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Title: The Ontario Readers: Fourth Book


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THE ONTARIO READERS

FOURTH BOOK

AUTHORIZED BY THE MINISTER OF EDUCATION







Entered, according to Act of the Parliament of Canada, in the year 1909,
in the office of the Minister of Agriculture by the Minister of
Education for Ontario

Toronto:
The T. EATON Co Limited
'14-1




ACKNOWLEDGMENTS


The Minister of Education is indebted to Goldwin Smith, Rudyard Kipling,
Henry Newbolt, The Earl of Dunraven, Sir W. F. Butler, Frank T. Bullen,
Charles G. D. Roberts, W. Wilfred Campbell, Frederick George Scott,
Agnes Maule Machar, Agnes C. Laut, Marjorie L. C. Pickthall, and S. T.
Wood, for special permission to reproduce, in this Reader, selections
from their writings.

He is indebted to Lord Tennyson for special permission to reproduce the
poems from the works of Alfred, Lord Tennyson; to Lloyd Osbourne for
permission to reproduce the extract from Robert Louis Stevenson's
"Kidnapped"; and to C. Egerton Ryerson for permission to reproduce the
extract from Egerton Ryerson's "The Loyalists of America and their
Times."

He is also indebted to Macmillan & Co., Limited, for special permission
to reproduce selected poems from the works of Alfred, Lord Tennyson,
Rudyard Kipling, Sir F. H. Doyle, Cecil Frances Alexander; to Longmans,
Green & Co., for the selections from Froude's "Short Studies on Great
Subjects" and from his "History of England"; to Smith, Elder & Co., for
the extract from F. T. Bullen's "The Cruise of the Cachalot"; to Elkin
Mathews for Henry Newbolt's poem from "The Island Race"; to Thomas
Nelson & Sons for the extract from W. F. Collier's "History of the
British Empire"; to The Copp Clark Co., Limited, for selected poems from
the works of Charles G. D. Roberts, and of Agnes Maule Machar; to the
Hunter-Rose Company for the extract from Canniff Haight's "Country Life
in Canada"; to Morang & Company for selected poems from the works of
Archibald Lampman, and for the extract from Roberts' "History of
Canada"; and to Houghton Mifflin Company for the article from "_The
Atlantic Monthly_" on "British Colonial and Naval Power."

The Minister is grateful to these authors and publishers and to others,
not mentioned here, through whose courtesy he has been able to include
in this Reader so many copyright selections.

Toronto, May, 1909.




  CONTENTS


  _The Children's Song_                   _Rudyard Kipling_
  _Our Country_                           _Alfred, Lord Tennyson_
  Tom Tulliver at School                  _George Eliot_
  _Ingratitude_                           _William Shakespeare_
  _The Giant_                             _Charles Mackay_
  The Discovery of America                _William Robertson_
  _The First Spring Day_                  _Christina G. Rossetti_
  The Battle of the Pipes                 _Robert Louis Stevenson_
  _Bega_                                  _Marjorie L. C. Pickthall_
  _A Musical Instrument_                  _Elizabeth Barrett Browning_
  Wolfe and Montcalm                      _Francis Parkman_
  _Canada_                                _Charles G. D. Roberts_
  Scrooge's Christmas                     _Charles Dickens_
  _Hands All Round_                       _Alfred, Lord Tennyson_
  Judah's Supplication to Joseph          _Bible_
  _Miriam's Song_                         _Thomas Moore_
  _The Destruction of Sennacherib_        _George Gordon, Lord Byron_
  The Lark at the Diggings                _Charles Reade_
  _The Ancient Mariner_                   _Samuel Taylor Coleridge_
  At the Close of the French Period
  in Canada                               _Charles G. D. Roberts_
  _A Hymn of Empire_                      _Frederick George Scott_
  Story of Absalom                        _Bible_
  _The Burial of Moses_                   _Cecil Frances Alexander_
  The Crusader and the Saracen            _Sir Walter Scott_
  _Mercy_                                 _William Shakespeare_
  _From "An August Reverie"_              _William Wilfred Campbell_
  Work and Wages                          _John Ruskin_
  _Untrodden Ways_                        _Agnes Maule Machar_
  _The First Ploughing_                   _Charles G. D. Roberts_
  The Archery Contest                     _Sir Walter Scott_
  _In November_                           _Archibald Lampman_
  _Autumn Woods_                          _William Cullen Bryant_
  In a Canoe                              _Lord Dunraven_
  _Afton Water_                           _Robert Burns_
  David Copperfield's First
    Journey Alone                         _Charles Dickens_
  _The Barefoot Boy_                      _John G. Whittier_
  Country Life in Canada in
    the "Thirties"                        _Canniff Haight_
  _Heat_                                  _Archibald Lampman_
  The Two Paths                           _Bible_
  _Bernardo del Carpio_                   _Felicia Hemans_
  Moses' Bargains                         _Oliver Goldsmith_
  _The Maple_                             _Charles G. D. Roberts_
  _The Greenwood Tree_                    _William Shakespeare_
  Lake Superior                           _Major W. F. Butler_
  The Red River Plain                     _Major W. F. Butler_
  _The Unnamed Lake_                      _Frederick George Scott_
  Life in Norman England                  _William F. Collier_
  _Ye Mariners of England_                _Thomas Campbell_
  Instruction                             _Bible_
  _Home Thoughts From Abroad_             _Robert Browning_
  _The Bells of Shandon_                  _Francis Mahony_
  The Vision of Mirzah                    _Joseph Addison_
  _Forbearance_                           _Ralph Waldo Emerson_
  _Mercy to Animals_                      _William Cowper_
  The United Empire Loyalists             _Egerton Ryerson_
  _Oft, in the Stilly Night_              _Thomas Moore_
  _The Harp That Once Through
    Tara's Halls_                         _Thomas Moore_
  Hudson Strait                           _Agnes C. Laut_
  _Scots, Wha Hae_                        _Robert Burns_
  St. Ambrose Crew Win Their
    First Race                            _Thomas Hughes_
  _Hunting Song_                          _Sir Walter Scott_
  _Border Ballad_                         _Sir Walter Scott_
  The Great Northern Diver                _Samuel T. Wood_
  _To the Cuckoo_                         _William Wordsworth_
  _On the Grasshopper and Cricket_        _John Keats_
  The Great Northwest                     _Major W. F. Butler_
  _Rule, Britannia_                       _James Thomson_
  The Commandment and the Reward          _Bible_
  _The Spacious Firmament_                _Joseph Addison_
  _June_                                  _James Russell Lowell_
  The Fifth Voyage of Sinbad the Sailor  "_The Arabian Nights
                                                    Entertainments_"
  _Ocean_                                 _George Gordon, Lord Byron_
  Pontiac's Attempt to Capture Fort
    Detroit                               _Major Richardson_
  _My Native Land_                        _Sir Walter Scott_
  _Morning on the Lievre_                 _Archibald Lampman_
  _Evening_                               _Archibald Lampman_
  An Elizabethan Seaman                   _James Anthony Froude_
  _The Sea-King's Burial_                 _Charles Mackay_
  My Castles in Spain                     _George William Curtis_
  _Aladdin_                               _James Russell Lowell_
  Drake's Voyage Round the World          _James Anthony Froude_
  _The Solitary Reaper_                   _William Wordsworth_
  Clouds, Rains, and Rivers               _John Tyndall_
  _Fitz-James and Roderick Dhu_           _Sir Walter Scott_
  The Indignation of Nicholas Nickleby    _Charles Dickens_
  _Dickens in Camp_                       _Bret Harte_
  _Dost Thou Look Back on What
    Hath Been_                            _Alfred, Lord Tennyson_
  The Passing of Arthur                   _Sir Thomas Malory_
  _The Armada_                            _Thomas Babington, Lord Macaulay_
  Departure and Death of Nelson           _Robert Southey_
  _Waterloo_                              _George Gordon, Lord Byron_
  _Ode Written in 1746_                   _William Collins_
  Balaklava                               _William Howard Russell_
  _Funeral of Wellington_                 _Alfred, Lord Tennyson_
  In a Cave with a Whale                  _Frank T. Bullen_
  _The Glove and the Lions_               _Leigh Hunt_
  Three Scenes in the Tyrol               _Richter_
  _Marston Moor_                          _William Mackworth Praed_
  London                                  _Goldwin Smith_
  _How They Brought the Good News
    from Ghent to Aix_                    _Robert Browning_
  _An Incident of the French Camp_        _Robert Browning_
  British Colonial and Naval Power       "_Atlantic Monthly_"
  _England, My England_                   _William Ernest Henley_
  _A Good Time Going_                     _Oliver Wendell Holmes_
  God is Our Refuge                       _Bible_
  _Indian Summer_                         _Susanna Moodie_
  _The Skylark_                           _James Hogg_
  What is War                             _John Bright_
  _The Homes of England_                  _Felicia Hemans_
  _To a Water-Fowl_                       _William Cullen Bryant_
  The Fascination of Light                _Samuel T. Wood_
  _Daffodils_                             _William Wordsworth_
  _To the Dandelion_                      _James Russell Lowell_
  True Greatness                          _George Eliot_
  _The Private of the Buffs_              _Sir Francis Hastings Doyle_
  Honourable Toil                         _Thomas Carlyle_
  _On his Blindness_                      _John Milton_
  _Mysterious Night_                      _Joseph Blanco White_
  _Vitai Lampada_                         _Henry Newbolt_
  The Irreparable Past                    _Frederick W. Robertson_
  _A Christmas Hymn, 1837_                _Alfred Domett_
  _The Quarrel_                           _William Shakespeare_
  _Recessional_                           _Rudyard Kipling_




The Good Land


For the Lord thy God bringeth thee into a good land, a land of brooks of
water, of fountains and depths, springing forth in valleys and hills; a
land of wheat and barley, and vines and fig trees and pomegranates; a
land of oil olives and honey; a land wherein thou shalt eat bread
without scarceness, thou shalt not lack anything in it; a land whose
stones are iron, and out of whose hills thou mayest dig brass.

And thou shalt eat and be full, and thou shalt bless the Lord thy God
for the good land which He hath given thee.

Deuteronomy. VIII.




FOURTH READER




THE CHILDREN'S SONG


    Land of our Birth, we pledge to thee
    Our love and toil in the years to be,
    When we are grown and take our place,
    As men and women with our race.

    Father in Heaven who lovest all,
    Oh help Thy children when they call;
    That they may build from age to age,
    An undefiled heritage.

    Teach us to bear the yoke in youth
    With steadfastness and careful truth;
    That, in our time, Thy Grace may give
    The Truth whereby the Nations live.

    Teach us to rule ourselves alway,
    Controlled and cleanly night and day,
    That we may bring, if need arise,
    No maimed or worthless sacrifice.

    Teach us to look in all our ends,
    On Thee for judge, and not our friends;
    That we, with Thee, may walk uncowed
    By fear or favour of the crowd.

    Teach us the Strength that cannot seek,
    By deed or thought, to hurt the weak;
    That, under Thee, we may possess
    Man's strength to comfort man's distress.

    Teach us Delight in simple things,
    And Mirth that has no bitter springs,
    Forgiveness free of evil done,
    And Love to all men 'neath the sun!

    Land of our Birth, our faith, our pride,
    For whose dear sake our fathers died,
    Oh Motherland, we pledge to thee,
    Head, heart, and hand through years to be!

Kipling




OUR COUNTRY


    Love thou thy land, with love far-brought
      From out the storied Past, and used
      Within the Present, but transfused
    Thro' future time by power of thought.

Tennyson




TOM TULLIVER AT SCHOOL


It was Mr. Tulliver's first visit to see Tom, for the lad must learn not
to think too much about home.

"Well, my lad," he said to Tom, when Mr. Stelling had left the room to
announce the arrival to his wife, and Maggie had begun to kiss Tom
freely, "you look rarely. School agrees with you."

Tom wished he had looked rather ill.

"I don't think I _am_ well, father," said Tom; "I wish you'd ask Mr.
Stelling not to let me do Euclid--it brings on the toothache, I think."

(The toothache was the only malady to which Tom had ever been subject.)

"Euclid, my lad; why, what's that?" said Mr. Tulliver.

"Oh, I don't know. It's definitions, and axioms, and triangles, and
things. It's a book I've got to learn in; there's no sense in it."

"Go, go!" said Mr. Tulliver, reprovingly, "you mustn't say so. You must
learn what your master tells you. He knows what it's right for you to
learn."

"_I'll_ help you now, Tom," said Maggie, with a little air of
patronizing consolation. "I'm come to stay ever so long, if Mrs.
Stelling asks me. I've brought my box and my pinafores, haven't I,
father?"

