sure she would make a good hunter. As for me, I was obliged
still to go in the carriage, and had a fresh partner called Max; he had
always been used to the tight rein. I asked him how it was he bore it.
"Well," he said, "I bear it because I must; but it is shortening my
life, and it will shorten yours too, if you have to stick to it."
"Do you think," I said, "that our masters know how bad it is for us?"
"I can't say," he replied, "but the dealers and the horse-doctors know
it very well. I was at a dealer's once, who was training me and another
horse to go as a pair; he was getting our heads up, as he said, a little
higher and a little higher every day. A gentleman who was there asked
him why he did so. 'Because,' said he, 'people won't buy them unless we
do. The London people always want their horses to carry their heads high
and to step high. Of course it is very bad for the horses, _but then it
is good for trade_. The horses soon wear up, or get diseased, and they
come for another pair.' That," said Max, "is what he said in my hearing,
and you can judge for yourself."
What I suffered with that rein for four long months in my lady's
carriage would be hard to describe; but I am quite sure that, had it
lasted much longer, either my health or my temper would have given way.
Before that, I never knew what it was to foam at the mouth, but now the
action of the sharp bit on my tongue and jaw, and the constrained
position of my head and throat, always caused me to froth at the mouth
more or less. Some people think it very fine to see this, and say, "What
fine, spirited creatures!" _But it is just as unnatural for horses as
for men to foam at the mouth_; it is a sure sign of some discomfort, and
should be attended to. Besides this, there was a pressure on my
windpipe, which often made my breathing very uncomfortable; when I
returned from my work, my neck and chest were strained and painful, my
mouth and tongue tender, and I felt worn and depressed.
In my old home I always knew that John and my master were my friends;
but here, although in many ways I was well treated, I had no friend.
York might have known, and very likely did know, how that rein harassed
me; but I suppose he took it as a matter of course that could not be
helped; at any rate, nothing was done to relieve me.
Early in the spring Lord W----and part of his family went up to London,
and took York with them. I and Ginger and some other horses were left at
home for use, and the head groom was left in charge.
The Lady Harriet, who remained at the Hall, was a great invalid, and
never went out in the carriage, and the Lady Anne preferred riding on
horseback with her brother or cousins. She was a perfect horsewoman, and
as gay and gentle as she was beautiful. She chose me for her horse, and
named me "Black Auster." I enjoyed these rides very much in the clear
cold air, sometimes with Ginger, sometimes with Lizzie. This Lizzie was
a bright bay mare, almost thoroughbred, and a great favourite with the
gentlemen, on account of her fine action and lively spirit; but Ginger,
who knew more of her than I did, told me she was rather nervous.
There was a gentleman of the name of Blantyre staying at the Hall; he
always rode Lizzie and praised her so much that one day Lady Anne
ordered the side-saddle to be put on her, and the other saddle on me.
When we came to the door, the gentleman seemed very uneasy.
"How is this?" he said. "Are you tired of your good Black Auster?"
"Oh, no, not at all," she replied, "but I am amiable enough to let you
ride him for once, and I will try your charming Lizzie. You must confess
that in size and appearance she is far more like a lady's horse than my
own favourite."
"Do let me advise you not to mount her," he said; "she is a charming
creature, but she is too nervous for a lady. I assure you, she is not
perfectly safe; let me beg you to have the saddles changed."
"My dear cousin," said Lady Anne, laughing, "pray do not trouble your
good careful head about me. I have been a horsewoman ever since I was a
baby, and I have followed the hounds a great many times, though I know
you do not approve of ladies hunting; but still that is the fact, and I
intend to try this Lizzie that you gentlemen are all so fond of; so
please help me to mount, like a good friend as you are."
There was no more to be said; he placed her carefully on the saddle,
looked to the bit and curb, gave the reins gently into her hand, and
then mounted me. Just as we were moving off, a footman came out with a
slip of paper and message from the Lady Harriet. "Would they ask this
question for her at Dr. Ashley's, and bring the answer?"
The village was about a mile off, and the doctor's house was the last in
it. We went along gayly enough till we came to his gate. There was a
short drive up to the house between tall evergreens. Blantyre alighted
at the gate, and was going to open it for Lady Anne, but she said, "I
will wait for you here, and you can hang Auster's rein on the gate."
He looked at her doubtfully. "I will not be five minutes," he said.
"Oh, do not hurry yourself; Lizzie and I shall not run away from you."
He hung my rein on one of the iron spikes, and was soon hidden amongst
the trees. Lizzie was standing quietly by the side of the road a few
paces off, with her back to me. My young mistress was sitting easily
with a loose rein, humming a little song. I listened to my rider's
footsteps until they reached the house, and heard him knock at the door.
There was a meadow on the opposite side of the road, the gate of which
stood open; just then, some cart horses and several young colts came
trotting out in a very disorderly manner, whilst a boy behind was
cracking a great whip. The colts were wild and frolicsome, and one of
them bolted across the road, and blundered up against Lizzie's hind
legs; and whether it was the stupid colt, or the loud cracking of the
whip, or both together, I cannot say, but she gave a violent kick, and
dashed off into a head-long gallop. It was so sudden that Lady Anne was
nearly unseated, but she soon recovered herself. I gave a loud, shrill
neigh for help; again and again I neighed, pawing the ground
impatiently, and tossing my head to get the rein loose. I had not long
to wait. Blantyre came running to the gate; he looked anxiously about,
and just caught sight of the flying figure, now far away on the road. In
an instant he sprang to the saddle. I needed no whip, no spur, for I
was as eager as my rider; he saw it, and giving me a free rein, and
leaning a little forward, we dashed after them.
For about a mile and a half the road ran straight, and then bent to the
right, after which it divided into two roads. Long before we came to the
bend, she was out of sight. Which way had she turned? A woman was
standing at her garden gate, shading her eyes with her hand, and looking
eagerly up the road. Scarcely drawing the rein, Blantyre shouted, "Which
way?" "To the right!" cried the woman, pointing with her hand, and away
we went up the right-hand road; then for a moment we caught sight of
her; another bend and she was hidden again. Several times we caught
glimpses, and then lost them. We scarcely seemed to gain ground upon
them at all. An old road-mender was standing near a heap of stones, his
shovel dropped and his hands raised. As we came near he made a sign to
speak. Blantyre drew the rein a little. "To the common, to the common,
sir; she has turned off there." I knew this common very well; it was for
the most part very uneven ground, covered with heather and dark green
furze bushes, with here and there a scrubby old thorn-tree; there were
also open spaces of fine short grass, with ant-hills and mole-turns
everywhere; the worst place I ever knew for a head-long gallop.
We had hardly turned on the common, when we caught sight again of the
green habit flying on before us. My lady's hat was gone, and her long
brown hair was streaming behind her. Her head and body were thrown
back, as if she were pulling with all her remaining strength and as if
that strength were nearly exhausted. It was clear that the roughness of
the ground had very much lessened Lizzie's speed, and there seemed a
chance that we might overtake her.
Whilst we were on the high-road, Blantyre had given me my head; but now,
with a light hand and a practiced eye, he guided me over the ground in
such a masterly manner that my pace was scarcely slackened, and we were
decidedly gaining on them.
About half-way across the heath there had been a wide dike recently cut,
and the earth from the cutting was cast up roughly on the other side.
Surely this would stop them! But no; with scarcely a pause Lizzie took
the leap, stumbled among the rough clods, and fell. Blantyre groaned,
"Now, Auster, do your best!" He gave me a steady rein. I gathered myself
well together, and with one determined leap cleared both dike and bank.
Motionless among the heather, with her face to the earth, lay my poor
young mistress. Blantyre kneeled down and called her name; there was no
sound. Gently he turned her face upward; it was ghastly white, and the
eyes were closed. "Annie, dear Annie, do speak!" But there was no
answer. He unbuttoned her habit, loosened her collar, felt her hands and
wrist, then started up and looked wildly round him for help.
At no great distance there were two men cutting turf, who, seeing Lizzie
running wild without a rider, had left their work to catch her.
Blantyre's hallo soon brought them to the spot. The foremost man seemed
much troubled at the sight, and asked what he could do.
"Can you ride?"
"Well, sir, I bean't much of a horseman, but I'd risk my neck for Lady
Anne; she was uncommon good to my wife in the winter."
"Then mount this horse, my friend--your neck will be quite safe--and
ride to the doctor's and ask him to come instantly; then on to the Hall;
tell them all that you know, and bid them send me the carriage with Lady
Anne's maid and help. I shall stay here."
"All right, sir, I'll do my best, and I pray God the dear young lady may
open her eyes soon." Then seeing the other man, he called out, "Here,
Joe, run for some water, and tell my missis to come as quick as she can
to the Lady Anne."
He then somehow scrambled into the saddle, and with a "Gee up" and a
clap on my sides with both his legs, he started on his journey, making a
little circuit to avoid the dike. He had no whip, which seemed to
trouble him; but my pace soon cured that difficulty, and he found the
best thing he could do was to stick to the saddle; and hold me in, which
he did manfully. I shook him as little as I could help, but once or
twice on the rough ground he called out, "Steady! Woah! Steady!" On the
high-road we were all right; and at the doctor's and the Hall he did his
errand like a good man and true. They asked him in to take a drop of
something. "No, no," he said, "I'll be back to 'em again by a short cut
through the fields, and be there afore the carriage."
There was a great deal of hurry and excitement after the news became
known. I was just turned into my box; the saddle and bridle were taken
off, and a cloth thrown over me.
Ginger was saddled and sent off in great haste for Lord George, and I
soon heard the carriage roll out of the yard.
It seemed a long time before Ginger came back, and before we were left
alone; and then she told me all that she had seen.
"I can't tell much," she said. "We went a gallop nearly all the way, and
got there just as the doctor rode up. There was a woman sitting on the
ground with the lady's head in her lap. The doctor poured something into
her mouth, but all that I heard was, 'She is not dead.' Then I was led
off by a man to a little distance. After a while she was taken to the
carriage, and we came home together. I heard my master say to a
gentleman who stopped him to inquire, that he hoped no bones were
broken, but that she had not spoken yet."
When Lord George took Ginger for hunting, York shook his head; he said
it ought to be a steady hand to train a horse for the first season, and
not a random rider like Lord George.
Ginger used to like it very much, but sometimes when she came back I
could see that she had been very much strained, and now and then she
gave a short cough. She had too much spirit to complain, but I could not
help feeling anxious about her.