"_You_ help me, you silly little thing!" said Tom, in such high spirits
at this announcement that he quite enjoyed the idea of confounding
Maggie by showing her a page of Euclid. "I should like to see you doing
one of _my_ lessons! Why, I learn Latin too! Girls never learn such
things. They're too silly."

"I know what Latin is very well," said Maggie, confidently. "Latin's a
language. There are Latin words in the Dictionary. There's 'bonus, a
gift.'"

"Now, you're just wrong there, Miss Maggie!" said Tom, secretly
astonished. "You think you're very wise. But 'bonus' means 'good,' as it
happens--'bonus, bona, bonum.'"

"Well, that's no reason why it shouldn't mean 'gift,'" said Maggie,
stoutly. "It may mean several things--almost every word does.
There's 'lawn'--it means the grass-plot, as well as the stuff
pocket-handkerchiefs are made of."

"Well done, little 'un," said Mr. Tulliver, laughing, while Tom felt
rather disgusted with Maggie's knowingness, though beyond measure
cheerful at the thought that she was going to stay with him. Her conceit
would soon be overawed by the actual inspection of his books.

Mrs. Stelling, in her pressing invitation, did not mention a longer time
than a week for Maggie's stay; but Mr. Stelling, who took her between
his knees, and asked her where she stole her dark eyes from, insisted
that she must stay a fortnight. Maggie thought Mr. Stelling was a
charming man, and Mr. Tulliver was quite proud to leave his little wench
where she would have an opportunity of showing her cleverness to
appreciating strangers. So it was agreed that she should not be fetched
home till the end of the fortnight.

"Now, then, come with me into the study, Maggie," said Tom, as their
father drove away. "What do you shake and toss your head now for, you
silly?" he continued; for, though her hair was now under a new
dispensation, and was brushed smoothly behind her ears, she seemed still
in imagination to be tossing it out of her eyes. "It makes you look as
if you were crazy."

"Oh, I can't help it," said Maggie, impatiently. "Don't tease me, Tom.
Oh, what books!" she exclaimed, as she saw the book-cases in the study.
"How I should like to have as many books as that!"

"Why, you couldn't read one of 'em," said Tom, triumphantly. "They're
all Latin."

"No, they aren't," said Maggie. "I can read the back of this ...
'History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire.'"

"Well, what does that mean? _You_ don't know," said Tom, wagging his
head.

"But I could soon find out," said Maggie, scornfully.

"Why, how?"

"I should look inside, and see what it was about."

"You'd better not, Miss Maggie," said Tom, seeing her hand on the
volume. "Mr. Stelling lets nobody touch his books without leave, and I
shall catch it if you take it out."

"Oh, very well! Let me see all _your_ books, then," said Maggie, turning
to throw her arms round Tom's neck, and rub his cheek with her small,
round nose.

Tom, in the gladness of his heart at having dear old Maggie to dispute
with and crow over again, seized her round the waist, and began to jump
with her round the large library table. Away they jumped with more and
more vigour, till Maggie's hair flew from behind her ears, and twirled
about like an animated mop. But the revolutions round the table became
more and more irregular in their sweep, till at last reaching Mr.
Stelling's reading-stand, they sent it thundering down with its heavy
lexicons to the floor. Happily it was the ground-floor, and the study
was a one-storied wing to the house, so that the downfall made no
alarming resonance, though Tom stood dizzy and aghast for a few minutes,
dreading the appearance of Mr. or Mrs. Stelling.

"Oh, I say, Maggie," said Tom at last, lifting up the stand, "we must
keep quiet here, you know. If we break anything, Mrs. Stelling'll make
us cry peccavi."

"What's that?" said Maggie.

"Oh, it's the Latin for a good scolding," said Tom, not without some
pride in his knowledge.

"Is she a cross woman?" said Maggie.

"I believe you!" said Tom, with an emphatic nod.

"I think all women are crosser than men," said Maggie. "Aunt Glegg's a
great deal crosser than Uncle Glegg, and mother scolds me more than
father does."

"Well, _you'll_ be a woman some day," said Tom, "so _you_ needn't
talk."

"But I shall be a _clever_ woman," said Maggie, with a toss.

"Oh, I daresay, and a nasty, conceited thing. Everybody'll hate you."

"But you oughtn't to hate me, Tom. It'll be very wicked of you, for I
shall be your sister."

"Yes, but if you're a nasty, disagreeable thing, I _shall_ hate you."

"Oh but, Tom, you won't! I shan't be disagreeable. I shall be very good
to you, and I shall be good to everybody. You won't hate me really, will
you, Tom?"

"Oh, bother, never mind! Come, it's time for me to learn my lessons. See
here, what I've got to do," said Tom, drawing Maggie towards him and
showing her his theorem, while she pushed her hair behind her ears, and
prepared herself to prove her capability of helping him in Euclid. She
began to read with full confidence in her own powers; but presently,
becoming quite bewildered, her face flushed with irritation. It was
unavoidable: she must confess her incompetency, and she was not fond of
humiliation.

"It's nonsense!" she said, "and very ugly stuff; nobody need want to
make it out."

"Ah, there now, Miss Maggie!" said Tom, drawing the book away and
wagging his head at her; "you see you're not so clever as you thought
you were."

"Oh," said Maggie, pouting, "I daresay I could make it out if I'd
learned what goes before, as you have."

"But that's what you just couldn't, Miss Wisdom," said Tom. "For it's
all the harder when you know what goes before; for then you've got to
say what definition 3 is, and what axiom V is. But get along with you
now; I must go on with this. Here's the Latin Grammar. See what you can
make of that."

Maggie found the Latin Grammar quite soothing after her mathematical
mortification, for she delighted in new words, and quickly found that
there was an English Key at the end, which would make her very wise
about Latin, at slight expense. It was really very interesting--the
Latin Grammar that Tom had said no girls could learn, and she was proud
because she found it interesting.

"Now, then, Magsie, give us the Grammar!"

"Oh, Tom, it's such a pretty book!" she said, as she jumped out of the
large arm-chair to give it him; "it's much prettier than the Dictionary.
I could learn Latin very soon. I don't think it's at all hard."

"Oh, I know what you've been doing," said Tom; "you've been reading the
English at the end. Any donkey can do that."

Tom seized the book and opened it with a determined and business-like
air, as much as to say that he had a lesson to learn which no donkeys
would find themselves equal to. Maggie, rather piqued, turned to the
book-cases to amuse herself with puzzling out the titles.

George Eliot: "The Mill on the Floss."




INGRATITUDE


    Blow, blow, thou winter wind,
    Thou art not so unkind
      As man's ingratitude;
    Thy tooth is not so keen
    Because thou art not seen,
      Although thy breath be rude.

    Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,
    Thou dost not bite so nigh
      As benefits forgot;
    Though thou the waters warp,
    Thy sting is not so sharp
      As friend remembered not.

Shakespeare


[Illustration: H. M. KING EDWARD VII.]




THE GIANT


    There came a Giant to my door,
    A Giant fierce and strong;
    His step was heavy on the floor,
    His arms were ten yards long.
    He scowled and frowned; he shook the ground;
    I trembled through and through;
    At length I looked him in the face
    And cried, "Who cares for you?"

    The mighty Giant, as I spoke,
    Grew pale, and thin, and small,
    And through his body, as 'twere smoke,
    I saw the sunshine fall.
    His blood-red eyes turned blue as skies:--
    "Is this," I cried, with growing pride,
    "Is this the mighty foe?"

    He sank before my earnest face,
    He vanished quite away,
    And left no shadow in his place
    Between me and the day.
    Such giants come to strike us dumb,
    But, weak in every part,
    They melt before the strong man's eyes,
    And fly the true of heart.

Charles Mackay




THE DISCOVERY OF AMERICA


Next morning, being Friday the third day of August, in the year 1492,
Columbus set sail, a little before sunrise, in presence of a vast crowd
of spectators, who sent up their supplications to Heaven for the
prosperous issue of the voyage, which they wished rather than expected.
Columbus steered directly for the Canary Islands, and arrived there
without any occurrence that would have deserved notice on any other
occasion. But, in a voyage of such expectation and importance, every
circumstance was the object of attention.

As they proceeded, the indications of approaching land seemed to be more
certain, and excited hope in proportion. The birds began to appear in
flocks, making towards the south-west. Columbus, in imitation of the
Portuguese navigators, who had been guided in several of their
discoveries by the motion of birds, altered his course from due west
towards that quarter whither they pointed their flight. But, after
holding on for several days in this new direction, without any better
success than formerly, having seen no object during thirty days but the
sea and the sky, the hopes of his companions subsided faster than they
had risen; their fears revived with additional force; impatience, rage,
and despair appeared in every countenance. All sense of subordination
was lost. The officers, who had hitherto concurred with Columbus in
opinion, and supported his authority, now took part with the private
men; they assembled tumultuously on the deck, expostulated with their
commander, mingled threats with their expostulations, and required him
instantly to tack about and return to Europe. Columbus perceived that it
would be of no avail to have recourse to any of his former arts, which,
having been tried so often, had lost their effect; and that it was
impossible to rekindle any zeal for the success of the expedition among
men in whose breasts fear had extinguished every generous sentiment. He
saw that it was no less vain to think of employing either gentle or
severe measures to quell a mutiny so general and so violent. It was
necessary, on all these accounts, to soothe passions which he could no
longer command, and to give way to a torrent too impetuous to be
checked. He promised solemnly to his men that he would comply with
their request, provided they would accompany him and obey his command
for three days longer, and if, during that time, land were not
discovered, he would then abandon the enterprise, and direct his course
towards Spain.

Enraged as the sailors were, and impatient to turn their faces again
towards their native country, this proposition did not appear to them
unreasonable; nor did Columbus hazard much in confining himself to a
term so short. The presages of discovering land were now so numerous and
promising that he deemed them infallible. For some days the
sounding-line reached the bottom, and the soil which it brought up
indicated land to be at no great distance. The flocks of birds
increased, and were composed not only of sea-fowl, but of such
land-birds as could not be supposed to fly far from the shore. The crew
of the Pinta observed a cane floating, which seemed to have been newly
cut, and likewise a piece of timber artificially carved. The sailors
aboard the Nigna took up the branch of a tree with red berries perfectly
fresh. The clouds around the setting sun assumed a new appearance; the
air was more mild and warm, and during night the wind became unequal
and variable. From all these symptoms, Columbus was so confident of
being near land, that on the evening of the eleventh of October, after
public prayers for success, he ordered the sails to be furled, and the
ships to lie to, keeping strict watch lest they should be driven ashore
in the night. During this interval of suspense and expectation, no man
shut his eyes, all kept upon deck, gazing towards that quarter where
they expected to discover the land, which had so long been the object of
their wishes.

About two hours before midnight, Columbus, standing on the forecastle,
observed a light in the distance, and privately pointed it out to Pedro
Guttierez, a page of the Queen's wardrobe. Guttierez perceived it, and
calling to Salcedo, comptroller of the fleet, all three saw it in
motion, as if it were carried from place to place. A little after
midnight, the joyful sound of "Land! Land!" was heard from the Pinta,
which kept always ahead of the other ships. But, having been so often
deceived by fallacious appearances, every man was now become slow of
belief, and waited in all the anguish of uncertainty and impatience for
the return of day. As soon as morning dawned, all doubts and fears were
dispelled. From every ship an island was seen about two leagues to the
north, whose flat and verdant fields, well stored with wood, and watered
with many rivulets, presented the aspect of a delightful country.

The crew of the Pinta instantly began the _Te Deum_, as a hymn of
thanksgiving to God, and were joined by those of the other ships with
tears of joy and transports of congratulation. This office of gratitude
to Heaven was followed by an act of justice to their commander. They
threw themselves at the feet of Columbus, with feelings of
self-condemnation, mingled with reverence. They implored him to pardon
their ignorance, incredulity, and insolence, which had created him so
much unnecessary disquiet, and had so often obstructed the prosecution
of his well-concerted plan; and passing, in the warmth of their
admiration, from one extreme to the other, they now pronounced the man
whom they had so lately reviled and threatened, to be a person inspired
by Heaven with sagacity and fortitude more than human, in order to
accomplish a design so far beyond the ideas and conceptions of all
former ages.

William Robertson: "The History of America."




THE FIRST SPRING DAY


    I wonder if the sap is stirring yet,
    If wintry birds are dreaming of a mate,
    If frozen snowdrops feel as yet the sun,
    And crocus fires are kindled one by one:
          Sing, robin, sing!
    I still am sore in doubt concerning Spring.