Two days after the accident, Blantyre paid me a visit: he patted me and
praised me very much; he told Lord George that he was sure the horse
knew of Annie's danger as well as he did. "I could not have held him in
if I would," said he. "She ought never to ride any other horse." I found
by their conversation that my young mistress was now out of danger, and
would soon be able to ride again. This was good news to me, and I looked
forward to a happy life.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
SHAKESPEARE, WILLIAM, dramatist and poet, was born at
Stratford-on-Avon, in England, in April, 1564. Of his early life
almost nothing is known. It is believed that he was a student in the
Free School of Stratford, and that in his youth he assisted his
father in the latter's business, but even of this we are not
certain. Neither of his parents could read or write. At the age of
eighteen he married Ann Hathaway, who was eight years his senior. Of
this marriage only a vague report that it proved uncongenial has
come down to us. At about 1587 Shakespeare seems to have gone to
London, and two years later he appears as one of the proprietors of
the Blackfriars Theatre. In the few years next following he became
known as a playwright, and in 1593 he published his first poem. The
dates of the publication of his plays are not settled beyond doubt,
but the best authorities say that _Henry the Sixth_, was the first
and _The Tempest_ the last, all produced between the years 1589 and
1611. Shakespeare was an actor as well as a writer of plays, and was
on the stage until 1603. Two years later, he bought a handsome house
at Stratford, where he settled down, enjoying the friendship and
respect of his neighbours until his death in 1616. This is
practically all that the world knows of the most colossal genius
that ever lived. A mist seems to have settled over him almost wholly
obscuring his personality from posterity. We know a great deal of
all the illustrious contemporaries that surrounded him, for he lived
at a time of great men. Yet of Shakespeare nothing is known beyond
the foregoing facts. In his works, however, he lives, and will
continue to live while written records survive. The name of
Shakespeare is so pre-eminently famous, standing out in the
firmament of literature like the moon among the lesser stars, that
no attempt to convey an idea of his greatness seems either wise or
necessary. Volumes have been written about his immortal plays. Lord
Macaulay pronounced him the greatest poet that ever lived, and
esteemed _Othello_ as the greatest literary work in the world. The
following selections from _Romeo and Juliet_ and _The Merchant of
Venice_ have been taken as coming within the scope of our editorial
purpose, and the reader is advised to read in connection with them
the stories of the plays from which they are taken, by Charles and
Mary Lamb, which are to be found in a preceding volume of this set.
PORTIA AND SHYLOCK
(See Lamb's tale of the _Merchant of Venice_ in a preceding volume.)
SCENE I. _Venice. A court of justice._
_Enter the_ DUKE, _the_ Magnificoes, ANTONIO, BASSANIO, GRATIANO,
SALERIO, _and others_.
_Duke._ What, is Antonio here?
_Ant._ Ready, so please your grace.
_Duke._ I am sorry for thee: thou art come to answer
A stony adversary, an inhuman wretch
Uncapable of pity, void and empty
From any dream of mercy.
_Ant._ I have heard
Your grace hath ta'en great pains to qualify
His rigorous course; but since he stands obdurate
And that no lawful means can carry me
Out of his envy's reach, I do oppose
My patience to his fury, and am arm'd
To suffer, with a quietness of spirit,
The very tyranny and rage of his.
_Duke._ Go one, and call the Jew into the court.
_Saler._ He is ready at the door: he comes, my lord.
_Enter_ SHYLOCK.
_Duke._ Make room, and let him stand before our face.
Shylock, the world thinks, and I think so too,
That thou but lead'st this fashion of thy malice
To the last hour of act; and then 'tis thought
Thou'lt show thy mercy and remorse more strange
Than is thy strange apparent cruelty;
And where thou now exact'st the penalty,
Which is a pound of this poor merchant's flesh,
Thou wilt not only loose the forfeiture,
But, touch'd with human gentleness and love,
Forgive a moiety of the principal;
Glancing an eye of pity on his losses,
That have of late so huddled on his back,
Enow to press a royal merchant down
And pluck commiseration of his state
From brassy bosoms and rough hearts of flint.
From stubborn Turks and Tartars, never train'd
To offices of tender courtesy.
We all expect a gentle answer, Jew.
_Shy._ I have possess'd your grace of what I purpose;
And by our holy Sabbath have I sworn
To have the due and forfeit of my bond:
If you deny it, let the danger light
Upon your charter and your city's freedom.
You'll ask me, why I rather choose to have
A weight of carrion flesh than to receive
Three thousand ducats: I'll not answer that:
But, say, it is my humour: is it answer'd?
What if my house be troubled with a rat
And I be pleased to give ten thousand ducats
To have it baned? What, are you answer'd yet?
Some men there are love not a gaping pig;
Some, that are mad if they behold a cat:
And others, when the bagpipe sings i' the nose,
Cannot contain their urine: for affection,
Mistress of passion, sways it to the mood
Of what it likes or loathes. Now, for your answer:
As there is no firm reason to be render'd,
Why he cannot abide a gaping pig;
Why he, a harmless necessary cat;
Why he, a swollen bagpipe; but of force
Must yield to such inevitable shame
As to offend, himself being offended;
So can I give no reason, nor I will not,
More than a lodged hate and a certain loathing
I bear Antonio, that I follow thus
A losing suit against him. Are you answer'd?
_Bass._ This is no answer, thou unfeeling man,
To excuse the current of thy cruelty.
_Shy._ I am not bound to please thee with my answers.
_Bass._ Do all men kill the things they do not love?
_Shy._ Hates any man the thing he would not kill?
_Bass._ Every offence is not a hate at first.
_Shy._ What, wouldst thou have a serpent sting thee twice?
_Ant._ I pray you, think you question with the Jew:
You may as well go stand upon the beach
And bid the main flood bate his usual height;
You may as well use question with the wolf
Why he hath made the ewe bleat for the lamb;
You may as well forbid the mountain pines
To wag their high tops and to make no noise,
When they are fretten with the gusts of heaven;
You may as well do any thing most hard,
As seek to soften that--than which what's harder?--
His Jewish heart; therefore, I do beseech you,
Make no more offers, use no farther means,
But with all brief and plain conveniency.
Let me have judgment and the Jew his will.
_Bass._ For thy three thousand ducats here is six.
_Shy._ If every ducat in six thousand ducats
Were in six parts and every part a ducat,
I would not draw them; I would have my bond.
_Duke._ How shalt thou hope for mercy, rendering none?
_Shy._ What judgment shall I dread, doing no wrong?
You have among you many a purchased slave,
Which, like your asses and your dogs and mules,
You use in abject and in slavish parts,
Because you bought them: shall I say to you,
Let them be free, marry them to your heirs?
Why sweat they under burthens? let their beds
Be made as soft as yours, and let their palates
Be season'd with such viands? You will answer
"The slaves are ours:" so do I answer you:
The pound of flesh, which I demand of him,
Is dearly bought; 'tis mine and I will have it.
If you deny me, fie upon your law!
There is no force in the decrees of Venice.
I stand for judgment: answer; shall I have it?
_Duke._ Upon my power, I may dismiss this court,
Unless Bellario, a learned doctor,
Whom I have sent for to determine this,
Come here to-day.
_Saler._ My lord, here stays without
A messenger with letters from the doctor,
New come from Padua.
_Duke._ Bring us the letters: call the messenger.
_Bass._ Good cheer, Antonio! What, man, courage yet!
The Jew shall have my flesh, blood, bones and all,
Ere thou shalt lose for me one drop of blood.
_Ant._ I am a tainted wether of the flock,
Meetest for death; the weakest kind of fruit
Drops earliest to the ground; and so let me:
You cannot better be employ'd, Bassanio,
Than to live still and write mine epitaph.
_Enter_ NERISSA, _dressed like a lawyer's clerk_.
_Duke._ Come you from Padua, from Bellario?
_Ner._ From both, my lord. Bellario greets your grace. [_Presenting a
letter._
_Bass._ Why dost thou whet thy knife so earnestly?
_Shy._ To cut the forfeiture from that bankrupt there.
_Gra._ Not on thy sole, but on thy soul, harsh Jew,
Thou makest thy knife keen; but no metal can,
No, not the hangman's axe, bear half the keenness
Of thy sharp envy. Can no prayer pierce thee?
_Shy._ No, none that thou hast wit enough to make.
_Gra._ O, be thou damn'd, inexecrable dog!
And for thy life let justice be accused.
Thou almost makest me waver in my faith
To hold opinion with Pythagoras,
That souls of animals infuse themselves
Into the trunks of men: thy currish spirit
Govern'd a wolf, who, hang'd for human slaughter,
Even from the gallows did his fell soul fleet,
And, whilst thou lay'st in thy unhallow'd dam,
Infused itself in thee; for thy desires
Are wolfish, bloody, starved and ravenous.
_Shy._ Till thou canst rail the seal from off my bond,
Thou but offend'st thy lungs to speak so loud:
Repair thy wit, good youth, or it will fall
To cureless ruin. I stand here for law.
_Duke._ This letter from Bellario doth commend
A young and learned doctor to our court.
Where is he?
_Ner._ He attendeth here hard by,
To know your answer, whether you'll admit him.
_Duke._ With all my heart. Some three or four of you
Go give him courteous conduct to this place.
Meantime the court shall hear Bellario's letter.
_Clerk._ [_Reads_] Your grace understands that
at the receipt of your letter I am very sick; but in
the instant that your messenger came, in loving visitation
was with me a young doctor of Rome; his
name is Balthasar. I acquainted him with the cause
in controversy between the Jew and Antonio the
merchant: we turned o'er many books together: he
is furnished with my opinion; which, bettered with
his own learning, the greatness whereof I cannot
enough commend, comes with him, at my importunity,
to fill up your grace's request in my stead.
I beseech you, let his lack of years be no impediment
to let him lack a reverend estimation; for I
never knew so young a body with so old a head. I
leave him to your gracious acceptance, whose trial
shall better publish his commendation.
_Duke._ You hear the learn'd Bellario, what he writes:
And here, I take it, is the doctor come.
_Enter_ PORTIA, _dressed like a doctor of laws_.
Give me your hand. Come you from old Bellario?
_Por._ I did, my lord.
_Duke._ You are welcome; take your place.
Are you acquainted with the difference
That holds this present question in the court?
_Por._ I am informed thoroughly of the cause.
Which is the merchant here, and which the Jew?
_Duke._ Antonio and old Shylock, both stand forth.
_Por._ Is your name Shylock?
_Shy._ Shylock is my name.
_Por._ Of a strange nature is the suit you follow;
Yet in such rule that the Venetian law
Cannot impugn you as you do proceed.
You stand within his danger, do you not?
_Ant._ Ay, so he says.
_Por._ Do you confess the bond?
_Ant._ I do.
_Por._ Then must the Jew be merciful.
_Shy._ On what compulsion must I? tell me that.
_Por._ The quality of mercy is not strain'd,
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath: it is twice blest;
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes:
'Tis mightiest in the mightiest: it becomes
The throned monarch better than his crown;
His sceptre shows the force of temporal power,
The attribute to awe and majesty,
Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of Kings:
But mercy is above this sceptred sway;
It is enthroned in the hearts of kings,
It is an attribute to God himself:
And earthly power doth then show likest God's
When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew,
Though justice be thy plea, consider this,
That, in the course of justice, none of us
Should see salvation: we do pray for mercy;
And that same prayer doth teach us all to render
The deeds of mercy. I have spoken thus much
To mitigate the justice of thy plea;
Which if thou follow, this strict court of Venice
Must needs give sentence 'gainst the merchant there.
_Shy._ My deeds upon my head! I crave the law,
The penalty and forfeit of my bond.
_Por._ Is he not able to discharge the money?
_Bass._ Yes, here I tender it for him in the court;
Yea, twice the sum: if that will not suffice,
I will be bound to pay it ten times o'er,
On forfeit of my hands, my head, my heart:
If this will not suffice, it must appear
That malice bears down truth. And I beseech you,
Wrest once the law to your authority:
To do a great right, do a little wrong,
And curb this cruel devil of his will.
_Por._ It must not be: there is no power in Venice
Can alter a decree established:
'Twill be recorded for a precedent,
And many an error by the same example
Will rush into the state: it cannot be.
_Shy._ A Daniel come to judgment! yea, a Daniel!
O wise young judge, how I do honour thee!
_Por._ I pray you, let me look upon the bond.
_Shy._ Here 'tis, most reverend doctor, here it is.
_Por._ Shylock, there's thrice thy money offer'd thee.
_Shy._ An oath, an oath, I have an oath in heaven:
Shall I lay perjury upon my soul?
No, not for Venice.
_Por._ Why, this bond is forfeit:
And lawfully by this the Jew may claim
A pound of flesh, to be by him cut off
Nearest the merchant's heart. Be merciful:
Take thrice thy money: bid me tear the bond.
_Shy._ When it is paid according to the tenor.
It doth appear you are a worthy judge;
You know the law, your exposition
Hath been most sound: I charge you by the law,
Whereof you are a well-deserving pillar,
Proceed to judgment: by my soul I swear
There is no power in the tongue of man
To alter me: I stay here on my bond.
_Ant._ Most heartily I do beseech the court
To give the judgment.
_Por._ Why then, thus it is:
You must prepare your bosom for his knife.
_Shy._ O noble judge! O excellent young man!
_Por._ For the intent and purpose of the law
Hath full relation to the penalty,
Which here appeareth due upon the bond.
_Shy._ 'Tis very true: O wise and upright judge!
How much more elder art thou than thy looks!
_Por._ Therefore lay bare your bosom.
_Shy._ Ay, his breast:
So says the bond: doth it not, noble judge?
"Nearest his heart:" those are the very words.
_Por._ It is so. Are there balance here to weigh
The flesh?
_Shy._ I have them ready.
_Por._ Have by some surgeon, Shylock, on your charge,
To stop his wounds, lest he do bleed to death.
_Shy._ Is it so nominated in the bond?
_Por._ It is not so express'd: but what of that?
'Twere good you do so much for charity.
_Shy._ I cannot find it; 'tis not in the bond.
_Por._ You, merchant, have you any thing to say?
_Ant._ But little: I am arm'd and well prepared.
Give me your hand, Bassanio: fare you well!
Grieve not that I am fallen to this for you:
For herein. Fortune shows herself more kind
Than is her custom: it is still her use
To let the wretched man outlive his wealth,
To view with hollow eye and wrinkled brow
An age of poverty; from which lingering penance
Of such misery doth she cut me off.
Commend me to your honourable wife:
Tell her the process of Antonio's end;
Say how I loved you, speak me fair in death;
And, when the tale is told, bid her be judge
Whether Bassanio had not once a love.
Repent not you that you shall lose your friend,
And he repents not that he pays your debt:
For if the Jew do cut but deep enough,
I'll pay it presently with all my heart.
_Bass._ Antonio, I am married to a wife
Which is as dear to me as life itself;
But life itself, my wife, and all the world,
Are not with me esteem'd above thy life:
I would lose all, ay, sacrifice them all
Here to this devil, to deliver you.
_Por._ Your wife would give you little thanks for that,
If she were by, to hear you make the offer.
_Gra._ I have a wife, whom, I protest, I love:
I would she were in heaven, so she could
Entreat some power to change this currish Jew.
_Ner._ 'Tis well you offer it behind her back;
The wish would make else an unquiet house.
_Shy._ These be the Christian husbands. I have a daughter;
Would any of the stock of Barabbas
Had been her husband rather than a Christian! [_Aside._]
We trifle time: I pray thee, pursue sentence.
_Por._ A pound of that same merchant's flesh is thine:
The court awards it, and the law doth give it.
_Shy._ Most rightful judge!
_Por._ And you must cut this flesh from off his breast:
The law allows it, and the court awards it.
_Shy._ Most learned judge! A sentence! Come prepare!
_Por._ Tarry a little; there is something else.
This bond doth give thee here no jot of blood;
The words expressly are "a pound of flesh:"
Take then thy bond, take thou thy pound of flesh;
But, in the cutting it, if thou dost shed
One drop of Christian blood, thy land and goods
Are, by the laws of Venice, confiscate
Unto the state of Venice.
_Gra._ O upright judge! Mark, Jew: O learned judge!
_Shy._ Is that the law?
_Por._ Thyself shalt see the act:
For as thou urgest justice, be assured
Thou shalt have justice, more than thou desirest.
_Gra._ O learned judge! Mark, Jew: a learned judge!
_Shy._ I take this offer, then: pay the bond thrice,
And let the Christian go.
_Bass._ Here is the money.
_Por._ Soft!
The Jew shall have all justice; soft! no haste:
He shall have nothing but the penalty.
_Gra._ O Jew! an upright judge, a learned judge!
_Por._ Therefore prepare thee to cut off the flesh.
Shed thou no blood, nor cut thou less nor more
But just a pound of flesh: if thou cut'st more
Or less than a just pound, be it but so much
As makes it light or heavy in the substance,
Or the division of the twentieth part
Of one poor scruple, nay, if the scale do turn
But in the estimation of a hair,
Thou diest, and all thy goods are confiscate.
_Gra._ A second Daniel, a Daniel, Jew!
Now, infidel, I have you on the hip.
_Por._ Why doth the Jew pause? take thy forfeiture.
_Shy._ Give me my principal, and let me go.
_Bass._ I have it ready for thee: here it is.
_Por._ He hath refused it in the open court:
He shall have merely justice and his bond.
_Gra._ A Daniel, still say I, a second Daniel!
I thank thee, Jew, for teaching me that word.
_Shy._ Shall I not have barely my principal?
_Por._ Thou shalt have nothing but the forfeiture,
To be so taken at thy peril, Jew.
_Shy._ Why, then the devil give him good of it!
I'll stay no longer question.
_Por._ Tarry, Jew:
The law hath yet another hold on you.
It is enacted in the laws of Venice,
If it be proved against an alien
That by direct or indirect attempts
He seek the life of any citizen,
The party 'gainst the which he doth contrive
Shall seize one half his goods; the other half
Comes to the privy coffer of the state;
And the offender's life lies in the mercy
Of the duke only, 'gainst all other voice.
In which predicament, I say, thou stand'st;
For it appears, by manifest proceeding,
That indirectly and directly too
Thou hast contrived against the very life
Of the defendant; and thou hast incurr'd
The danger formerly by me rehearsed.
Down therefore, and beg mercy of the duke.
_Gra._ Beg that thou mayst have leave to hang thyself:
And yet, thy wealth being forfeit to the state,
Thou hast not left the value of a cord;
Therefore thou must be hang'd at the state's charge.
_Duke._ That thou shalt see the difference of our spirits,
I pardon thee thy life before thou ask it:
For half thy wealth, it is Antonio's;
The other half comes to the general state,
Which humbleness may drive unto a fine.
_Por._ Ay, for the state, not for Antonio.
_Shy._ Nay, take my life and all; pardon not that:
You take my house when you do take the prop
That doth sustain my house; you take my life
When you do take the means whereby I live.
_Por._ What mercy can you render him, Antonio?
_Gra._ A halter gratis; nothing else, for God's sake.
_Ant._ So please my lord the duke and all the court
To quit the fine for one half of his goods,
I am content; so he will let me have
The other half in use, to render it,
Upon his death, unto the gentleman
That lately stole his daughter:
Two things provided more, that, for this favour,
He presently become a Christian;
The other, that he do record a gift,
Here in the court, of all he dies possess'd,
Unto his son Lorenzo and his daughter.
_Duke._ He shall do this, or else I do recant
The pardon that I late pronounced here.
_Por._ Art thou contented, Jew? what dost thou say?
_Shy._ I am content.
_Por._ Clerk, draw a deed of gift.
_Shy._ I pray you, give me leave to go from hence:
I am not well: send the deed after me,
And I will sign it.
_Duke._ Get thee gone, but do it.
_Gra._ In christening shalt thou have two god-fathers:
Had I been judge, thou shouldst have had ten more,
To bring thee to the gallows, not the font.
[_Exit Shylock._
_Duke._ Sir, I entreat you home with me to dinner.
_Por._ I humbly do desire your grace of pardon!
I must away this night toward Padua.
And it is meet I presently set forth.
_Duke._ I am sorry that your leisure serves you not.
Antonio, gratify this gentleman,
For, in my mind, you are much bound to him.
[_Exeunt Duke and his train._
_Bass._ Most worthy gentleman, I and my friend
Have by your wisdom been this day acquitted
Of grievous penalties; in lieu whereof,
Three thousand ducats, due unto the Jew,
We freely cope your courteous pains withal.
_Ant._ And stand indebted, over and above,
In love and service to you evermore.
_Por._ He is well paid that is well satisfied;
And I, delivering you, am satisfied,
And therein do account myself well paid:
My mind was never yet more mercenary.
I pray you, know me when we meet again:
I wish you well, and so I take my leave.
_Bass._ Dear sir, of force I must attempt you further:
Take some remembrance of us, as a tribute,
Not as a fee: grant me two things, I pray you.
Not to deny me, and to pardon me.
_Por._ You press me far, and therefore I will yield.
[_To Ant._] Give me your gloves, I'll wear them for your sake;
[_To Bass._] And, for your love, I'll take this ring from you:
Do not draw back your hand: I'll take, no more;
And you in love shall not deny me this.
_Bass._ This ring, good sir, alas, it is a trifle!
I will not shame myself to give you this.
_Por._ I will have nothing else but only this;
And now methinks I have a mind to it.
_Bass._ There's more depends on this than on the value.
The dearest ring in Venice will I give you,
And find it out by proclamation:
Only for this, I pray you, pardon me.
_Por._ I see, sir, you are liberal in offers:
You taught me first to beg; and now methinks
You teach me how a beggar should be answer'd.
_Bass._ Good sir, this ring was given me by my wife;
And when she put it on, she made me vow
That I should neither sell nor give nor lose it.
_Por._ That 'scuse serves many men to save their gifts.
And if your wife be not a mad-woman,
And know how well I have deserved the ring,
She would not hold out enemy forever,
For giving it to me. Well, peace be with you!
[_Exeunt Portia and Nerissa._
_Ant._ My Lord Bassanio, let him have the ring:
Let his deservings and my love withal
Be valued 'gainst your wife's commandment.
_Bass._ Go, Gratiano, run and overtake him:
Give him the ring, and bring him, if thou canst,
Unto Antonio's house: away! make haste. [_Exit Gratiano._
Come, you and I will hither presently;
And in the morning early will we both
Fly toward Belmont: come, Antonio. [_Exeunt._
ROMEO AND JULIET
(See Lamb's tale of _Romeo and Juliet_ in a preceding volume.)