    I wonder if the spring-tide of this year
    Will bring another spring both lost and dear;
    If heart and spirit will find out their spring,
    Or if the world alone will bud and sing:
          Sing, hope, to me!
    Sweet notes, my hope, sweet notes for memory.

    The sap will surely quicken soon or late,
    The tardiest bird will twitter to a mate;
    So Spring must dawn again with warmth and bloom,
    Or in this world, or in the world to come:
          Sing, voice of Spring!
    Till I, too, blossom and rejoice and sing.

Christina Rossetti




Be that which you would make others.

Amiel




THE BATTLE OF THE PIPES


A thing happened worth narrating at the close of a visit paid me by
Robin Oig, one of the sons of the notorious Rob Roy. As he was leaving,
just in the door, he met Alan coming in; and the two drew back and
looked at each other like strange dogs. They were neither of them big
men, but they seemed fairly to swell out with pride. Each wore a sword,
and by a movement of his haunch, thrust clear the hilt of it, so that it
might be the more readily grasped and the blade drawn.

"Mr. Stewart, I am thinking," says Robin.

"Troth, Mr. Macgregor, it's not a name to be ashamed of," answered Alan.

"I did not know ye were in my country, sir," says Robin.

"It sticks in my mind that I am in the country of my friends, the
Maclarens," says Alan.

"That's a kittle point," returned the other. "There may be two words to
say to that. But I think I will have heard that you are a man of your
sword?"

"Unless ye were born deaf, Mr. Macgregor, ye will have heard a good
deal more than that," says Alan. "I am not the only man who can draw
steel in Appin; and when my kinsman and captain, Ardshiel, had a talk
with a gentleman of your name, not so many years back, I could never
hear that the Macgregor had the best of it."

"Do you mean my father, sir?" says Robin.

"Well, I wouldnae wonder," says Alan. "The gentleman I have in my mind
had the ill-taste to clap Campbell to his name."

"My father was an old man," returned Robin. "The match was unequal. You
and me would make a better pair, sir."

"I was thinking that," said Alan.

I was half out of bed, and Duncan had been hanging at the elbow of these
fighting cocks, ready to intervene upon the least occasion. But when
that word was uttered, it was a case of now or never; and Duncan, with
something of a white face to be sure, thrust himself between.

"Gentlemen," said he, "I will have been thinking of a very different
matter. Here are my pipes, and here are you two gentlemen who are baith
acclaimed pipers. It's an auld dispute which one of ye's the best. Here
will be a braw chance to settle it."

"Why, sir," said Alan, still addressing Robin, from whom indeed he had
not so much as shifted his eyes, nor yet Robin from him, "why, sir,"
says Alan, "I think I will have heard some sough of the sort. Have ye
music, as folk say? Are ye a bit of a piper?"

"I can pipe like a Maccrimmon!" cries Robin.

"And that is a very bold word," quoth Alan.

"I have made bolder words good before now," returned Robin, "and that
against better adversaries."

"It is easy to try that," says Alan.

Duncan Dhu made haste to bring out the pair of pipes that was his
principal possession, and to set before his guests a muttonham and a
bottle of that drink which they call Athole brose. The two enemies were
still on the very breach of a quarrel; but down they sat, one upon each
side of the peat fire, with a mighty show of politeness. Maclaren
pressed them to taste his muttonham and "the wife's brose," reminding
them the wife was out of Athole and had a name far and wide for her
skill in that confection. But Robin put aside these hospitalities as bad
for the breath.

"I would have ye to remark, sir," said Alan, "that I havenae broken
bread for near upon ten hours, which will be worse for the breath than
any brose in Scotland."

"I will take no advantages, Mr. Stewart," replied Robin. "Eat and drink;
I'll follow."

Each ate a small portion of the ham and drank a glass of the brose to
Mrs. Maclaren; and then, after a great number of civilities, Robin took
the pipes and played a little spring in a very ranting manner.

"Ay, ye can blow," said Alan; and, taking the instrument from his rival,
he first played the same spring in a manner identical with Robin's; and
then wandered into variations, which, as he went on, he decorated with a
perfect flight of grace-notes, such as pipers love, and call the
"warblers."

I had been pleased with Robin's playing, Alan's ravished me.

"That's no very bad, Mr. Stewart," said the rival, "but ye show a poor
device in your warbler."

"Me!" cried Alan, the blood starting to his face. "I give ye the lie."

"Do ye own yourself beaten at the pipes, then," said Robin, "that ye
seek to change them for the sword?"

"And that's very well said, Mr. Macgregor," returned Alan; "and in the
meantime" (laying a strong accent on the word) "I take back the lie. I
appeal to Duncan."

"Indeed, ye need appeal to naebody," said Robin. "Ye're a far better
judge than any Maclaren in Balwhidder: for it's a God's truth that
you're a very creditable piper for a Stewart. Hand me the pipes."

Alan did as he asked; and Robin proceeded to imitate and correct some
part of Alan's variations, which it seemed that he remembered perfectly.

"Ay, ye have music," said Alan, gloomily.

"And now be the judge yourself, Mr. Stewart," said Robin; and taking up
the variations from the beginning, he worked them throughout to so new a
purpose, with such ingenuity and sentiment, and with so odd a fancy and
so quick a knack in the grace-notes, that I was amazed to hear him.

As for Alan his face grew dark and hot, and he sat and gnawed his
fingers, like a man under some deep affront. "Enough!" he cried. "Ye can
blow the pipes--make the most of that." And he made as if to rise.

But Robin only held out his hand as if to ask for silence, and struck
into the slow music of a pibroch. It was a fine piece of music in
itself, and nobly played; but, it seems besides, it was a piece peculiar
to the Appin Stewarts and a chief favourite with Alan. The first notes
were scarce out, before there came a change in his face; when the time
quickened, he seemed to grow restless in his seat; and long before that
piece was at an end, the last signs of his anger died from him, and he
had no thought but for the music.

"Robin Oig," he said, when it was done, "ye are a great piper. I am not
fit to blow in the same kingdom with ye. Body of me! ye have more music
in your sporran than I have in my head! And, though it still sticks in
my mind that I could show ye another of it with the cold steel, I warn
ye beforehand--it'll no be fair! It would go against my heart to haggle
a man that can blow the pipes as you can!"

Thereupon the quarrel was made up. All night long the pipes were
changing hands, and the day had come pretty bright before Robin as much
as thought upon the road.

Robert Louis Stevenson: "Kidnapped."




BEGA


    From the clouded belfry calling
    Hear my soft ascending swells,
    Hear my notes like swallows falling:
    I am Bega, least of bells.
    When great Turkeful rolls and rings
    All the storm-touched turret swings,
    Echoing battle, loud and long.
    When great Tatwin wakening roars
    To the far-off shining shores,
    All the seamen know his song.
    I am Bega, least of bells;
    In my throat my message swells.
    I, with all the winds athrill,
    Murmuring softly, murmuring still,
      "God around me, God above me,
      God to guard me, God to love me."

    I am Bega, least of bells;
    Weaving wonder, wind-born spells.
    High above the morning mist,
    Wreathed in rose and amethyst,
    Still the dreams of music float
    Silver from my silver throat,
    Whispering beauty, whispering peace.
    When great Tatwin's golden voice
    Bids the listening land rejoice,
    When great Turkeful rings and rolls
    Thunder down to trembling souls,
    Then my notes, like curlews flying,
    Sinking, falling, lifting, sighing,
    Softly answer, softly cease.
    I, with all the airs at play,
    Murmuring softly, murmuring say,
      "God around me, God above me,
      God to guard me, God to love me."

Marjorie L. C. Pickthall




Love as brethren, be pitiful, be courteous: not rendering evil for evil
or railing for railing: but contrariwise blessing.

For he that will love life, and see good days, let him refrain his
tongue from evil, and his lips that they speak no guile:

Let him eschew evil, and do good; let him seek peace and ensue it.

For the eyes of the Lord are over the righteous, and His ears are open
unto their prayers: but the face of the Lord is against them that do
evil.

And who is he that will harm you, if ye be followers of that which is
good?

I. Peter, III.




A MUSICAL INSTRUMENT


    What was he doing, the great god Pan,
      Down in the reeds by the river?
    Spreading ruin and scattering ban,
    Splashing and paddling with hoofs of a goat,
    And breaking the golden lilies afloat
      With the dragon-fly on the river.

    He tore out a reed, the great god Pan
      From the deep, cool bed of the river:
    The limpid water turbidly ran,
    And the broken lilies a-dying lay,
    And the dragon-fly had fled away,
      Ere he brought it out of the river.

    High on the shore sat the great god Pan,
      While turbidly flow'd the river;
    And hack'd and hew'd as a great god can,
    With his hard, bleak steel at the patient reed,
    Till there was not a sign of a leaf, indeed,
      To prove it fresh from the river.

    He cut it short, did the great god Pan,
      (How tall it stood in the river!)
    Then drew the pith, like the heart of a man,
    Steadily from the outside ring,
    And notch'd the poor, dry, empty thing
      In holes, as he sat by the river.

    "This is the way," laugh'd the great god Pan,
      (Laugh'd while he sat by the river)
    "The only way, since gods began
    To make sweet music, they could succeed."
    Then, dropping his mouth to a hole in the reed,
      He blew in power by the river.

    Sweet, sweet, sweet, O Pan!
      Piercing sweet by the river!
    Blinding sweet, O great god Pan!
    The sun on the hill forgot to die,
    And the lilies reviv'd, and the dragon-fly
      Came back to dream on the river.

    Yet, half a beast is the great god Pan,
      To laugh as he sits by the river,
    Making a poet out of a man:
    The true gods sigh for the cost and pain,--
    For the reed which grows nevermore again
      As a reed with the reeds in the river.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning




    If little labour, little are our gains;
    Man's fortunes are according to his pains.

Herrick




WOLFE AND MONTCALM


The eventful night of the twelfth was clear and calm, with no light but
that of the stars. Within two hours before daybreak thirty boats,
crowded with sixteen hundred soldiers, cast off from the vessels and
floated downward in perfect order with the current of the ebb-tide. To
the boundless joy of the army, Wolfe's malady had abated, and he was
able to command in person. His ruined health, the gloomy prospect of the
siege, and the disaster at Montmorenci, had oppressed him with the
deepest melancholy, but never impaired for a moment the promptness of
his decisions, or the impetuous energy of his action.

He sat in the stern of one of the boats, pale and weak, but borne up to
a calm height of resolution. Every order had been given, every
arrangement made, and it only remained to face the issue. The ebbing
tide sufficed to bear the boats along, and nothing broke the silence of
the night but the gurgling of the river, and the low voice of Wolfe, as
he repeated to the officers about him the stanzas of Gray's "Elegy in a
Country Churchyard," which had recently appeared, and which he had just
received from England. Perhaps as he uttered those strangely
appropriate words:--

"The paths of glory lead but to the grave," the shadows of his own
approaching fate stole with mournful prophecy across his mind.
"Gentlemen," he said, as he closed his recital, "I would rather have
written those lines than take Quebec to-morrow."

As they approached the landing-place, the boats edged closer in towards
the northern shore, and the woody precipices rose high on their left
like a wall of undistinguished blackness.

"_Qui vive?_" shouted a French sentinel from out the impervious gloom.

"_La France!_" answered a captain of Fraser's Highlanders from the
foremost boat.

As boats were frequently passing down the river with supplies for the
garrison, and as a convoy from Bougainville was expected that very
night, the sentinel was deceived and allowed the English to proceed. A
few moments later, they were challenged again, and this time they could
discern the soldier running close down to the water's edge, as if all
his suspicions were aroused; but the skilful replies of the Highlander
once more saved the party from discovery.

They reached the landing-place in safety,--an indentation in the shore
about a league above the city and now bearing the name of Wolfe's Cove.
Here a narrow path led up the face of the heights, and a French guard
was posted at the top to defend the pass. By the force of the current
the foremost boats, including that which carried Wolfe himself, were
borne a little below the spot. The general was one of the first on
shore. He looked upward at the rugged heights which towered above him in
the gloom. "You can try it," he coolly observed to an officer near him;
"but I don't think you'll get up."