SCENE: _Capulet's orchard._
_Enter_ ROMEO.
_Rom._ He jests at scars that never felt a wound. [_Juliet appears
above at a window._
But, soft, what light through yonder window breaks?
It is the east, and Juliet is the sun,
Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon,
Who is already sick and pale with grief,
That thou her maid art far more fair than she:
Be not her maid, since she is envious;
Her vestal livery is but sick and green,
And none but fools do wear it; cast it off.
It is my lady, O, it is my love!
O, that she knew she were!
She speaks, yet she says nothing: what of that?
Her eye discourses; I will answer it.
I am too bold, 'tis not to me she speaks:
Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven,
Having some business, do entreat her eyes
To twinkle in their spheres till they return.
What if her eyes were there, they in her head?
The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars,
As daylight doth a lamp; her eyes in heaven
Would through the airy region stream so bright
That birds would sing and think it were not night.
See, how she leans her cheek upon her hand!
O, that I were a glove upon that hand,
That I might touch that cheek!
_Jul._ Ah, me!
_Rom._ She speaks:
O, speak again, bright angel! for thou art
As glorious to this night, being o'er my head,
As is a winged messenger of heaven
Unto the white-upturned wondering eyes
Of mortals that fall back to gaze on him
When he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds
And sails upon the bosom of the air.
_Jul._ O Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo?
Deny thy father and refuse thy name:
Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love,
And I'll no longer be a Capulet.
_Rom._ [_Aside_] Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this?
_Jul._ 'Tis but thy name that is my enemy;
Thou art thyself, though not a Montague.
What's Montague? it is nor hand, nor foot,
Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part
Belonging to a man. O, be some other name!
What's in a name? that which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet:
So Romeo would, were he not Romeo call'd,
Retain that dear perfection which he owes
Without that title. Romeo, doff thy name,
And for that name which is no part of thee
Take all myself.
_Rom._ I take thee at thy word:
Call me but love, and I'll be new baptized;
Henceforth I never will be Romeo.
_Jul._ What man art thou that thus bescreen'd in night
So stumblest on my counsel?
_Rom._ By a name
I know not how to tell thee who I am:
My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself,
Because it is an enemy to thee;
Had I it written, I would tear the word.
_Jul._ My ears have not yet drunk a hundred words
Of that tongue's utterance, yet I know the sound:
Art thou not Romeo, and a Montague?
_Rom._ Neither, fair saint, if either thee dislike.
_Jul._ How camest thou hither, tell me, and wherefore?
The orchard walls are high and hard to climb,
And the place death, considering who thou art,
If any of my kinsmen find thee here.
_Rom._ With love's light wings did I o'erperch these walls;
For stony limits cannot hold love out,
And what love can do that dares love attempt;
Therefore thy kinsmen are no let to me.
_Jul._ If they do see thee, they will murder thee.
_Rom._ Alack, there lies more peril in thine eye
Than twenty of their swords: look thou but sweet,
And I am proof against their enmity.
_Jul._ I would not for the world they saw thee here.
_Rom._ I have night's cloak to hide me from their sight:
And but thou love me, let them find me here:
My life were better ended by their hate,
Than death prorogued, wanting of thy love.
_Jul._ By whose direction found'st thou out this place?
_Rom._ By love, who first did prompt me to inquire:
He lent me counsel, and I lent him eyes.
I am no pilot; yet, wert thou as far
As that vast shore wash'd with the farthest sea,
I would adventure for such merchandise.
_Jul._ Thou know'st the mask of night is on my face,
Else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek
For that which thou hast heard me speak to-night.
Fain would I dwell on form, fain, fain deny
What I have spoke: but farewell compliment!
Dost thou love me? I know thou wilt say "Ay,"
And I will take thy word: yet, if thou swear'st,
Thou mayst prove false; at lovers' perjuries,
They say, Jove laughs. O gentle Romeo,
If thou dost love, pronounce it faithfully;
Or if thou think'st I am too quickly won,
I'll frown and be perverse and say thee nay,
So thou wilt woo; but else, not for the world.
In truth, fair Montague, I am too fond,
And therefore thou mayst think my 'havior light:
But trust me, gentleman, I'll prove more true
Than those that have more cunning to be strange.
I should have been more strange, I must confess,
But that thou overheard'st, ere I was 'ware,
My true love's passion: therefore pardon me,
And not impute this yielding to light love,
Which the dark night hath so discovered.
_Rom._ Lady, by yonder blessed moon I swear
That tips with silver all these fruit-tree tops--
_Jul._ O, swear not by the moon, the inconstant moon,
That monthly changes in her circled orb,
Lest that thy love prove likewise variable.
_Rom._ What shall I swear by?
_Jul._ Do not swear at all;
Or, if thou wilt, swear by thy gracious self,
Which is the god of my idolatry,
And I'll believe thee.
_Rom._ If my heart's dear love--
_Jul._ Well, do not swear: although I joy in thee.
I have no joy of this contract to-night:
It is too rash, too unadvised, too sudden;
Too like the lightning, which doth cease to be
Ere one can say "It lightens." Sweet, good night!
This bud of love, by summer's ripening breath,
May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet.
Good night, good night! as sweet repose and rest
Come to thy heart as that within my breast!
_Rom._ O, wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?
_Jul._ What satisfaction canst thou have to-night?
_Rom._ The exchange of thy love's faithful vow for mine.
_Jul._ I gave thee mine before thou didst request it:
And yet I would it were to give again.
_Rom._ Wouldst thou withdraw it? for what purpose, love?
_Jul._ But to be frank, and give it thee again.
And yet I wish but for the thing I have;
My bounty is as boundless as the sea,
My love as deep; the more I give to thee,
The more I have, for both are infinite. [_Nurse calls within._
I hear some noise within; dear love, adieu!
Anon, good nurse! Sweet Montague, be true,
Stay but a little, I will come again. [_Exit above._
_Rom._ O blessed, blessed night! I am afeared,
Being in night, all this is but a dream,
Too flattering sweet to be substantial.
_Re-enter_ JULIET, _above_.
_Jul._ Three words, dear Romeo, and good night indeed.
If that thy bent of love be honourable,
Thy purpose marriage, send me word to-morrow,
By one that I'll procure to come to thee,
Where and what time thou wilt perform the rite;
And all my fortunes at thy foot I'll lay,
And follow thee, my lord, throughout the world.
_Nurse._ [_Within_] Madam!
_Jul._ I come, anon.--But if thou mean'st not well,
I do beseech thee--
_Nurse._ [_Within_] Madam!
_Jul._ By and by, I come:--
To cease thy suit, and leave me to my grief:
To-morrow will I send.
_Rom._ So thrive my soul--
_Jul._ A thousand times good night!
[_Exit above._
_Rom._ A thousand times the worse, to want thy light.
Love goes toward love, as schoolboys from their books,
But love from love, toward school with heavy looks.
[_Retiring._
_Re-enter_ JULIET, _above_.
_Jul._ Hist! Romeo, hist! O, for a falconer's voice,
To lure this tassel-gentle back again!
Bondage is hoarse, and may not speak aloud;
Else would I tear the cave where Echo lies,
And make her airy tongue more hoarse than mine,
With repetition of my Romeo's name.
_Rom._ It is my soul that calls upon my name;
How silver-sweet sound lovers' tongues by night,
Like softest music to attending ears!
_Jul._ Romeo!
_Rom._ My dear?
_Jul._ At what o'clock to-morrow
Shall I send to thee?
_Rom._ At the hour of nine.
_Jul._ I will not fail: 'tis twenty years till then.
I have forgot why I did call thee back.
_Rom._ Let me stand here till thou remember it.
_Jul._ I shall forget, to have thee still stand there,
Remembering how I love thy company.
_Rom._ And I'll still stay, to have thee still forget,
Forgetting any other home but this.
_Jul._ 'Tis almost morning; I would have thee gone:
And yet no further than a wanton's bird:
Who lets it hop a little from her hand,
Like a poor prisoner in his twisted gyves,
And with a silk thread plucks it back again,
So loving-jealous of his liberty.
_Rom._ I would I were thy bird.
_Jul._ Sweet, so would I:
Yet I should kill thee with much cherishing.
Good night, good night! parting is such sweet sorrow,
That I shall say good night till it be morrow.
[_Exit above._
_Rom._ Sleep dwell upon thine eyes, peace in thy breast!
Would I were sleep and peace, so sweet to rest!
Hence will I to my ghostly father's cell,
His help to crave, and my dear hap to tell. [_Exit._
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY
SHELLEY, PERCY BYSSHE, an eminent English poet, was born in Sussex,
August 4, 1792. He received his education at Eton and Oxford, but
was expelled from the latter in 1811, because of a tract he had
written in favour of atheism. Shortly afterward he married Harriet
Westbrook, a girl but sixteen years of age. Their married happiness
was short-lived, two years being the length of time which the young
poet was able to remain true to this early love. On the death of
his wife in 1816, he married Mary Wollstonecraft. In 1818 he left
England for Italy, where he remained until his death by drowning in
the Gulf of Spezia in 1822.
TO A SKYLARK
Hail to thee, blithe spirit!
Bird thou never wert,
That from heaven, or near it,
Pourest thy full heart
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.
Higher still and higher,
From the earth thou springest,
Like a cloud of fire;
The blue deep thou wingest,
And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.
In the golden lightning
Of the sunken sun,
O'er which clouds are brightening,
Thou dost float and run;
Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.
The pale purple even
Melts around thy flight;
Like a star of heaven
In the broad day-light
Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight.
Keen as are the arrows
Of that silver sphere,
Whose intense lamp narrows
In the white dawn clear,
Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there.
All the earth and air
With thy voice is loud,
As, when night is bare,
From one lonely cloud
The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed.
What thou art we know not;
What is most like thee?
From rainbow clouds there flow not
Drops so bright to see,
As from thy presence showers a rain of melody.
Like a poet hidden,
In the light of thought,
Singing hymns unbidden,
Till the world is wrought
To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not:
Like a high-born maiden
In a palace tower,
Soothing her love-laden
Soul in secret hour
With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower:
Like a glow-worm golden
In a dell of dew,
Scattering unbeholden
Its aërial hue
Among the flowers and grass which screen it from the view:
Like a rose embowered
In its own green leaves,
By warm winds deflowered,
Till the scent it gives
Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged thieves:
Sound of vernal showers
On the twinkling grass,
Rain-awakened flowers,
All that ever was
Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass:
Teach us, sprite or bird,
What sweet thoughts are thine;
I have never heard
Praise of love or wine
That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.
Chorus hymeneal,
Or triumphal chant,
Matched with thine would be all
But an empty vaunt,--
A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.
What objects are the fountains
Of thy happy strain?
What fields, or waves, or mountains?
What shapes of sky or plain?
What love of thine own kind? What ignorance of pain?
With thy clear keen joyance
Languor cannot be:
Shadow of annoyance
Never came near thee;
Thou lovest; but ne'er knew love's sad satiety.
Waking or asleep,
Thou of death must deem
Things more true and deep
Than we mortals dream,
Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream?
We look before and after,
And pine for what is not:
Our sincerest laughter
With some pain is fraught:
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.
Yet if we could scorn
Hate, and pride, and fear;
If we were things born
Not to shed a tear,
I know not how thy joy we ever could come near.
Better than all measures
Of delight and sound,
Better than all treasures
That in books are found,
Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground.
Teach me half the gladness
That thy brain must know,
Such harmonious madness
From my lips would flow,
The world should listen then, as I am listening now.
ROBERT SOUTHEY
SOUTHEY, ROBERT, was born at Bristol, England, in August, 1774. He
was educated at Westminster School and at Balliol College, Oxford.
After some years of wandering he took up his residence (1803) at
Greta Hall, near Keswick, where he continued to live until his
death in 1843. In 1813 he was made poet laureate. Although Southey
wrote much prose, he is chiefly known as a poet, and his poems are
innumerable. His little piece, _The Battle of Blenheim_, though one
of the least pretentious of his works, has been very widely quoted,
and is here given for the sake of younger readers.
THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM
It was a summer's evening;
Old Kaspar's work was done;
And he before his cottage door,
Was sitting in the sun;
And near him sported on the green,
His little grandchild, Wilhelmine:
She saw her brother, Peterkin,
Roll something smooth and round,
Which he, beside the rivulet,
In playing there had found.
He came to ask what he had found,
Which looked so large, and smooth, and round.
Old Kaspar took it from the lad,
Who stood expecting by--
And then the old man shook his head,
And, with a natural sigh,
"'Tis some poor fellow's skull," said he,
"Who fell in the great victory.
"I find them in the garden;
There are many hereabout;
And often, when I go to plough,
The ploughshare turns them out;
For many thousand men," said he,
"Were slain in the great victory."
"Now tell us what it was about,"
Young Peterkin he cries;
And little Wilhelmine looked up,
With wonder-waiting eyes--
"Now tell us all about the war,
And what they killed each other for."
"It was the English," Kaspar cried,
"Who put the French to rout;
But what they killed each other for,
I never could find out;
But things like this, you know, must be
In every famous victory.
"My father had a cottage then,
Yon little stream hard by,
They burnt his dwelling to the ground,
And he was forced to fly;
So with his wife and child he fled,
And had not where to lay his head.
"They burnt the country all around,
And wasted far and wide,
And many a tender mother then
And new-born infant died;
But things like this, you know, must be,
At every famous victory.
"Great praise the Duke of Marlborough won,
And our good Prince Eugene."
"But 'twas a very wicked thing,"
Said little Wilhelmine.
"Nay, nay, my little girl," said he,
"It was a famous victory."
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
STEVENSON, ROBERT LOUIS BALFOUR. An eminent poet, novelist,
essayist, and miscellaneous writer; born in Edinburgh, November 13,
1850; died at Samoa, December 4, 1894. His father and grandfather
were famous lighthouse engineers and he was at first intended for
the family profession. But he soon gave up the idea and turned to
law. After duly qualifying for this calling he was admitted to the
bar, but his career as a lawyer was short. Soon he found his true
calling in the craft of letters and rapidly found his way into the
front rank of contemporary writers, by the beauty and perfection of
his style, no less than by a most charming personality, which shone
through all he wrote. Some experiences which supplied impulse and
material were leisurely trips through Europe by canoe and on foot,
a voyage across the Atlantic in an emigrant ship, and, following
this, a journey across the American continent in an emigrant train.
Four masterpieces of English style followed these
experiences--_Travels with a Donkey_, _An Inland Voyage_, _The
Amateur Emigrant_ and _Across the Plains_. They are all models of
graceful and perfect English. From his childhood, he had drunk deep
at the richest wells of English, and from the first his writings
showed a distinct individuality and a most subtle art. From early
childhood his health was precarious, and having married an American
lady (Mrs. Osborne), and sojourned in the Adirondack mountains a
year or so in the hope of improving his health, he set sail with
his wife and two stepchildren for an extended voyage in the
tropical seas. After cruising about for some time, he finally
settled in the island of Samoa, where he lived in great happiness
and comparative health for five years. Here, among the simple
natives who had grown to worship him, and who called him TUSITALA,
which, in their language, meant "teller of tales," the greatest
writer of his time, and one of the greatest of all time, died on
the fourth of December, 1894, in the forty-fifth year of his age.
But his books live. And through them shines one of the most
winning personalities that mankind has known. If ever a writer was
loved, that writer is Stevenson. If ever there was a literary model
for young writers to study and emulate, that model is Stevenson.
His work stands alone in literature as an illustration of what
genius can do when reinforced by infinite pains. Money could not
tempt him to write anything commonplace. He did not depend too much
on his genius. He was a master of pathos but, like the true
literary artist he was, he used it sparingly. There was something
about his books which endeared their author to the world. This
cannot be explained nor described. When you read _Treasure Island_
or _Kidnapped_, you are amazed that you can so love an author whom
you have never seen. And when you read _Will o' the Mill_, which is
given here, you will feel the same way. Many have not the taste and
training to appreciate Stevenson's technique, and to understand and
be able to explain why he was such a master. These things can be
left to the critics. But one does not need to know much of
architecture to appreciate the beauty of a cathedral. And the
general run of readers find the greatness of Stevenson in his
personal charm. They care but little for the tools he used, and
only see the structure which he reared. And leaving aside the
question of "style," is it not wonderful that a sick man, far off
in some savage island of the south Pacific ocean, could make the
whole world love him and feel a personal bereavement in his loss?
WILL O' THE MILL
THE PLAIN AND THE STARS
The Mill where Will lived with his adopted parents stood in a falling
valley between pine-woods and great mountains. Above, hill after hill
soared upwards until they soared out of the depth of the hardiest
timber, and stood naked against the sky. Some way up, a long gray
village lay like a seam or a rag of vapour on a wooded hillside; and
when the wind was favourable, the sound of the church bells would drop
down, thin and silvery, to Will. Below, the valley grew ever steeper and
steeper, and at the same time widened out on either hand; and from an
eminence beside the mill it was possible to see its whole length and
away beyond it over a wide plain, where the river turned and shone, and
moved on from city to city on its voyage towards the sea. It chanced
that over this valley there lay a pass into a neighbouring kingdom; so
that, quiet and rural as it was, the road that ran along beside the
river was a high thoroughfare between two splendid and powerful
societies. All through the summer, travelling-carriages came crawling
up, or went plunging briskly downwards past the mill; and as it happened
that the other side was very much easier of ascent, the path was not
much frequented, except by people going in one direction; and of all the
carriages that Will saw go by, five-sixths were plunging briskly
downwards and only one-sixth crawling up. Much more was this the case
with foot-passengers. All the light-footed tourists, all the pedlars
laden with strange wares, were tending downward like the river that
accompanied their path. Nor was this all; for when Will was yet a child
a disastrous war arose over a great part of the world. The newspapers
were full of defeats and victories, the earth rang with cavalry hoofs,
and often for days together and for miles around the coil of battle
terrified good people from their labours in the field. Of all this,
nothing was heard for a long time in the valley; but at last one of the
commanders pushed an army over the pass by forced marches, and for three
days horse and foot, cannon and tumbril, drum and standard, kept pouring
downward past the mill. All day the child stood and watched them on
their passage--the rhythmical stride, the pale, unshaven faces tanned
about the eyes, the discoloured regimentals and the tattered flags,
filled him with a sense of weariness, pity, and wonder; and all night
long, after he was in bed, he could hear the cannon pounding and the
feet trampling, and the great armament sweeping onward and downward
past the mill. No one in the valley ever heard the fate of the
expedition, for they lay out of the way of gossip in those troublous
times; but Will saw one thing plainly, that not a man returned. Whither
had they all gone? Whither went all the tourists and pedlars with
strange wares? whither all the brisk barouches with servants in the
dicky? whither the water of the stream, ever coursing downward and ever
renewed from above? Even the wind blew oftener down the valley, and
carried the dead leaves along with it in the fall. It seemed like a
great conspiracy of things animate and inanimate; they all went
downward, fleetly and gaily downward, and only he, it seemed, remained
behind, like a stock upon the wayside. It sometimes made him glad when
he noticed how the fishes kept their heads up stream. They, at least,
stood faithfully by him, while all else were posting downward to the
unknown world.
One evening he asked the miller where the river went.
"It goes down the valley," answered he, "and turns a power of mills--six
score mills, they say, from here to Unterdeck--and is none the wearier
after all. And then it goes out into the lowlands, and waters the great
corn country, and runs through a sight of fine cities (so they say)
where kings live all alone in great palaces, with a sentry walking up
and down before the door. And it goes under bridges with stone men upon
them, looking down and smiling so curious at the water, and living folks
leaning their elbows on the wall and looking over too. And then it goes
on and on, and down through marshes and sands, until at last it falls
into the sea, where the ships are that bring parrots and tobacco from
the Indies. Ay, it has a long trot before it as it goes singing over our
weir, bless its heart!"
"And what is the sea?" asked Will.
"The sea!" cried the miller. "Lord help us all, it is the greatest thing
God made. That is where all the water in the world runs down into a
great salt lake. There it lies, as flat as my hand and as innocent-like
as a child; but they do say when the wind blows it gets up into
water-mountains bigger than any of ours, and swallows down great ships
bigger than our mill, and makes such a roaring that you can hear it
miles away upon the land. There are great fish in it five times bigger
than a bull, and one old serpent as long as our river and as old as all
the world, with whiskers like a man, and a crown of silver on her head."
Will thought he had never heard anything like this, and he kept on
asking question after question about the world that lay away down the
river, with all its perils and marvels, until the old miller became
quite interested himself, and at last took him by the hand and led him
to the hilltop that overlooks the valley and the plain. The sun was near
setting, and hung low down in a cloudless sky. Everything was defined
and glorified in golden light. Will had never seen so great an expanse
of country in his life; he stood and gazed with all his eyes. He could
see the cities, and the woods and fields, and the bright curves of the
river, and far away to where the rim of the plain trenched along the
shining heavens. An over-mastering emotion seized upon the boy, soul and
body; his heart beat so thickly that he could not breathe; the scene
swam before his eyes; the sun seemed to wheel round and round, and throw
off, as it turned, strange shapes which disappeared with the rapidity of
thought, and were succeeded by others. Will covered his face with his
hands, and burst into a violent fit of tears; and the poor miller, sadly
disappointed and perplexed, saw nothing better for it than to take him
up in his arms and carry him home in silence.