At the point where the Highlanders landed, one of their captains, Donald
Macdonald, apparently the same whose presence of mind had just saved the
enterprise from ruin, was climbing in advance of his men, when he was
challenged by a sentinel. He replied in French, by declaring that he had
been sent to relieve the guard, and ordering the soldier to withdraw.
Before the latter was undeceived, a crowd of Highlanders were close at
hand, while the steeps below were thronged with eager climbers, dragging
themselves up by trees, roots, and bushes. The guard turned out and made
a brief though brave resistance. In a moment they were cut to pieces,
dispersed, or made prisoners, while men after men came swarming up the
height and quickly formed upon the plains above. Meanwhile the vessels
had dropped downward with the current and anchored opposite the
landing-place. The remaining troops disembarked, and with the dawn of
day, the whole were brought in safety to the shore.

The sun rose, and from the ramparts of Quebec the astonished people saw
the Plains of Abraham glittering with arms, and the dark-red lines of
the English forming in array of battle. Breathless messengers had borne
the evil tidings to Montcalm, and far and near his wide-extended camp
resounded with the rolling of alarm-drums and the din of startled
preparation. He, too, had had his struggles and his sorrows. The civil
power had thwarted him; famine, discontent, and disaffection were rife
among his soldiers; and no small portion of the Canadian militia had
dispersed from sheer starvation. In spite of all, he had trusted to hold
out till the winter frosts should drive the invaders from before the
town, when on that disastrous morning the news of their successful
temerity fell like a cannon-shot upon his ear. Still he assumed a tone
of confidence. "They have got to the weak side of us at last," he is
reported to have said, "and we must crush them with our numbers." With
headlong haste his troops were pouring over the bridge of St. Charles,
and gathering in heavy masses under the western ramparts of the town.
Could numbers give assurance of success, their triumph would have been
secure, for five French battalions and the armed colonial peasantry
amounted in all to more than seven thousand five hundred men. Full in
sight before stretched the long, thin lines of the British forces--the
Highlanders, the steady soldiery of England, and the hardy levies of the
provinces--less than five thousand in number, but all inured to battle,
and strong in the full assurance of success.

It was nine o'clock, and the adverse armies stood motionless, each
gazing on the other. The clouds hung low, and at intervals warm light
showers descended besprinkling both alike. The coppice and corn-fields
in front of the British troops were filled with French sharp-shooters,
who kept up a distant spattering fire. Here and there a soldier fell in
the ranks, and the gap was filled in silence.

At a little before ten the British could see that Montcalm was preparing
to advance, and in a few moments all his troops appeared in rapid
motion. They came on in three divisions, shouting after the manner of
their nation, and firing heavily as soon as they came within range. In
the British ranks not a trigger was pulled, not a soldier stirred, and
their ominous composure seemed to damp the spirits of the assailants. It
was not till the French were within forty yards that the fatal word was
given, and the British muskets blazed forth at once in one crashing
explosion. Like a ship at full career arrested with sudden ruin on a
sunken rock, the ranks of Montcalm staggered, shivered, and broke before
that wasting storm of lead. The smoke rolling along the field for a
moment shut out the view, but, when the white wreaths were scattered on
the wind, a wretched spectacle was disclosed: men and officers tumbled
in heaps, battalions resolved into a mob, order and obedience gone; and,
when the British muskets were levelled for a second volley, the masses
of the militia were seen to cower and shrink with uncontrollable panic.
For a few minutes the French regulars stood their ground, returning a
sharp and not ineffectual fire. But now, echoing cheer on cheer,
redoubling volley on volley, trampling the dying and the dead, and
driving the fugitives in crowds, the British troops advanced and swept
the field before them. The ardour of the men burst all restraint. They
broke into a run and with unsparing slaughter chased the flying
multitude to the gates of Quebec. Foremost of all, the light-footed
Highlanders dashed along in furious pursuit, hewing down the Frenchmen
with their broadswords and slaying many in the very ditch of the
fortifications. Never was victory more quick or more decisive.

In the short action and pursuit the French lost fifteen hundred men,
killed, wounded, and taken. Of the remainder some escaped within the
city, and others fled across the St. Charles to rejoin their comrades
who had been left to guard the camp. The pursuers were recalled by sound
of trumpet, the broken ranks were formed afresh, and the English troops
withdrawn beyond reach of the cannon of Quebec. Townshend and Murray,
the only general officers who remained unhurt, passed to the head of
every regiment in turn and thanked the soldiers for the bravery they had
shown; yet the triumph of the victors was mingled with sadness as
tidings went from rank to rank that Wolfe had fallen.

In the heat of the action, as he advanced at the head of the grenadiers
of Louisburg, a bullet shattered his wrist, but he wrapped his
handkerchief about the wound, and showed no sign of pain. A moment more
and a ball pierced his side. Still he pressed forward waving his sword
and cheering his soldiers to the attack, when a third shot lodged deep
within his breast. He paused, reeled, and staggering to one side, fell
to earth. Brown, a lieutenant of the grenadiers, Henderson, a volunteer,
an officer of artillery, and a private soldier, raised him together in
their arms, and bearing him to the rear laid him softly on the grass.
They asked if he would have a surgeon, but he shook his head and
answered that all was over with him. His eyes closed with the torpor of
approaching death, and those around sustained his fainting form. Yet
they could not withhold their gaze from the wild turmoil before them,
and the charging ranks of their companions rushing through fire and
smoke. "See how they run," one of the officers exclaimed, as the French
fell in confusion before the levelled bayonets. "Who run?" demanded
Wolfe, opening his eyes like a man aroused from sleep. "The enemy, sir,"
was the reply; "they give way everywhere." "Then," said the dying
general, "tell Colonel Burton to march Webb's regiment down to Charles
River, to cut off their retreat from the bridge. Now, God be praised, I
shall die in peace," he murmured; and turning on his side he calmly
breathed his last.

Almost at the same moment fell his great adversary, Montcalm, as he
strove with vain bravery to rally his shattered ranks. Struck down with
a mortal wound, he was placed upon a litter and borne to the General
Hospital on the banks of the St. Charles. The surgeons told him that he
could not recover. "I am glad of it," was his calm reply. He then asked
how long he might survive, and was told that he had not many hours
remaining. "So much the better," he said; "I am happy that I shall not
live to see the surrender of Quebec." Officers from the garrison came to
his bedside to ask his orders and instructions. "I will give no more
orders," replied the defeated soldier; "I have much business that must
be attended to, of greater moment than your ruined garrison and this
wretched country. My time is very short, therefore, pray leave me."

The victorious army encamped before Quebec and pushed their
preparations for the siege with zealous energy, but, before a single gun
was brought to bear, the white flag was hung out, and the garrison
surrendered. On the eighteenth of September, 1759, the rock-built
citadel of Canada passed for ever from the hands of its ancient masters.

Parkman: "The Conspiracy of Pontiac."




CANADA


    Montcalm and Wolfe! Wolfe and Montcalm!
      Quebec, thy storied citadel
    Attests in burning song and psalm
      How here thy heroes fell!

    O thou that bor'st the battle's brunt
      At Queenston and at Lundy's Lane,--
    On whose scant ranks, but iron front
      The battle broke in vain!--

    Whose was the danger, whose the day,
      From whose triumphant throats the cheers,
    At Chrysler's Farm, at Chateauguay,
      Storming like clarion-bursts our ears?

    On soft Pacific slopes,--beside
      Strange floods that northward rave and fall,--
    Where chafes Acadia's chainless tide--
      Thy sons await thy call.

    They wait; but some in exile, some
      With strangers housed, in stranger lands,--
    And some Canadian lips are dumb
      Beneath Egyptian sands.

    O mystic Nile! Thy secret yields
      Before us; thy most ancient dreams
    Are mixed with far Canadian fields
      And murmur of Canadian streams.

    But thou, my country, dream not thou!
      Wake, and behold how night is done,--
    How on thy breast, and o'er thy brow,
      Bursts the uprising sun!

Charles G. D. Roberts




Love your country, believe in her, honour her, work for her, live for
her, die for her. Never has any people been endowed with a nobler
birthright or blessed with prospects of a fairer future.

Lord Dufferin




SCROOGE'S CHRISTMAS

(On Christmas Eve, Scrooge, "a squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping,
clutching, covetous old sinner," is visited by three ghosts in
succession--The Ghost of Christmas Past, the Ghost of Christmas Present,
and the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come. The first recalled the
experiences of Scrooge's youth, the second showed him Christmas as it
might be spent and incidentally, too, what some people thought of him.
The third showed him the "shadows of the things that have not happened,
but will happen in the time before us." He saw himself dead, uncared
for, unwept, unwatched, his effects plundered by the charwoman,
laundress, and undertaker's man and realized the end to which he must
come unless he led an altered life. Holding up his hands he prayed to
have his fate reversed and saw the Ghost shrink and dwindle down into a
bedpost.)


Yes! and the bedpost was his own. The bed was his own, the room was his
own. Best and happiest of all, the Time before him was his own to make
amends in.

"I will live in the Past, the Present, and the Future!" Scrooge
repeated, as he scrambled out of bed. "The Spirits of all Three shall
strive within me. O Jacob Marley! Heaven and the Christmas Time be
praised for this! I say it on my knees, old Jacob; on my knees!"

He was so fluttered and so glowing with his good intentions, that his
broken voice could scarcely answer to his call. He had been sobbing
violently in his conflict with the Spirit, and his face was wet with
tears.

"They are not torn down," cried Scrooge, folding one of his bed
curtains in his arms,--"they are not torn down, rings and all. They are
here,--I am here,--the shadows of the things that would have been may be
dispelled. They will be. I know they will!"

His hands were busy with his garments all this time; turning them inside
out, putting them on upside down, tearing them, mislaying them, making
them parties to every kind of extravagance.

"I don't know what to do!" cried Scrooge, laughing and crying in the
same breath; and making a perfect Laocoon of himself with his stockings.
"I am as light as a feather, I am as happy as an angel, I am as merry as
a school-boy. I am as giddy as a drunken man. A Merry Christmas to
everybody! A Happy New Year to all the world! Hallo here! Whoop! Hallo!"

He had frisked into the sitting-room, and was now standing there,
perfectly winded.

"There's the sauce-pan that the gruel was in!" cried Scrooge, starting
off again, and going round the fireplace. "There's the door by which the
Ghost of Jacob Marley entered! There's the corner where the Ghost of
Christmas Present sat! There's the window where I saw the wandering
Spirits! It's all right, it's all true, it all happened. Ha, ha, ha!"

Really, for a man who had been out of practice for so many years, it was
a splendid laugh, a most illustrious laugh. The father of a long, long
line of brilliant laughs!

"I don't know what day of the month it is," said Scrooge. "I don't know
how long I have been amongst the Spirits. I don't know anything. I'm
quite a baby. Never mind. I don't care. I'd rather be a baby. Hallo!
Whoop! Hallo here!"

He was checked in his transports by the churches ringing out the
lustiest peals he had ever heard. Clang, clash, hammer; ding, dong,
bell. Bell, dong, ding; hammer, clang, clash! O, glorious, glorious!

Running to the window, he opened it, and put out his head. No fog, no
mist; clear, bright, jovial, stirring cold; cold, piping for the blood
to dance to; golden sunlight; heavenly sky; sweet fresh air; merry
bells. O, glorious, glorious!

"What's to-day?" cried Scrooge, calling downward to a boy in Sunday
clothes, who perhaps had loitered in to look about him.

"Eh?" returned the boy, with all his might of wonder.

"What's to-day, my fine fellow?" said Scrooge.

"To-day!" replied the boy. "Why, CHRISTMAS DAY."

"It's Christmas Day!" said Scrooge to himself. "I haven't missed it. The
Spirits have done it all in one night. They can do anything they like.
Of course they can. Of course they can. Hallo, my fine fellow?"

"Hallo!" returned the boy.

"Do you know the Poulterer's, in the next street but one, at the
corner?" Scrooge inquired.

"I should hope I did," replied the lad.

"An intelligent boy!" said Scrooge. "A remarkable boy! Do you know
whether they've sold the prize turkey that was hanging up there?--Not
the little prize turkey, the big one?"

"What, the one as big as me?" said the boy.

"What a delightful boy!" said Scrooge. "It's a pleasure to talk to him.
Yes, my buck!"

"It's hanging there now," replied the boy.

"Is it?" said Scrooge. "Go and buy it."

"WALK-ER!" exclaimed the boy.

"No, no," said Scrooge, "I am in earnest. Go and buy it and tell 'em to
bring it here, that I may give them the direction where to take it. Come
back with the man, and I'll give you a shilling. Come back with him in
less than five minutes, and I'll give you half-a-crown!"

The boy was off like a shot. He must have had a steady hand at the
trigger who could have got a shot off half so fast.

"I'll send it to Bob Cratchit's," whispered Scrooge, rubbing his hands,
and splitting with a laugh. "He shan't know who sends it. It's twice the
size of Tiny Tim. Joe Miller never made such a joke as sending it to
Bob's will be!"