From that day forward Will was full of new hopes and longings. Something
kept tugging at his heart-strings; the running water carried his desires
along with it as he dreamed over its fleeting surface; the wind, as it
ran over innumerable tree-tops, hailed him with encouraging words;
branches beckoned downward; the open road, as it shouldered round the
angles and went turning and vanishing fast and faster down the valley,
tortured him with its solicitations. He spent long whiles on the
eminence, looking down the river-shed and abroad on the flat low-lands,
and watched the clouds that travelled forth upon the sluggish wind and
trailed their purple shadows on the plain; or he would linger by the
wayside, and follow the carriages with his eyes as they rattled downward
by the river. It did not matter what it was; everything that went that
way, were it cloud or carriage, bird or brown water in the stream, he
felt his heart flow out after it in an ecstasy of longing.
We are told by men of science that all the ventures of mariners on the
sea, all that counter-marching of tribes and races that confounds old
history with its dust and rumour, sprang from nothing more abstruse than
the laws of supply and demand, and a certain natural instinct for cheap
rations. To any one thinking deeply, this will seem a dull and pitiful
explanation. The tribes that came swarming out of the North and East, if
they were indeed pressed onward from behind by others, were drawn at the
same time by the magnetic influence of the South and West. The fame of
other lands had reached them; the name of the eternal city rang in their
ears; they were not colonists, but pilgrims; they travelled towards wine
and gold and sunshine, but their hearts were set on something higher.
That divine unrest, that old stinging trouble of humanity that makes all
high achievements and all miserable failures, the same that spread wings
with Icarus, the same that sent Columbus into the desolate Atlantic,
inspired and supported these barbarians on their perilous march. There
is one legend which profoundly represents their spirit, of how a flying
party of these wanderers encountered a very old man shod with iron. The
old man asked them whither they were going; and they answered with one
voice: "To the Eternal City!" He looked upon them gravely. "I have
sought it," he said, "over the most part of the world. Three such pairs
as I now carry on my feet have I worn out upon this pilgrimage, and
now the fourth is growing slender underneath my steps. And all this
while I have not found the city." And he turned and went his own way
alone, leaving them astonished.
And yet this would scarcely parallel the intensity of Will's feeling for
the plain. If he could only go far enough out there, he felt as if his
eye sight would be purged and clarified, as if his hearing would grow
more delicate, and his very breath would come and go with luxury. He was
transplanted and withering where he was; he lay in a strange country and
was sick for home. Bit by bit, he pieced together broken notions of the
world below: of the river, ever moving and growing until it sailed forth
into the majestic ocean; of the cities, full of brisk and beautiful
people, playing fountains, bands of music and marble palaces, and
lighted up at night from end to end with artificial stars of gold; of
the great churches, wise universities, brave armies, and untold money
lying stored in vaults; of the high-flying vice that moved in the
sunshine, and the stealth and swiftness of midnight murder. I have said
he was sick as if for home: the figure halts. He was like some one lying
in twilit, formless pre-existence, and stretching out his hands lovingly
towards many-coloured, many-sounding life. It was no wonder he was
unhappy, he would go and tell the fish: they were made for their life,
wished for no more than worms and running water, and a hole below a
falling bank; but he was differently designed, full of desires and
aspirations, itching at the fingers, lusting with the eyes, whom the
whole variegated world could not satisfy with aspects. The true life,
the true bright sunshine, lay far out upon the plain. And O! to see this
sunlight once before he died! to move with a jocund spirit in a golden
land! to hear the trained singers and sweet church bells, and see the
holiday gardens! "And O fish!" he would cry, "if you would only turn
your noses down stream, you could swim so easily into the fabled waters
and see the vast ships passing over your head like clouds, and hear the
great water-hills making music over you all day long!" But the fish kept
looking patiently in their own direction, until Will hardly knew whether
to laugh or cry.
Hitherto the traffic on the road had passed by Will, like something seen
in a picture: he had perhaps exchanged salutations with a tourist, or
caught sight of an old gentleman in a travelling cap at a carriage
window; but for the most part it had been a mere symbol, which he
contemplated from apart and with something of a superstitious feeling. A
time came at last when this was to be changed. The miller, who was a
greedy man in his way, and never forewent an opportunity of honest
profit, turned the mill-house into a little wayside inn, and, several
pieces of good fortune falling in opportunely, built stables and got the
position of post-master on the road. It now became Will's duty to wait
upon people, as they sat to break their fasts in the little arbour at
the top of the mill garden; and you may be sure that he kept his ears
open, and learned many new things about the outside world as he brought
the omelette or the wine. Nay, he would often get into conversation with
single guests, and by adroit questions and polite attention, not only
gratify his own curiosity, but win the good-will of the travellers. Many
complimented the old couple on their serving-boy; and a professor was
eager to take him away with him, and have him properly educated on the
plain. The miller and his wife were mightily astonished and even more
pleased. They thought it a very good thing that they should have opened
their inn. "You see," the old man would remark, "he has a kind of talent
for a publican; he never would have made anything else!" And so life
wagged on in the valley, with high satisfaction to all concerned but
Will. Every carriage that left the inn-door seemed to take a part of him
away with it; and when people jestingly offered him a lift, he could
with difficulty command his emotion. Night after night he would dream
that he was awakened by flustered servants, and that a splendid equipage
waited at the door to carry him down into the plain; night after night;
until the dream, which had seemed all jollity to him at first, began to
take on a colour of gravity, and the nocturnal summons and waiting
equipage occupied a place in his mind as something to be both feared and
hoped for.
One day, when Will was about sixteen, a fat young man arrived at sunset
to pass the night. He was a contented-looking fellow, with a jolly eye,
and carried a knapsack. While dinner was preparing, he sat in the arbour
to read a book; but as soon as he had begun to observe Will, the book
was laid aside; he was plainly one of those who prefer living people to
people made of ink and paper. Will, on his part, although he had not
been much interested in the stranger at first sight, soon began to take
a great deal of pleasure in his talk, which was full of good nature and
good sense, and at last conceived a great respect for his character and
wisdom. They sat far into the night; and about two in the morning Will
opened his heart to the young man, and told him how he longed to leave
the valley and what bright hopes he had connected with the cities of the
plain. The young man whistled, and then broke into a smile.
"My young friend," he remarked, "you are a very curious little fellow to
be sure, and wish a great many things which you will never get. Why, you
would feel quite ashamed if you knew how the little fellows in these
fairy cities of yours are all after the same sort of nonsense, and keep
breaking their hearts to get up into the mountains. And let me tell you,
those who go down into the plains are a very short while there before
they wish themselves heartily back again. The air is not so light nor so
pure; nor is the sun any brighter. As for the beautiful men and women,
you would see many of them in rags and many of them deformed with
horrible disorders; and a city is so hard a place for people who are
poor and sensitive that many choose to die by their own hand."
"You must think me very simple," answered Will. "Although I have never
been out of this valley, believe me, I have used my eyes. I know how
one thing lives on another; for instance, how the fish hangs in the
eddy to catch his fellows; and the shepherd, who makes so pretty a
picture carrying home the lamb, is only carrying it home for dinner. I
do not expect to find all things right in your cities. That is not what
troubles me; it might have been that once upon a time; but although I
live here always, I have asked many questions and learned a great deal
in these last years, and certainly enough to cure me of my old fancies.
But you would not have me die like a dog and not see all that is to be
seen, and do all that a man can do, let it be good or evil? you would
not have me spend all my days between this road here and the river, and
not so much as make a motion to be up and live my life?--I would rather
die out of hand," he cried, "than linger on as I am doing."
"Thousands of people," said the young man, "live and die like you, and
are none the less happy."
"Ah!" said Will, "if there are thousands who would like, why should not
one of them have my place?"
It was quite dark; there was a hanging lamp in the arbour which lit up
the table and the faces of the speakers; and along the arch, the leaves
upon the trellis stood out illuminated against the night sky, a pattern
of transparent green upon a dusky purple. The fat young man rose, and,
taking Will by the arm, led him out under the open heavens.
"Did you ever look at the stars?" he asked, pointing upwards.
"Often and often," answered Will.
"And do you know what they are?"
"I have fancied many things."
"They are worlds like ours," said the young man. "Some of them less;
many of them a million times greater; and some of the least sparkles
that you see are not only worlds, but whole clusters of worlds turning
about each other in the midst of space. We do not know what there may be
in any of them; perhaps the answer to all our difficulties or the cure
of all our sufferings: and yet we can never reach them; not all the
skill of the craftiest of men can fit out a ship for the nearest of
these our neighbours, nor would the life of the most aged suffice for
such a journey. When a great battle has been lost or a dear friend is
dead, when we are hipped or in high spirits, there they are unweariedly
shining overhead. We may stand down here, a whole army of us together,
and shout until we break our hearts, and not a whisper reaches them. We
may climb the highest mountain, and we are no nearer them. All we can do
is to stand down here in the garden and take off our hats; the starshine
lights upon our heads, and where mine is a little bald, I dare say you
can see it glisten in the darkness. The mountain and the mouse. That is
like to be all we shall ever have to do with Arcturus or Aldebaran. Can
you apply a parable?" he added, laying his hand upon Will's shoulder.
"It is not the same thing as a reason, but usually vastly more
convincing."
Will hung his head a little, and then raised it once more to heaven. The
stars seemed to expand and emit a sharper brilliancy; and as he kept
turning his eyes higher and higher, they seemed to increase in
multitude under his gaze.
"I see," he said, turning to the young man. "We are in a rat-trap."
"Something of that size. Did you ever see a squirrel turning in a cage?
and another squirrel sitting philosophically over his nuts? I needn't
ask you which of them looked more of a fool."
THE PARSON'S MARJORY
After some years the old people died, both in one winter, very carefully
tended by their adopted son, and very quietly mourned when they were
gone. People who had heard of his roving fancies supposed he would
hasten to sell the property, and go down the river to push his fortunes.
But there was never any sign of such an intention on the part of Will.
On the contrary, he had the inn set on a better footing, and hired a
couple of servants to assist him in carrying it on; and there he settled
down, a kind, talkative, inscrutable young man, six feet three in his
stockings, with an iron constitution and a friendly voice. He soon began
to take rank in the district as a bit of an oddity: it was not much to
be wondered at from the first, for he was always full of notions, and
kept calling the plainest common-sense in question; but what most raised
the report upon him was the odd circumstance of his courtship with the
parson's Marjory.
The parson's Marjory was a lass about nineteen, when Will would be about
thirty; well enough looking, and much better educated than any other
girl in that part of the country, as became her parentage. She held her
head very high, and had already refused several offers of marriage with
a grand air, which had got her hard names among the neighbours. For all
that she was a good girl, and one that would have made any man well
contented.
Will had never seen much of her; for although the church and parsonage
were only two miles from his own door, he was never known to go there
but on Sundays. It chanced, however, that the parsonage fell into
disrepair, and had to be dismantled; and the parson and his daughter
took lodgings for a month or so, on very much reduced terms, at Will's
inn.