The hand in which he wrote the address was not a steady one, but write
he did, somehow, and went down-stairs to open the street door, ready for
the coming of the Poulterer's man. As he stood there, waiting his
arrival, the knocker caught his eye.

"I shall love it as long as I live!" cried Scrooge, patting it with his
hand. "I scarcely ever looked at it before. What an honest expression it
has in its face! It's a wonderful knocker!--Here's the turkey. Hallo!
Whoop! How are you? Merry Christmas!"

It _was_ a turkey! He could never have stood upon his legs, that bird.
He would have snapped 'em off short in a minute, like sticks of
sealing-wax.

"Why, it's impossible to carry that to Camden Town," said Scrooge. "You
must have a cab."

The chuckle with which he said this, and the chuckle with which he paid
for the turkey, and the chuckle with which he paid for the cab, and the
chuckle with which he recompensed the boy, were only exceeded by the
chuckle with which he sat down breathlessly in his chair again, and
chuckled till he cried.

Shaving was not an easy task, for his hand continued to shake very much;
and shaving requires attention, even when you don't dance while you are
at it. But, if he had cut the end of his nose off, he would have put a
piece of sticking-plaster over it, and been quite satisfied.

He dressed himself "all in his best," and at last got out into the
streets. The people were by this time pouring forth, as he had seen them
with the Ghost of Christmas Present; and, walking with his hands behind
him, Scrooge regarded everyone with a delighted smile. He looked so
irresistibly pleasant, in a word, that three or four good-humoured
fellows said: "Good-morning, sir! A Merry Christmas to you!" And Scrooge
said often afterwards, that, of all the blithe sounds he had ever heard,
those were the blithest in his ears....

He went to church, and walked about the streets, and watched the people
hurrying to and fro, and patted the children on the head, and questioned
beggars, and looked down into the kitchens of houses and up to the
windows, and found that every thing could yield him pleasure. He had
never dreamed that any walk--that anything--could give him so much
happiness. In the afternoon, he turned his steps towards his nephew's
house.

He passed the door a dozen times before he had the courage to go up and
knock. But he made a dash and did it.

"Is your master at home, my dear?" said Scrooge to the girl. "Nice girl!
Very."

"Yes, sir."

"Where is he, my love?" said Scrooge.

"He's in the dining-room, sir, along with mistress. I'll show you
upstairs, if you please."

"Thank'ee. He knows me," said Scrooge, with his hand already on the
dining-room lock. "I'll go in here, my dear."

He turned it gently, and sidled his face in, round the door. They were
looking at the table (which was spread out in great array); for these
young housekeepers are always nervous on such points, and like to see
that everything is right.

"Fred!" said Scrooge. Dear heart alive, how his niece by marriage
started!...

"Why, bless my soul!" cried Fred, "Who's that?"

"It's I. Your uncle Scrooge. I have come to dinner. Will you let me in,
Fred?"

Let him in! It is a mercy he didn't shake his arm off. He was at home in
five minutes. Nothing could be heartier. His niece looked just the same.
So did Topper when _he_ came. So did the plump sister when _she_ came.
So did everybody when _they_ came. Wonderful party, wonderful games,
wonderful unanimity, won-der-ful happiness!

But he was early at the office next morning. Oh, he was early there. If
he could only be there first, and catch Bob Cratchit coming late! That
was the first thing he had set his heart upon.

And he did it; yes, he did! The clock struck nine. No Bob. A quarter
past. No Bob. He was full eighteen minutes and a half behind his time.
Scrooge sat with his door wide open, that he might see him come into the
Tank.

His hat was off, before he opened the door, his comforter, too. He was
on his stool in a jiffy, driving away with his pen, as if he were trying
to overtake nine o'clock.

"Hallo!" growled Scrooge, in his accustomed voice, as near as he could
feign it. "What do you mean by coming here at this time of day?"

"I am very sorry, sir," said Bob. "I _am_ behind my time."

"You are!" repeated Scrooge. "Yes, I think you are. Step this way, sir,
if you please."

"It's only once a year, sir," pleaded Bob, appearing from the Tank. "It
shall not be repeated. I was making rather merry yesterday, sir."

"Now, I'll tell you what, my friend," said Scrooge, "I am not going to
stand this sort of thing any longer. And therefore," he continued,
leaping from his stool, and giving Bob such a dig in his waistcoat that
he staggered back into the Tank again,--"and, therefore, I am about to
raise your salary!"

Bob trembled, and got a little nearer to the ruler. He had a momentary
idea of knocking Scrooge down with it, holding him, and calling to the
people in the court for help and a strait-waistcoat.

"A Merry Christmas, Bob!" said Scrooge, with an earnestness that could
not be mistaken, as he clapped him on the back. "A Merrier Christmas,
Bob, my good fellow, than I have given you for many a year! I'll raise
your salary, and endeavour to assist your struggling family, and we'll
discuss your affairs this very afternoon, over a Christmas bowl of
smoking bishop. Bob! Make up the fires, and buy another scuttle of coal
before you dot another i, Bob Cratchit!"

Scrooge was better than his word. He did it all, and infinitely more;
and to Tiny Tim, who did NOT die, he was second father. He became as
good a friend, as good a master, and as good a man as the good old city
knew, or any other good old city, town, or borough, in the good old
world. Some people laughed to see the alteration in him, but he let them
laugh, and little heeded them; for he was wise enough to know nothing
ever happened on this globe, for good, at which some people did not have
their fill of laughter in the outset; and knowing that such as these
would be blind any way, he thought it quite as well that they should
wrinkle up their eyes in grins, as have the malady in less attractive
forms. His own heart laughed, and that was quite enough for him.

He had no further intercourse with Spirits, but lived upon the Total
Abstinence Principle ever afterwards; and it was always said of him,
that he knew how to keep Christmas well, if any man alive possessed the
knowledge. May that be truly said of us, and all of us! And so, as Tiny
Tim observed, GOD BLESS US EVERY ONE!

Dickens: "A Christmas Carol."




HANDS ALL ROUND


    First pledge our Queen this solemn night,
      Then drink to England, every guest;
    That man's the best Cosmopolite
      Who loves his native country best.
    May freedom's oak for ever live
      With stronger life from day to day;
    That man's the true Conservative
      Who lops the moulder'd branch away.
            Hands all round!
      God the traitor's hope confound!
    To this great cause of Freedom drink, my friends,
      And the great name of England, round and round.

    To all the loyal hearts who long
      To keep our English Empire whole!
    To all our noble sons, the strong
      New England of the Southern Pole!
    To England under Indian skies,
      To those dark millions of her realm!
    To Canada whom we love and prize,
      Whatever statesman hold the helm.
            Hands all round!
      God the traitor's hope confound!
    To this great name of England drink, my friends,
      And all her glorious empire, round and round.

    To all our statesmen so they be
      True leaders of the land's desire!
    To both our Houses, may they see
      Beyond the borough and the shire!
    We sail'd wherever ship could sail,
      We founded many a mighty state;
    Pray God our greatness may not fail
      Through craven fears of being great.
            Hands all round!
      God the traitor's hope confound!
    To this great cause of Freedom drink, my friends,
      And the great name of England, round and round.

Tennyson




JUDAH'S SUPPLICATION TO JOSEPH


And Judah and his brethren came to Joseph's house; and he was yet there:
and they fell before him on the ground. And Joseph said unto them, What
deed is this that ye have done? know ye not that such a man as I can
indeed divine? And Judah said, What shall we say unto my lord? what
shall we speak? or how shall we clear ourselves? God hath found out the
iniquity of thy servants: behold, we are my lord's bondmen, both we, and
he also in whose hand the cup is found. And he said, God forbid that I
should do so: the man in whose hand the cup is found, he shall be my
bondman; but as for you, get you up in peace unto your father.

Then Judah came near unto him, and said, Oh my lord, let thy servant, I
pray thee, speak a word in my lord's ears, and let not thine anger burn
against thy servant: for thou art even as Pharaoh. My lord asked his
servants, saying, Have ye a father, or a brother? And we said unto my
lord, We have a father, an old man, and a child of his old age, a little
one; and his brother is dead, and he alone is left of his mother, and
his father loveth him. And thou saidst unto thy servants, Bring him
down unto me, that I may set mine eyes upon him. And we said unto my
lord, The lad cannot leave his father: for if he should leave his
father, his father would die. And thou saidst unto thy servants, Except
your youngest brother come down with you, ye shall see my face no more.
And it came to pass when we came up unto thy servant my father, we told
him the words of my lord. And our father said, Go again, buy us a little
food. And we said, We cannot go down: if our youngest brother be with
us, then will we go down: for we may not see the man's face, except our
youngest brother be with us. And thy servant my father said unto us, Ye
know that my wife bare me two sons: and the one went out from me, and I
said, Surely he is torn in pieces; and I have not seen him since: and if
ye take this one also from me, and mischief befall him, ye shall bring
down my gray hairs with sorrow to the grave. Now, therefore, when I come
to thy servant my father, and the lad be not with us; seeing that his
life is bound up in the lad's life; it shall come to pass, when he seeth
that the lad is not with us, that he will die: and thy servants shall
bring down the gray hairs of thy servant our father with sorrow to the
grave. For thy servant became surety for the lad unto my father, saying,
If I bring him not unto thee, then shall I bear the blame to my father
for ever. Now therefore, let thy servant, I pray thee, abide instead of
the lad a bondman to my lord; and let the lad go up with his brethren.
For how shall I go up to my father, and the lad be not with me? lest I
see the evil that shall come on my father.

Then Joseph could not refrain himself before all them that stood by him;
and he cried, Cause every man to go out from me. And there stood no man
with him, while Joseph made himself known unto his brethren. And he wept
aloud: and the Egyptians heard, and the house of Pharaoh heard. And
Joseph said unto his brethren, I am Joseph; doth my father yet live? And
his brethren could not answer him; for they were troubled at his
presence. And Joseph said unto his brethren, Come near to me, I pray
you. And they came near. And he said, I am Joseph your brother whom ye
sold into Egypt. And now be not grieved, nor angry with yourselves, that
ye sold me hither: for God did send me before you to preserve life. For
these two years hath the famine been in the land; and there are yet five
years in the which there shall be neither ploughing nor harvest. And
God sent me before you to preserve you a remnant in the earth, and to
save you alive by a great deliverance. So now it was not you that sent
me hither, but God: and he hath made me a father to Pharaoh, and lord of
all his house, and ruler over all the land of Egypt. Haste ye, and go up
to my father, and say unto him, Thus saith thy son Joseph, God hath made
me lord of all Egypt: come down unto me, tarry not: and thou shalt dwell
in the land of Goshen, and thou shalt be near unto me, thou, and thy
children, and thy children's children, and thy flocks, and thy herds,
and all that thou hast: and there will I nourish thee; for there are yet
five years of famine; lest thou come to poverty, thou, and thy
household, and all that thou hast. And, behold, your eyes see, and the
eyes of my brother Benjamin, that it is my mouth that speaketh unto you.
And ye shall tell my father of all my glory in Egypt, and of all that ye
have seen; and ye shall haste and bring down my father hither. And he
fell upon his brother Benjamin's neck, and wept; and Benjamin wept upon
his neck. And he kissed all his brethren, and wept upon them; and after
that his brethren talked with him.

Genesis, XLIV-V.




MIRIAM'S SONG

(Read Exodus, XV.)


    Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea!
    Jehovah hath triumphed--His people are free.
    Sing--for the pride of the tyrant is broken,
    His chariots and horsemen all splendid and brave,
    How vain was their boasting! the Lord hath but spoken,
    And chariots and horsemen are sunk in the wave.
    Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea!
    Jehovah hath triumphed--His people are free.

    Praise to the Conqueror, praise to the Lord!
    His word was the arrow, His breath was our sword!
    Who shall return to tell Egypt the story
    Of those she sent forth in the power of her pride?
    For the Lord hath looked out from His pillar of glory,
    And all her brave thousands are dashed in the tide.
    Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea!
    Jehovah hath triumphed--His people are free.

Thomas Moore




THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB

(Read II. Kings, XIX. 35)


    The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,
    And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;
    And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,
    When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.

    Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green,
    That host with their banners at sunset were seen:
    Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown,
    That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.

    For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
    And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed;
    And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,
    And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!

    And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,
    But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride:
    And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
    And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.

    And there lay the rider, distorted and pale,
    With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail;
    And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
    The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.

    And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
    And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;
    And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
    Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!

Byron




    The house of the wicked shall be overthrown:
    But the tent of the upright shall flourish.
    In the fear of the Lord is strong confidence:
    And his children shall have a place of refuge.

Proverbs




THE LARK AT THE DIGGINGS


The friends strode briskly on, and a little after eleven o'clock they
came upon a small squatter's house and premises. "Here we are," cried
George, and his eyes glittered with innocent delight.

The house was thatched and whitewashed, and English was written on it
and on every foot of ground round it. A furze-bush had been planted by
the door. Vertical oak palings were the fence, with a five-barred gate
in the middle of them. From the little plantation, all the magnificent
trees and shrubs of Australia had been excluded with amazing resolution
and consistency, and oak and ash reigned safe from overtowering rivals.
They passed to the back of the house, and there George's countenance
fell a little, for on the oval grass-plot and gravel-walk he found from
thirty to forty rough fellows, most of them diggers.

"Ah, well," said he, on reflection, "we could not expect to have it all
to ourselves, and indeed it would be a sin to wish it, you know. Now,
Tom, come this way; here it is, here it is,--there." Tom looked up, and
in a gigantic cage was a light brown bird.

He was utterly confounded. "What, is it this we came twelve miles to
see?"

"Ay! and twice twelve wouldn't have been much to me."

"Well, but what is the lark you talked of?"

"This is it."

"This? This is a bird."

"Well, and isn't a lark a bird?"

"O, ay! I see! ha! ha! ha! ha!"

Robinson's merriment was interrupted by a harsh remonstrance from
several of the diggers, who were all from the other end of the camp.

"Hold your--cackle," cried one, "he is going to sing;" and the whole
party had their eyes turned with expectation towards the bird.

Like most singers, he kept them waiting a bit. But at last, just at
noon, when the mistress of the house had warranted him to sing, the
little feathered exile began, as it were, to tune his pipes. The savage
men gathered round the cage that moment, and amidst a dead stillness the
bird uttered some very uncertain chirps, but after awhile he seemed to
revive his memories, and call his ancient cadences back to him one by
one, and string them _sotto voce_.

And then the same sun that had warmed his little heart at home came
glowing down on him here, and he gave music back for it more and more,
till at last--amidst breathless silence and glistening eyes of the rough
diggers hanging on his voice--out burst in that distant land his English
song.

It swelled his little throat and gushed from him with thrilling force
and purity, and every time he checked his song to think of its theme,
the green meadows, the quiet stealing streams, the clover he first
soared from, and the spring he sang so well, a loud sigh from many a
rough bosom, many a wild and wicked heart, told how tight the listeners
had held their breath to hear him; and when he swelled with song again,
and poured with all his soul the green meadows, the quiet brooks, the
honey clover, and the English spring, the rugged mouths opened and so
stayed, and the shaggy lips trembled, and more than one drop trickled
from fierce unbridled hearts down bronzed and rugged cheeks.

_Dulce domum!_

And these shaggy men, full of oaths and strife and cupidity, had once
been white-headed boys, and had strolled about the English fields with
little sisters and little brothers, and seen the lark rise, and heard
him sing this very song. The little playmates lay in the churchyard,
and they were full of oaths and drink and lusts and remorses,--but no
note was changed in this immortal song. And so for a moment or two,
years of vice rolled away like a dark cloud from the memory, and the
past shone out in the song-shine: they came back, bright as the immortal
notes that lighted them, those faded pictures and those fleeted days;
the cottage, the old mother's tears when he left her without one grain
of sorrow; the village church and its simple chimes; the clover field
hard by in which he lay and gambolled, while the lark praised God
overhead; the chubby playmates that never grew to be wicked, the sweet
hours of youth--and innocence--and home.

Charles Reade: "It is Never Too Late to Mend."




THE ANCIENT MARINER


    It is an ancient Mariner,
      And he stoppeth one of three.
    "By thy long gray beard and glittering eye,
      Now wherefore stopp'st thou me?

    The Bridegroom's doors are opened wide,
      And I am next of kin;
    The guests are met, the feast is set:
      May'st hear the merry din."

    He holds him with his skinny hand,
      "There was a ship," quoth he.
    "Hold off! unhand me, grey-beard, loon!"
      Eftsoons his hand dropt he.

    He holds him with his glittering eye--
      The Wedding-Guest stood still,
    And listens like a three years' child:
      The Mariner hath his will.

    The Wedding-Guest sat on a stone:
      He cannot choose but hear;
    And thus spake on that ancient man,
      The bright-eyed Mariner:

    "The ship was cheered, the harbour cleared,
      Merrily did we drop
    Below the kirk, below the hill,
      Below the lighthouse top.

    The Sun came up upon the left,
      Out of the sea came he!
    And he shone bright, and on the right
      Went down into the sea.

    Higher and higher every day,
      Till over the mast at noon--"
    The Wedding-Guest here beat his breast,
      For he heard the loud bassoon.

    The Bride hath paced into the hall,
      Red as a rose is she;
    Nodding their heads before her goes
      The merry minstrelsy.

    The Wedding-Guest he beat his breast,
      Yet he cannot choose but hear;
    And thus spake on that ancient man,
      The bright-eyed Mariner:

    "And now the storm-blast came, and he
      Was tyrannous and strong:
    He struck with his o'ertaking wings,
      And chased us south along.

    With sloping masts and dipping prow,
      As who pursued with yell and blow
    Still treads the shadow of his foe,
      And forward bends his head,
    The ship drove fast, loud roared the blast,
      And southward aye we fled.

    And now there came both mist and snow,
      And it grew wondrous cold:
    And ice, mast-high, came floating by,
      As green as emerald.

    And through the drifts the snowy clifts
      Did send a dismal sheen:
    Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken--
      The ice was all between.

    The ice was here, the ice was there,
      The ice was all around:
    It cracked and growled, and roared and howled,
      Like noises in a swound.

    At length did cross an Albatross,--
      Thorough the fog it came;
    As if it had been a Christian soul,
      We hailed it in God's name.

    It ate the food it ne'er had eat,
      And round and round it flew.
    The ice did split with a thunder-fit;
      The helmsman steered us through!

    And a good south wind sprung up behind;
      The Albatross did follow,
    And every day, for food or play,
      Came to the mariners' hollo!

    In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud,
      It perched for vespers nine;
    Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white,
      Glimmered the white Moon-shine."

    "God save thee, ancient Mariner,
      From the fiends, that plague thee thus!--
    Why look'st thou so?"--"With my cross-bow
      I shot the Albatross."

Coleridge




AT THE CLOSE OF THE FRENCH PERIOD IN CANADA


When the flag of France departed from Canada, it left a people destined
to find under the new rule a fuller freedom, an ampler political
development, a far more abundant prosperity. It left a people destined
to honour their new allegiance by loyalty and heroic service in the hour
of trial.

This people, which thus became British by a campaign and a treaty, was
destined to form the solid core around which should grow the vast
Confederation of Canada. But for them there would now, in all
likelihood, be no Canada. By their rejection of the proposals of the
revolted colonies, the northern half of this continent was preserved to
Great Britain. The debt which the empire owes to the French Canadians is
immeasurably greater than we at present realize. Let us examine the
characteristics of the small and isolated people which was to exercise
such a deep influence on the future of this continent.

The whole population of Canada when she came under the British flag was
about sixty thousand. This hardy handful was gathered chiefly at Quebec,
Three Rivers, and Montreal. The rest trailed thinly along the shores of
the St. Lawrence and the Richelieu. The lands about the Great Lakes, and
the western country, were held only by a few scattered forts, buried
here and there in the green wilderness. At Detroit had sprung up a
scanty settlement of perhaps one thousand souls. In these remote posts
the all-important question was still that of the fur-trade with the
Indians. The traders and the soldiers, cut off from civilization,
frequently took wives from the Indian tribes about them, and settled
down to a life half barbarous. These men soon grew as lawless as their
adopted kinsfolk. They were a weakness and a discredit to the country in
time of peace, but in war their skill and daring were the frontier's
best defence.

Quebec had seven thousand inhabitants. Most of them dwelt between the
water's edge and the foot of the great cliff whose top was crowned by
the citadel. Where the shoulder of the promontory swept around toward
the St. Charles, the slope became more gentle, and there the houses and
streets began to clamber toward the summit. Streets that found
themselves growing too precipitous had a way, then as now, of changing
suddenly into flights of stairs. The city walls, grimly bastioned, ran
in bold zigzags across the face of the steep in a way to daunt
assailants. Down the hillside, past the cathedral and the college,
through the heart of the city, clattered a noisy brook, which in time of
freshet flooded the neighbouring streets. Part of the city was within
walls, part without. Most of the houses were low, one-story buildings,
with large expanse of steep roof, and high dormer windows. Along the
incline leading down to the St. Charles stretched populous suburbs. On
the high plateau where now lies the stately New Town, there was then but
a bleak pasture-land whose grasses waved against the city gates.

Montreal, after its childhood of awful trial, had greatly prospered. Its
population had risen to about nine thousand. The fur-trade of the
mysterious Northwest, developed by a succession of daring and tireless
wood-rangers, had poured its wealth into the lap of the city of
Maisonneuve. The houses, some of which were built of the light gray
stone which now gives dignity to the city, were usually of but one
story. They were arranged in three or four long lines parallel to the
river. The towers of the Seminary of St. Sulpicius and the spires of
three churches, standing out against the green of the stately mountain,
were conspicuous from afar to voyagers coming up the river from Quebec.
The city was inclosed by a stone wall and a shallow ditch, once useful
as a defence against the Indians, but no protection in the face of
serious assault. At the lower end of the city, covering the
landing-place, rose a high earthwork crowned with cannon.

The houses of the _habitants_, tillers of the soil, were small cabins,
humble but warm, with wide, overhanging eaves, and consisting at most of
two rooms. The partition, when there was one, was of boards. Lath and
plaster were unknown. The walls within, to the height of a man's
shoulders, were worn smooth by the backs that leaned against them. Solid
wooden boxes and benches usually took the place of chairs. A clumsy
loom, on which the women wove their coarse homespuns of wool or flax,
occupied one corner of the main room; and a deep, box-like cradle,
always rocking, stood beside the ample fireplace. Over the fire stood
the long, black arms of a crane, on which was done most of the cooking;
though the "bake-kettle" sometimes relieved its labours, and the brick
oven was a standby in houses of the rich _habitants_, as well as of the
gentry. For the roasting of meats the spit was much in use; and there
was a gridiron with legs, to stand on the hearth, with a heap of hot
coals raked under it. The houses even of the upper classes were seldom
two stories in height. But they were generally furnished with a good
deal of luxury; and in the cities they were sometimes built of stone.

A typical country mansion, the dwelling of a seigneur on his own domain,
was usually of the following fashion. The main building, one story in
height but perhaps a hundred feet long, was surmounted by lofty gables
and a very steep roof, built thus to shed the snow and to give a roomy
attic for bed-chambers. The attic was lighted by numerous, high-peaked
dormer windows, piercing the expanse of the roof. This main building was
flanked by one or more wings. Around it clustered the wash-house
(adjoining the kitchen), coach house, barns, stable, and woodsheds. This
homelike cluster of walls and roofs was sheltered from the winter storm
by groves of evergreen, and girdled cheerily by orchard and
kitchen-garden. On one side, and not far off, was usually a village with
a church-spire gleaming over it; on the other a circular stone mill,
resembling a little fortress rather than a peaceful aid to industry.
This structure, where all the tenants of the seigneur were obliged to
grind their grain, had indeed been built in the first place to serve not
only as a mill, but as a place of refuge from the Iroquois. It was
furnished with loopholes, and was impregnable to the attacks of an enemy
lacking cannon.

The dress of the upper classes was like that prevailing among the same
classes in France, though much less extravagant. The long, wide-frocked
coats were of gay-coloured and costly material, with lace at neck and
wristbands. The waistcoat might be richly embroidered with gold or
silver. Knee-breeches took the place of our unsightly trousers, and were
fastened with bright buckles at the knee. Stockings were of white or
coloured silk, and shoes were set off by broad buckles at the instep.
These, of course, were the dresses of ceremony, the dresses seen at
balls and grand receptions. Out-of-doors, and in the winter especially,
the costumes of the nobility were more distinctly Canadian. Overcoats of
native cloth were worn, with large, pointed hoods. Their pattern is
preserved to the present day in the blanket coats of our snow-shoers.
Young men might be seen going about in colours that brightened the
desolate winter landscape. Gay belts of green, blue, red, or yellow
enriched the waists of their thick overcoats. Their scarlet leggings
were laced up with green ribbons. Their moccasins were gorgeously
embroidered with dyed porcupine quills. Their caps of beaver or martin
were sometimes tied down over their ears with vivid handkerchiefs of
silk. The _habitants_ were rougher and more sombre in their dress. A
black homespun coat, gray leggings, gray woollen cap, heavy moccasins of
cowhide,--this grave costume was usually brightened by a belt or sash of
the liveliest colours. The country-women had to content themselves with
the same coarse homespuns, which they wore in short, full skirts. But
they got the gay colours which they loved in kerchiefs for their necks
and shoulders.