Now, what with the inn, and the mill, and the old miller's savings, our
friend was a man of substance; and besides that, he had a name for good
temper and shrewdness, which make a capital portion in marriage; and so
it was currently gossipped, among their ill-wishers, that the parson and
his daughter had not chosen their temporary lodging with their eyes
shut. Will was about the last man in the world to be cajoled or
frightened into marriage. You had only to look into his eyes, limpid and
still like pools of water, and yet with a sort of clear light that
seemed to come from within, and you would understand at once that here
was one who knew his own mind, and would stand to it immovably. Marjory
herself was no weakling by her looks, with strong, steady eyes and a
resolute and quiet bearing. It might be a question whether she was not
Will's match in steadfastness, after all, or which of them would rule
the roast in marriage. But Marjory had never given it a thought, and
accompanied her father with the most unshaken innocence and unconcern.
The season was still so early that Will's customers were few and far
between; but the lilacs were already flowering, and the weather was so
mild that the party took dinner under the trellice, with the noise of
the river in their ears and the woods ringing about them with the songs
of birds. Will soon began to take a particular pleasure in these
dinners. The parson was rather a dull companion, with a habit of dozing
at table; but nothing rude or cruel ever fell from his lips. And as for
the parson's daughter, she suited her surroundings with the best grace
imaginable; and whatever she said seemed so pat and pretty that Will
conceived a great idea of her talents. He could see her face, as she
leaned forward, against a background of rising pinewoods; her eyes shone
peaceably; the light lay around her hair like a kerchief; something that
was hardly a smile rippled her pale cheeks, and Will could not contain
himself from gazing on her in an agreeable dismay. She looked, even in
her quietest moments, so complete in herself, and so quick with life
down to her finger tips and the very skirts of her dress, that the
remainder of created things became no more than a blot by comparison;
and if Will glanced away from her to her surroundings, the trees looked
inanimate and senseless, the clouds hung in heaven like dead things,
and even the mountain tops were disenchanted. The whole valley could not
compare in looks with this one girl.
Will was always observant in the society of his fellow-creatures; but
his observation became almost painfully eager in the case of Marjory. He
listened to all she uttered, and read her eyes, at the same time, for
the unspoken commentary. Many kind, simple, and sincere speeches found
an echo in his heart. He became conscious of a soul beautifully poised
upon itself, nothing doubting, nothing desiring, clothed in peace. It
was not possible to separate her thoughts from her appearance. The turn
of her wrist, the still sound of her voice, the light in her eyes, the
lines of her body, fell in tune with her grave and gentle words, like
the accompaniment that sustains and harmonizes the voice of the singer.
Her influence was one thing, not to be divided or discussed, only to be
felt with gratitude and joy. To Will, her presence recalled something of
his childhood, and the thought of her took its place in his mind beside
that of dawn, of running water, and of the earliest violets and lilacs.
It is the property of things seen for the first time, or for the first
time after long, like the flowers in spring, to reawaken in us the sharp
edge of sense and that impression of mystic strangeness which otherwise
passes out of life with the coming of years; but the sight of a loved
face is what renews a man's character from the fountain upwards.
One day after dinner Will took a stroll among the firs; a grave
beatitude possessed him from top to toe, and he kept smiling to himself
and the landscape as he went. The river ran between the stepping-stones
with a pretty wimple; a bird sang loudly in the wood; the hill-tops
looked immeasurably high, and as he glanced at them from time to time
seemed to contemplate his movements with a beneficent but awful
curiosity. His way took him to the eminence which overlooked the plain;
and there he sat down upon a stone, and fell into deep and pleasant
thought. The plain lay abroad with its cities and silver river;
everything was asleep, except a great eddy of birds which kept rising
and falling and going round and round in the blue air. He repeated
Marjory's name aloud, and the sound of it gratified his ear. He shut his
eyes, and her image sprang up before him, quietly luminous and attended
with good thoughts. The river might run for ever; the birds fly higher
and higher till they touched the stars. He saw it was empty bustle after
all; for here, without stirring a foot, waiting patiently in his own
narrow valley, he also had attained the better sunlight.
The next day Will made a sort of declaration across the dinner-table,
while the parson was filling his pipe.
"Miss Marjory," he said, "I never knew any one I liked so well as you. I
am mostly a cold, unkindly sort of man; not from want of heart, but out
of strangeness in my way of thinking; and people seem far away from me.
'Tis as if there were a circle round me, which kept every one out but
you; I can hear the others talking and laughing; but you come quite
close. Maybe, this is disagreeable to you?" he asked.
Marjory made no answer.
"Speak up, girl," said the parson.
"Nay, now," returned Will, "I wouldn't press her, parson. I feel
tongue-tied myself, who am not used to it; and she's a woman, and little
more than a child, when all is said. But for my part, as far as I can
understand what people mean by it, I fancy I must be what they call in
love. I do not wish to be held as committing myself; for I may be wrong;
but that is how I believe things are with me. And if Miss Marjory should
feel any otherwise on her part, mayhap she would be so kind as shake her
head."
Marjory was silent, and gave no sign that she had heard.
"How is that, parson?" asked Will.
"The girl must speak," replied the parson, laying down his pipe. "Here's
our neighbour who says he loves you, Madge. Do you love him, ay or no?"
"I think I do," said Marjory, faintly.
"Well then, that's all that could be wished!" cried Will, heartily. And
he took her hand across the table, and held it a moment in both of his
with great satisfaction.
"You must marry," observed the parson, replacing his pipe in his mouth.
"Is that the right thing to do, think you?" demanded Will.
"It is indispensable," said the parson.
"Very well," replied the wooer.
Two or three days passed away with great delight to Will, although a
bystander might scarce have found it out. He continued to take his meals
opposite Marjory, and to talk with her and gaze upon her in her father's
presence; but he made no attempt to see her alone, nor in any other way
changed his conduct towards her from what it had been since the
beginning. Perhaps the girl was a little disappointed, and perhaps not
unjustly; and yet if it had been enough to be always in the thoughts of
another person, and so pervade and alter his whole life, she might have
been thoroughly contented. For she was never out of Will's mind for an
instant. He sat over the stream, and watched the dust of the eddy, and
the poised fish, and straining weeds; he wandered out alone into the
purple even, with all the blackbirds piping round in the wood; he rose
early in the morning, and saw the sky turn from gray to gold, and the
light leap upon the hill-tops; and all the while he kept wondering if he
had never seen such things before, or how it was that they should look
so different now. The sound of his own mill-wheel, or of the wind among
the trees, confounded and charmed his heart. The most enchanting
thoughts presented themselves unbidden in his mind. He was so happy that
he could not sleep at night, and so restless that he could hardly sit
still out of her company. And yet it seemed as if he avoided her rather
than sought her out.
One day, as he was coming home from a ramble, Will found Marjory in the
garden picking flowers, and as he came up with her, slackened his pace
and continued walking by her side.
"You like flowers?" he said.
"Indeed I love them dearly," she replied. "Do you?"
"Why, no," said he, "not so much. They are a very small affair, when all
is done. I can fancy people caring for them greatly, but not doing as
you are just now."
"How?" she asked, pausing and looking up at him.
"Plucking them," said he. "They are a deal better off where they are,
and look a deal prettier, if you go to that."
"I wish to have them for my own," she answered, "to carry them near my
heart, and keep them in my room. They tempt me when they grow here; they
seem to say, 'Come and do something with us,' but once I have cut them
and put them by, the charm is laid, and I can look at them with quite an
easy heart."
"You wish to possess them," replied Will, "in order to think no more
about them. It's a bit like killing the goose with the golden eggs. It's
a bit like what I wished to do when I was a boy. Because I had a fancy
for looking out over the plain, I wished to go down there--where I
couldn't look out over it any longer. Was not that fine reasoning? Dear,
dear, if they only thought of it, all the world would do like me; and
you would let your flowers alone, just as I stay up here in the
mountains." Suddenly he broke off sharp. "By the Lord!" he cried. And
when she asked him what was wrong, he turned the question off, and
walked away into the house with rather a humorous expression of face.
He was silent at table; and after the night had fallen and the stars had
come out overhead, he walked up and down for hours in the courtyard and
garden with an uneven pace. There was still a light in the window of
Marjory's room: one little oblong patch of orange in a world of dark
blue hills and silver starlight. Will's mind ran a great deal on the
window; but his thoughts were not very lover-like. "There she is in her
room," he thought, "and there are the stars overhead:--a blessing upon
both!" Both were good influences in his life; both soothed and braced
him in his profound contentment with the world. And what more should he
desire with either? The fat young man and his councils were so present
to his mind, that he threw back his head, and, putting his hands before
his mouth, shouted aloud to the populous heavens. Whether from the
position of his head or the sudden strain of the exertion, he seemed to
see a momentary shock among the stars, and a diffusion of frosty light
pass from one to another along the sky. At the same instant, a corner of
the blind was lifted up and lowered again at once. He laughed a loud
ho-ho! "One and another!" thought Will. "The stars tremble, and the
blind goes up. Why, before Heaven, what a great magician I must be! Now
if I were only a fool, should not I be in a pretty way?" And he went
off to bed, chuckling to himself: "If I were only a fool!"
The next morning, pretty early, he saw her once more in the garden, and
sought her out.
"I have been thinking about getting married," he began abruptly; "and
after having turned it all over, I have made up my mind it's not worth
while."
She turned upon him for a single moment; but his radiant, kindly
appearance would, under the circumstances, have disconcerted an angel,
and she looked down again upon the ground in silence. He could see her
tremble.
"I hope you don't mind," he went on, a little taken aback. "You ought
not. I have turned it all over, and upon my soul there's nothing in it.
We should never be one whit nearer than we are just now, and, if I am a
wise man, nothing like so happy."
"It is unnecessary to go round about with me," she said. "I very well
remember that you refused to commit yourself; and now that I see you
were mistaken, and in reality have never cared for me, I can only feel
sad that I have been so far misled."
"I ask your pardon," said Will stoutly; "you do not understand my
meaning. As to whether I have ever loved you or not, I must leave that
to others. But for one thing, my feeling is not changed; and for
another, you may make it your boast that you have made my whole life and
character something different from what they were. I mean what I say; no
less. I do not think getting married is worth while. I would rather you
went on living with your father, so that I could walk over and see you
once, or maybe twice a week, as people go to church, and then we should
both be all the happier between whiles. That's my notion. But I'll marry
you if you will," he added.
"Do you know that you are insulting me?" she broke out.
"Not I, Marjory," said he; "if there is anything in a clear conscience,
not I. I offer all my heart's best affections; you can take it or want
it, though I suspect it's beyond either your power or mine to change
what has once been done, and set me fancy-free. I'll marry you, if you
like; but I tell you again and again, it's not worth while, and we had
best stay friends. Though I am a quiet man I have noticed a heap of
things in my life. Trust in me, and take things as I propose; or, if you
don't like that, say the word, and I'll marry you out of hand."
There was a considerable pause, and Will, who began to feel uneasy,
began to grow angry in consequence.
"It seems you are too proud to say your mind," he said. "Believe me
that's a pity. A clean shrift makes simple living. Can a man be more
downright or honourable to a woman than I have been? I have said my say,
and given you your choice. Do you want me to marry you? or will you take
my friendship, as I think best? or have you had enough of me for good?
Speak out for the dear God's sake! You know your father told you a girl
should speak her mind in these affairs."