In war the regulars were sharply distinguished from those of the British
army by their uniforms. The white of the House of Bourbon was the colour
that marked their regiments, as scarlet marked those of the British. The
militia and wood-rangers fought in their ordinary dress,--or,
occasionally, with the object of terrifying their enemies, put on the
war-paint and eagle-quills of the Indians. The muskets of the day were
the heavy weapons known as flint-locks. When the trigger was pulled the
flint came down sharply on a piece of steel, and the spark, falling into
a shallow "pan" of powder called the "priming," ignited the charge. The
regulars carried bayonets on the ends of their muskets, but the militia
and rangers had little use for these weapons. They depended on their
marksmanship, which was deadly. The regulars fired breast high in the
direction of their enemy, trusting to the steadiness and closeness of
their fire; but the colonials did not waste their precious bullets and
powder in this way. They had learned from the Indians, whom they could
beat at their own game, to fight from behind trees, rocks, or hillocks,
to load and fire lying down, and to surprise their enemies by stealing
noiselessly through the underbrush. At close quarters they fought, like
the Indians, with knife and hatchet, both of which were carried in their
belts. From the ranger's belt, too, when on the march, hung the leathern
bag of bullets, and the inevitable tobacco-pouch; while from his neck
swung a powder-horn, often richly carved, together with his cherished
pipe inclosed in its case of skin. Very often, however, the ranger
spared himself the trouble of a pipe by scooping a bowl in the back of
his tomahawk and fitting it with a hollow handle. Thus the same
implement became both the comfort of his leisure and the torment of his
enemies. In winter, when the Canadians, expert in the use of the
snow-shoe and fearless of the cold, did much of their fighting, they
wore thick peaked hoods over their heads, and looked like a procession
of friars wending through the silent forest on some errand of piety or
mercy. Their hands were covered by thick mittens of woollen yarn, and
they dragged their provisions and blankets on sleds or toboggans. At
night they would use their snow-shoes to shovel a wide, circular pit in
the snow, clearing it away to the bare earth. In the centre of the pit,
they would build their camp fire, and sleep around it on piles of spruce
boughs, secure from the winter wind. The leaders, usually members of
the nobility, fared on these expeditions as rudely as their men, and
outdid them in courage and endurance. Some of the most noted chiefs of
the wood-rangers were scions of the noblest families; and though living
most of the year the life of savages, were able to shine by their graces
and refinement in the courtliest society of the day.

Charles G. D. Roberts: "History of Canada."




A HYMN OF EMPIRE


    Lord, by Whose might the Heavens stand,
      The Source from Whom they came,
    Who holdest nations in Thy hand,
      And call'st the stars by name,
    Thine ageless forces do not cease
      To mould us as of yore--
    The chiselling of the arts of peace,
      The anvil-strikes of war.

    Then bind our realm in brotherhood,
      Firm laws and equal rights,
    Let each uphold the Empire's good
      In freedom that unites;
    And make that speech whose thunders roll
      Down the broad stream of time
    The harbinger from pole to pole
      Of love and peace sublime.

    Lord, turn the hearts of cowards who prate,
      Afraid to dare or spend,
    The doctrine of a narrower state
      More easy to defend;
    Not this the watchword of our sires,
      Who breathed with ocean's breath,
    Not this our spirit's ancient fires,
      Which naught could quench but death.

    Strong are we? Make us stronger yet;
      Great? Make us greater far;
    Our feet antarctic oceans fret,
      Our crown the polar star:
    Round Earth's wild coasts our batteries speak,
      Our highway is the main,
    We stand as guardian of the weak,
      We burst the oppressor's chain.

    Great God, uphold us in our task,
      Keep pure and clean our rule,
    Silence the honeyed words which mask
      The wisdom of the fool;
    The pillars of the world are Thine,
      Pour down Thy bounteous grace,
    And make illustrious and divine
      The sceptre of our race.

F. G. Scott




STORY OF ABSALOM


So the people went out into the field against Israel: and the battle was
in the wood of Ephraim; where the people of Israel were slain before the
servants of David, and there was there a great slaughter that day of
twenty thousand men. For the battle was there scattered over the face of
all the country: and the wood devoured more people that day than the
sword devoured.

And Absalom met the servants of David. And Absalom rode upon a mule, and
the mule went under the thick boughs of a great oak, and his head caught
hold of the oak, and he was taken up between the heaven and the earth;
and the mule that was under him went away.

And a certain man saw it, and told Joab, and said, Behold, I saw Absalom
hanged in an oak.

And Joab said unto the man that told him, And, behold, thou sawest him,
and why didst thou not smite him there to the ground? and I would have
given thee ten shekels of silver, and a girdle.

And the man said unto Joab, Though I should receive a thousand shekels
of silver in mine hand, yet would I not put forth mine hand against the
king's son: for in our hearing the king charged thee and Abishai and
Ittai, saying, Beware that none touch the young man Absalom. Otherwise I
should have wrought falsehood against mine own life: for there is no
matter hid from the king, and thou thyself wouldest have set thyself
against me.

Then said Joab, I may not tarry thus with thee. And he took three darts
in his hand, and thrust them through the heart of Absalom, while he was
yet alive in the midst of the oak. And ten young men that bare Joab's
armour compassed about and smote Absalom, and slew him.

And Joab blew the trumpet, and the people returned from pursuing after
Israel: for Joab held back the people. And they took Absalom, and cast
him into a great pit in the wood, and laid a very great heap of stones
upon him: and all Israel fled every one to his tent.

     *       *       *      *       *

And David sat between the two gates: and the watchman went up to the
roof over the gate unto the wall, and lifted up his eyes, and looked,
and behold a man running alone. And the watchman cried, and told the
king. And the king said, If he be alone, there is tidings in his mouth.
And he came apace, and drew near.

And the watchman saw another man running: and the watchman called unto
the porter, and said, Behold another man running alone. And the king
said, He also bringeth tidings. And the watchman said, Me thinketh the
running of the foremost is like the running of Ahimaaz, the son of
Zadok. And the king said, He is a good man, and cometh with good
tidings.

And Ahimaaz called, and said unto the king, All is well. And he fell
down to the earth upon his face before the king, and said, Blessed be
the Lord thy God, which hath delivered up the men that lifted up their
hand against my lord the king.

And the king said, Is the young man Absalom safe? And Ahimaaz answered,
When Joab sent the king's servant, and me thy servant, I saw a great
tumult, but I knew not what it was. And the king said unto him, Turn
aside, and stand here. And he turned aside, and stood still.

And, behold, Cushi came; and Cushi said, Tidings, my lord the king: for
the Lord hath avenged thee this day of all them that rose up against
thee. And the king said unto Cushi, Is the young man Absalom safe? And
Cushi answered, The enemies of my lord the king, and all that rise
against thee to do thee hurt, be as that young man is.

And the king was much moved, and went up to the chamber over the gate,
and wept: and as he went, thus he said, O my son Absalom, my son, my son
Absalom! would God I had died for thee, O Absalom, my son, my son!

     *       *       *      *       *

And the victory that day was turned into mourning unto all the people:
for the people heard say that day how the king was grieved for his son.
And the people gat them by stealth that day into the city, as people
being ashamed steal away when they flee in battle.

But the king covered his face, and the king cried with a loud voice, O
my son Absalom, O Absalom, my son, my son!

II. Samuel, XVIII-XIX.




    I slept, and dreamed that life was beauty;
    I woke, and found that life was duty.
    Was my dream, then, a shadowy lie?
    Toil on, brave heart, unceasingly,
    And thou shalt find thy dream to be
    A noonday light and truth to thee.

Hooper




THE BURIAL OF MOSES

(Read Deuteronomy, XXXII. 48-50)


    By Nebo's lonely mountain,
    On this side Jordan's wave,
    In a vale in the land of Moab,
    There lies a lonely grave;
    And no man knows that sepulchre,
    And no man saw it e'er;
    For the angels of God upturned the sod,
    And laid the dead man there.

    That was the grandest funeral
    That ever passed on earth;
    But no man heard the trampling,
    Or saw the train go forth:
    Noiselessly as the daylight
    Comes when the night is done,
    And the crimson streak on ocean's cheek
    Grows into the great sun;

    Noiselessly as the spring-time
    Her crown of verdure weaves,
    And all the trees on all the hills
    Open their thousand leaves:
    So, without sound of music,
    Or voice of them that wept,
    Silently down from the mountain's crown
    The great procession swept.

    Perchance the bald old eagle,
    On gray Beth-peor's height,
    Out of his lonely eyry
    Looked on the wondrous sight;
    Perchance the lion stalking
    Still shuns that hallowed spot;
    For beast and bird have seen and heard
    That which man knoweth not.

    But, when the warrior dieth,
    His comrades in the war,
    With arms reversed and muffled drums,
    Follow his funeral car;
    They show the banners taken,
    They tell his battles won,
    And after him lead his masterless steed,
    While peals the minute-gun.

    Amid the noblest of the land
    We lay the sage to rest,
    And give the bard an honoured place,
    With costly marble dressed,
    In the great minster transept
    Where lights like glories fall,
    And the sweet choir sings, and the organ rings
    Along the emblazoned wall.

    This was the bravest warrior
    That ever buckled sword;
    This the most gifted poet
    That ever breathed a word;
    And never earth's philosopher
    Traced, with his golden pen,
    On the deathless page, truths half so sage
    As he wrote down for men.

    And had he not high honour,--
    The hillside for his pall;
    To lie in state, while angels wait,
    With stars for tapers tall;
    And the dark rock pines, like tossing plumes,
    Over his bier to wave;
    And God's own hand, in that lonely land,
    To lay him in the grave;--

    In that strange grave, without a name,
    Whence his uncoffined clay
    Shall break again--O wondrous thought!--
    Before the judgment-day,
    And stand, with glory wrapped around,
    On the hills he never trod,
    And speak of the strife that won our life
    With the incarnate Son of God.

    O lonely grave in Moab's land!
    O dark Beth-peor's hill!
    Speak to these curious hearts of ours,
    And teach them to be still:
    God hath His mysteries of grace,
    Ways that we cannot tell;
    He hides them deep, like the hidden sleep
    Of him He loved so well.

Cecil Frances Alexander




THE CRUSADER AND THE SARACEN


As the Knight of the Couchant Leopard continued to fix his eyes
attentively on the yet distant cluster of palm trees, it seemed to him
as if some object was moving among them. The distant form separated
itself from the trees, which partly hid its motions, and advanced
towards the knight with a speed which soon showed a mounted horseman,
whom his turban, long spear, and green caftan floating in the wind, on
his nearer approach, showed to be a Saracen cavalier.

"In the desert," saith an Eastern proverb, "no man meets a friend." The
Crusader was totally indifferent whether the infidel, who now approached
on his gallant barb, as if borne on the wings of an eagle, came as
friend or foe; perhaps, as a vowed champion of the Cross, he might
rather have preferred the latter. He disengaged his lance from his
saddle, seized it with the right hand, placed it in rest with its point
half-elevated, gathered up the reins in the left, waked his horse's
mettle with the spur, and prepared to encounter the stranger with the
calm self-confidence belonging to the victor in many contests.

The Saracen came on at the speedy gallop of an Arab horseman, managing
his steed more by his limbs and the inflection of his body than by any
use of the reins, which hung loose in his left hand; so that he was
enabled to wield the light round buckler of the skin of the rhinoceros,
ornamented with silver loops, which he wore on his arm, swinging it as
if he meant to oppose its slender circle to the formidable thrust of the
Western lance. His own long spear was not couched or levelled like that
of his antagonist, but grasped by the middle with his right hand, and
brandished at arm's length above his head.