She seemed to recover herself at that, turned without a word, walked
rapidly through the garden, and disappeared into the house, leaving Will
in some confusion as to the result. He walked up and down the garden,
whistling softly to himself. Sometimes he stopped and contemplated the
sky and hill-tops; sometimes he went down to the tail of the weir and
sat there, looking foolishly in the water. All this dubiety and
perturbation was so foreign to his nature and the life which he had
resolutely chosen for himself, that he began to regret Marjory's
arrival. "After all," he thought, "I was as happy as a man need be. I
could come down here and watch my fishes all day long if I wanted: I was
as settled and contented as my old mill."
Marjory came down to dinner, looking very trim and quiet; and no sooner
were all three at table than she made her father a speech, with her eyes
fixed upon her plate, but showing no other sign of embarrassment or
distress.
"Father," she began, "Mr. Will and I have been talking things over. We
see that we have each made a mistake about our feelings, and he has
agreed, at my request, to give up all idea of marriage, and be no more
than my very good friend, as in the past. You see, there is no shadow of
a quarrel, and indeed I hope we shall see a great deal of him in the
future, for his visits will always be welcome in our house. Of course,
father, you will know best, but perhaps we should do better to leave Mr.
Will's house for the present. I believe, after what has passed, we
should hardly be agreeable inmates for some days."
Will, who had commanded himself with difficulty from the first, broke
out upon this into an inarticulate noise, and raised one hand with an
appearance of real dismay, as if he were about to interfere and
contradict. But she checked him at once, looking up at him with a swift
glance and an angry flush upon her cheek.
"You will perhaps have the good grace," she said, "to let me explain
these matters for myself."
Will was put entirely out of countenance by her expression and the ring
of her voice. He held his peace, concluding that there were some things
about this girl beyond his comprehension, in which he was exactly right.
The poor parson was quite crestfallen. He tried to prove that this was
no more than a true lovers' tiff, which would pass off before night; and
when he was dislodged from that position, he went on to argue that where
there was no quarrel there could be no call for a separation; for the
good man liked both his entertainment and his host. It was curious to
see how the girl managed them, saying little all the time, and that very
quietly, and yet twisting them round her finger and insensibly leading
them wherever she would by feminine tact and generalship. It scarcely
seemed to have been her doing--it seemed as if things had merely so
fallen out--that she and her father took their departure that same
afternoon in a farm-cart, and went farther down the valley, to wait,
until their own house was ready for them, in another hamlet. But Will
had been observing closely, and was well aware of her dexterity and
resolution. When he found himself alone he had a great many curious
matters to turn over in his mind. He was very sad and solitary, to begin
with. All the interest had gone out of his life, and he might look up at
the stars as long as he pleased, he somehow failed to find support or
consolation. And then he was in such turmoil of spirit about Marjory. He
had been puzzled and irritated at her behaviour, and yet he could not
keep himself from admiring it. He thought he recognized a fine, perverse
angel in that still soul which he had never hitherto suspected; and
though he saw it was an influence that would fit but ill with his own
life of artificial calm, he could not keep himself from ardently
desiring to possess it. Like a man who has lived among shadows and now
meets the sun, he was both pained and delighted.
As the days went forward he passed from one extreme to another; now
pluming himself on the strength of his determination, now despising his
timid and silly caution. The former was, perhaps, the true thought of
his heart, and represented the regular tenor of the man's reflections;
but the latter burst forth from time to time with an unruly violence,
and then he would forget all consideration, and go up and down his house
and garden or walk among the firwoods like one who is beside himself
with remorse. To equable, steady-minded Will this state of matters was
intolerable; and he determined, at whatever cost, to bring it to an end.
So, one warm summer afternoon he put on his best clothes, took a thorn
switch in his hand, and set out down the valley by the river. As soon as
he had taken his determination, he had regained at a bound his customary
peace of heart, and he enjoyed the bright weather and the variety of the
scene without any admixture of alarm or unpleasant eagerness. It was
nearly the same to him how the matter turned out. If she accepted him he
would have to marry her this time, which perhaps was all for the best.
If she refused him, he would have done his utmost, and might follow his
own way in the future with an untroubled conscience. He hoped, on the
whole, she would refuse him; and then, again, as he saw the brown roof
which sheltered her, peeping through some willows at an angle of the
stream, he was half inclined to reverse the wish, and more than half
ashamed of himself for this infirmity of purpose.
Marjory seemed glad to see him, and gave him her hand without
affectation or delay.
"I have been thinking about this marriage," he began.
"So have I," she answered. "And I respect you more and more for a very
wise man. You understood me better than I understood myself; and I am
now quite certain that things are all for the best as they are."
"At the same time----" ventured Will.
"You must be tired," she interrupted. "Take a seat and let me fetch you
a glass of wine. The afternoon is so warm; and I wish you not to be
displeased with your visit. You must come quite often; once a week, if
you can spare the time; I am always so glad to see my friends."
"O, very well," thought Will to himself. "It appears I was right after
all." And he paid a very agreeable visit, walked home again in capital
spirits, and gave himself no further concern about the matter.
For nearly three years Will and Marjory continued on these terms, seeing
each other once or twice a week without any word of love between them;
and for all that time I believe Will was nearly as happy as a man can
be. He rather stinted himself the pleasure of seeing her; and he would
often walk half-way over to the parsonage, and then back again, as if to
whet his appetite. Indeed there was one corner of the road, whence he
could see the church-spire wedged into a crevice of the valley between
sloping fir woods, with a triangular snatch of plain by way of
background, which he greatly affected as a place to sit and moralize in
before returning homewards; and the peasants got so much into the habit
of finding him there in the twilight that they gave it the name of "Will
o' the Mill's Corner."
At the end of the three years Marjory played him a sad trick by suddenly
marrying somebody else. Will kept his countenance bravely, and merely
remarked that, for as little as he knew of women, he had acted very
prudently in not marrying her himself three years before. She plainly
knew very little of her own mind, and, in spite of a deceptive manner,
was as fickle and flighty as the rest of them. He had to congratulate
himself on an escape, he said, and would take a high opinion of his own
wisdom in consequence. But at heart, he was reasonably displeased, moped
a good deal for a month or two, and fell away in flesh, to the
astonishment of his serving-lads.
It was perhaps a year after this marriage that Will was awakened late
one night by the sound of a horse galloping on the road, followed by
precipitate knocking at the inn-door. He opened his window and saw a
farm servant, mounted and holding a led horse by the bridle, who told
him to make what haste he could and go along with him; for Marjory was
dying, and had sent urgently to fetch him to her bedside. Will was no
horseman, and made so little speed upon the way that the poor young wife
was very near her end before he arrived. But they had some minutes' talk
in private, and he was present and wept very bitterly while she breathed
her last.
DEATH
Year after year went away into nothing, with great explosions and
outcries in the cities on the plain; red revolt springing up and being
suppressed in blood, battle swaying hither and thither, patient
astronomers in observatory towers picking out and christening new stars,
plays being performed in lighted theatres, people being carried into
hospitals on stretchers, and all the usual turmoil and agitation of
men's lives in crowded centres. Up in Will's valley only the winds and
seasons made an epoch; the fish hung in the swift stream, the birds
circled overhead, the pine-tops rustled underneath the stars, the tall
hills stood over all; and Will went to and fro, minding his wayside inn,
until the snow began to thicken on his head. His heart was young and
vigorous; and if his pulses kept a sober time, they still beat strong
and steady in his wrists. He carried a ruddy stain on either cheek, like
a ripe apple; he stooped a little, but his step was still firm; and his
sinewy hands were reached out to all men with a friendly pressure. His
face was covered with those wrinkles which are got in open air, and
which, rightly looked at, are no more than a sort of permanent
sunburning; such wrinkles heighten the stupidity of stupid faces; but to
a person like Will, with his clear eyes and smiling mouth, only give
another charm by testifying to a simple and easy life. His talk was full
of wise sayings. He had a taste for other people; and other people had a
taste for him. When the valley was full of tourists in the season, there
were merry nights in Will's arbour; and his views, which seemed
whimsical to his neighbours, were often enough admired by learned people
out of towns and colleges. Indeed, he had a very noble old age, and grew
daily better known; so that his fame was heard of in the cities of the
plain; and young men who had been summer travellers spoke together in
_cafés_ of Will o' the Mill and his rough philosophy. Many and many an
invitation, you may be sure, he had; but nothing could tempt him from
his upland valley. He would shake his head and smile over his
tobacco-pipe with a deal of meaning. "You come too late," he would
answer. "I am a dead man now: I have lived and died already. Fifty years
ago you would have brought my heart into my mouth; and now you do not
even tempt me. But that is the object of long living, that man should
cease to care about life." And again: "There is only one difference
between a long life and a good dinner: that, in the dinner, the sweets
come last." Or once more: "When I was a boy, I was a bit puzzled, and
hardly knew whether it was myself or the world that was curious and
worth looking into. Now, I know it is myself, and stick to that."
He never showed any symptoms of frailty, but kept stalwart and firm to
the last; but they say he grew less talkative towards the end, and would
listen to other people by the hour in an amused and sympathetic silence.
Only, when he did speak, it was more to the point and more charged with
old experience. He drank a bottle of wine gladly; above all, at sunset
on the hilltop or quite late at night under the stars in the arbour. The
sight of something attractive and unattainable seasoned his enjoyment,
he would say; and he professed he had lived long enough to admire a
candle all the more when he could compare it with a planet.
One night, in his seventy-second year, he awoke in bed, in such
uneasiness of body and mind that he arose and dressed himself and went
out to meditate in the arbour. It was pitch dark, without a star; the
river was swollen, and the wet woods and meadows loaded the air with
perfume. It had thundered during the day, and it promised more thunder
for the morrow. A murky, stifling night for a man of seventy-two!
Whether it was the weather or the wakefulness, or some little touch of
fever in his old limbs, Will's mind was besieged by tumultuous and
crying memories. His boyhood, the night with the fat young man, the
death of his adopted parents, the summer days with Marjory, and many of
those small circumstances, which seem nothing to another, and are yet
the very gist of a man's own life to himself--things seen, words heard,
looks misconstrued--arose from their forgotten corners and usurped his
attention. The dead themselves were with him, not merely taking part in
this thin show of memory that defiled before his brain, but revisiting
his bodily senses as they do in profound and vivid dreams. The fat young
man leaned his elbows on the table opposite; Marjory came and went with
an apronful of flowers between the garden and the arbour; he could hear
the old parson knocking out his pipe or blowing his resonant nose. The
tide of his consciousness ebbed and flowed: he was sometimes half-asleep
and drowned in his recollections of the past; and sometimes he was broad
awake, wondering at himself. But about the middle of the night he was
startled by the voice of the dead miller calling to him out of the house
as he used to do on the arrival of custom. The hallucination was so
perfect that Will sprang from his seat and stood listening for the
summons to be repeated; and as he listened he became conscious of
another noise besides the brawling of the river and the ringing in his
feverish ears. It was like the stir of the horses and the creaking of
harness, as though a carriage with an impatient team had been br
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