As the cavalier approached his enemy at full career, he seemed to expect
that the Knight of the Leopard should put his horse to the gallop to
encounter him. But the Christian knight, well acquainted with the
customs of Eastern warriors, did not mean to exhaust his good horse by
any unnecessary exertion; and, on the contrary, made a dead halt,
confident that, if the enemy advanced to the actual shock, his own
weight, and that of his powerful charger, would give him sufficient
advantage, without the additional momentum of rapid motion. Equally
sensible and apprehensive of such a probable result, the Saracen
cavalier, when he had approached towards the Christian within twice the
length of his lance, wheeled his steed to the left with inimitable
dexterity, and rode twice around his antagonist, who, turning without
quitting his ground, and presenting his front constantly to his enemy,
frustrated his attempts to attack him on an unguarded point; so that the
Saracen, wheeling his horse, was fain to retreat to the distance of a
hundred yards.

A second time, like a hawk attacking a heron, the Heathen renewed the
charge, and a second time was fain to retreat without coming to a close
struggle. A third time he approached in the same manner, when the
Christian knight, desirous to terminate this illusory warfare, in which
he might at length have been worn out by the activity of his foeman,
suddenly seized the mace which hung at his saddle-bow, and, with a
strong hand and unerring aim, hurled it against the head of the Emir,
for such and not less his enemy appeared. The Saracen was just aware of
the formidable missile in time to interpose his light buckler betwixt
the mace and his head; but the violence of the blow forced the buckler
down on his turban, and though that defence also contributed to deaden
its violence, the Saracen was beaten from his horse. Ere the Christian
could avail himself of this mishap, his nimble foeman sprang from the
ground, and, calling on his steed, which instantly returned to his side,
he leaped into his seat without touching the stirrup, and regained all
the advantage of which the Knight of the Leopard hoped to deprive him.
But the latter had in the meanwhile recovered his mace, and the Eastern
cavalier, who remembered the strength and dexterity with which his
antagonist had aimed it, seemed to keep cautiously out of the reach of
that weapon, of which he had so lately felt the force, while he showed
his purpose of waging a distant warfare with missile weapons of his
own. Planting his long spear in the sand at a distance from the scene of
combat, he strung, with great address, a short bow, which he carried at
his back, and, putting his horse to the gallop, once more described two
or three circles of a wider extent than formerly, in the course of which
he discharged six arrows at the Christian with such unerring skill that
the goodness of his harness alone saved him from being wounded in as
many places. The seventh shaft apparently found a less perfect part of
the armour, and the Christian dropped heavily from his horse. But what
was the surprise of the Saracen, when, dismounting to examine the
condition of his prostrate enemy, he found himself suddenly within the
grasp of the European, who had had recourse to this artifice to bring
his enemy within his reach! Even in this deadly grapple the Saracen was
saved by his agility and presence of mind. He unloosed the sword-belt,
in which the Knight of the Leopard had fixed his hold, and, thus eluding
his fatal grasp, mounted his horse, which seemed to watch his motions
with the intelligence of a human being, and again rode off. But in the
last encounter the Saracen had lost his sword and his quiver of arrows,
both of which were attached to the girdle, which he was obliged to
abandon. He had also lost his turban in the struggle. These
disadvantages seemed to incline the Moslem to a truce: he approached the
Christian with his right hand extended, but no longer in a menacing
attitude.

"There is truce betwixt our nations," he said, in the _lingua franca_
commonly used for the purpose of communication with the Crusaders;
"Wherefore should there be war betwixt thee and me? Let there be peace
betwixt us."

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

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

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

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

"By Mohammed, Prophet of God, and by Allah, God of the Prophet," replied
his late foeman, "there is not treachery in my heart towards thee. And
now wend we to yonder fountain, for the hour of rest is at hand, and the
stream had hardly touched my lip when I was called to battle by thy
approach."

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

Scott: "The Talisman."




    The quality of mercy is not strained;
    It droppeth, as the gentle rain from heaven
    Upon the place beneath: it is twice blessed;
    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 shew likest God's
    When mercy seasons justice.

Shakespeare




_From_ "AN AUGUST REVERIE"


    The ragged daisy starring all the fields,
      The buttercup abrim with pallid gold,
    The thistle and burr-flowers hedged with prickly shields,
      All common weeds the draggled pastures hold,
    With shrivelled pods and leaves, are kin to me,
    Like-heirs of earth and her maturity.

    They speak a silent speech that is their own,
      These wise and gentle teachers of the grass;
    And when their brief and common days are flown,
      A certain beauty from the year doth pass:--
    A beauty of whose light no eye can tell,
    Save that it went; and my heart knew it well.

    I may not know each plant as some men know them,
      As children gather beasts and birds to tame;
    But I went 'mid them as the winds that blow them,
      From childhood's hour, and loved without a name.
    There is more beauty in a field of weeds
    Than in all blooms the hothouse garden breeds.

    For they are nature's children; in their faces
      I see that sweet obedience to the sky
    That marks these dwellers of the wilding places,
      Who with the season's being live and die;
    Knowing no love but of the wind and sun,
    Who still are nature's when their life is done.

    They are a part of all the haze-filled hours,
      The happy, happy world all drenched with light,
    The far-off, chiming click-clack of the mowers,
      And yon blue hills whose mists elude my sight;
    And they to me will ever bring in dreams
    Far mist-clad heights and brimming rain-fed streams.

W. Wilfred Campbell




WORK AND WAGES


There will always be a number of men who would fain set themselves to
the accumulation of wealth as the sole object of their lives.
Necessarily, that class of men is an uneducated class, inferior in
intellect, and, more or less, cowardly. It is physically impossible for
a well-educated, intellectual, or brave man to make money the chief
object of his thoughts; just as it is for him to make his dinner the
principal object of them. All healthy people like their dinners, but
their dinner is not the main object of their lives. So all
healthily-minded people like making money--ought to like it, and to
enjoy the sensation of winning it: but the main object of their life is
not money; it is something better than money. A good soldier, for
instance, mainly wishes to do his fighting well. He is glad of his
pay--very properly so, and justly grumbles when you keep him ten years
without it--still, his main notion of life is to win battles, not to be
paid for winning them. So of clergymen. They like pew-rents, and
baptismal fees, of course; but yet, if they are brave and well-educated,
the pew-rent is not the sole object of their lives, and the baptismal
fee is not the sole purpose of the baptism; the clergyman's object is
essentially to baptize and preach, not to be paid for preaching. So of
doctors. They like fees no doubt,--ought to like them; yet if they are
brave and well-educated, the entire object of their lives is not fees.
They, on the whole, desire to cure the sick; and,--if they are good
doctors, and the choice were fairly put to them--would rather cure their
patient, and lose their fee, than kill him, and get it. And so with all
other brave and rightly-trained men; their work is first, their fee
second--very important always, but still _second_. But in every nation,
as I said, there are a vast class who are ill-educated, cowardly, and
more or less stupid. And with these people, just as certainly the fee is
first, and the work second, as with brave people the work is first, and
the fee second. And this is no small distinction. It is the whole
distinction in a man; distinction between life and death _in_ him,
between heaven and hell _for_ him. You cannot serve two masters:--you
_must_ serve one or other. If your work is first with you, and your fee
second, work is your master, and the lord of work, who is God. But, if
your fee is first with you, and your work second, fee is your master,
and the lord of fee, who is the Devil; and not only the Devil but the
lowest of devils--the 'least erected fiend that fell.' So there you have
it in brief terms; Work first--you are God's servants; Fee first--you
are the Fiend's. And it makes a difference, now and ever, believe me,
whether you serve Him who has on His vesture and thigh written, 'King of
Kings,' and whose service is perfect freedom; or him on whose vesture
and thigh the name is written, 'Slave of Slaves,' and whose service is
perfect slavery.

Ruskin




UNTRODDEN WAYS


    Where close the curving mountains drew
      To clasp the stream in their embrace,
    With every outline, curve, and hue,
      Reflected in its placid face,

    The ploughman stopped his team, to watch
      The train, as swift it thundered by;
    Some distant glimpse of life to catch,
      He strains his eager, wistful eye.

    His glossy horses mildly stand
      With wonder in their patient eyes,
    As through the tranquil mountain land
      The snorting monster onward flies.

    The morning freshness is on him,
      Just wakened from his balmy dreams;
    The wayfarers, all soiled and dim,
      Think longingly of mountain streams:--

    O for the joyous mountain air!
      The long, delightful autumn day
    Among the hills!--the ploughman there
      Must have perpetual holiday!

    And he, as all day long he guides
      His steady plough with patient hand,
    Thinks of the flying train that glides
      Into some fair, enchanted land;

    Where day by day no plodding round
      Wearies the frame and dulls the mind;
    Where life thrills keen to sight and sound,
      With plough and furrows left behind!

    Even so to each the untrod ways
      Of life are touched by fancy's glow,
    That ever sheds its brightest rays
      Upon _the page we do not know_!

Agnes Maule Machar




THE FIRST PLOUGHING


    Calls the crow from the pine-tree top
    When the April air is still.
    He calls to the farmer hitching his team
    In the farmyard under the hill.
    "Come up," he cries, "come out and come up,
    For the high field's ripe to till.
    Don't wait for word from the dandelion
    Or leave from the daffodil."

    Cheeps the flycatcher--"Here old earth
    Warms up in the April sun;
    And the first ephemera, wings yet wet,
    From the mould creep one by one.
    Under the fence where the flies frequent
    Is the earliest gossamer spun.
    Come up from the damp of the valley lands,
    For here the winter's done."

    Whistles the high-hole out of the grove
    His summoning loud and clear:
    "Chilly it may be down your way
    But the high south field has cheer.
    On the sunward side of the chestnut stump
    The woodgrubs wake and appear.
    Come out to your ploughing, come up to your ploughing,
    The time for ploughing is here."

    Then dips the coulter and drives the share,
    And the furrows faintly steam.
    The crow drifts furtively down from the pine
    To follow the clanking team.
    The flycatcher tumbles, the high-hole darts
    In the young noon's yellow gleam;
    And wholesome sweet the smell of the sod
    Upturned from its winter's dream.

Charles G. D. Roberts




THE ARCHERY CONTEST


"The day," said Waldemar, "is not yet very far spent--let the archers
shoot a few rounds at the target, and the prize be adjudged."

One by one the archers, stepping forward, delivered their shafts
yeomanlike and bravely. Of the ten shafts which hit the target, two
within the inner ring were shot by Hubert, a forester in the service of
Malvoisin, who was accordingly pronounced victorious.

"Now, Locksley," said Prince John with a bitter smile, "wilt thou try
conclusions with Hubert?"

"Sith it be no better," said Locksley, "I am content to try my fortune;
on condition that when I have shot two shafts at yonder mark of
Hubert's, he shall be bound to shoot one at that which I shall propose."

"That is but fair," answered Prince John, "and it shall not be refused
thee. If thou dost beat this braggart, Hubert, I will fill the bugle
with silver pennies for thee."

"A man can but do his best," answered Hubert; "but my grandsire drew a
good long bow at Hastings, and I trust not to dishonour his memory."

The former target was now removed, and a fresh one of the same size
placed in its room. Hubert took his aim with great deliberation, long
measuring the distance with his eye, while he held in his hand his
bended bow, with the arrow placed on the string. At length he made a
step forward, and raising the bow at the full stretch of his left arm,
till the centre or grasping-place was nigh level with his face, he drew
his bow-string to his ear. The arrow whistled through the air, and
lighted within the inner ring of the target, but not exactly in the
centre.

"You have not allowed for the wind, Hubert," said his antagonist,
bending his bow, "or that had been a better shot."

So saying, and without showing the least anxiety to pause upon his aim,
Locksley stepped to the appointed station, and shot his arrow as
carelessly in appearance as if he had not even looked at the mark. He
was speaking almost at the same instant that the shaft left the
bow-string, yet it alighted in the target two inches nearer to the white
spot which marked the centre than that of Hubert.

"By the light of heaven!" said Prince John to Hubert, "an thou suffer
that runagate knave to overcome thee, thou art worthy of the gallows!"

"An your highness were to hang me," said Hubert, "a man can but do his
best. Nevertheless, my grandsire drew a good bow----"

"The foul fiend on thy grandsire and all his generation!" interrupted
John; "shoot, knave, and shoot thy best, or it shall be the worse for
thee!"

Thus exhorted, Hubert resumed his place, and making the necessary
allowance for a very light air of wind, which had just arisen, shot so
successfully that his arrow alighted in the very centre of the target.

"Thou canst not mend that shot, Locksley," said the Prince with an
insulting smile.

"I will notch his shaft for him, however," replied Locksley.

And letting fly his arrow with a little more precaution than before, it
lighted right upon that of his competitor, which it split to shivers.

"And now," said Locksley, "I will crave your Grace's permission to plant
such a mark as is used in the North Country, and welcome every brave
yeoman who shall try a shot at it."

He then turned to leave the lists. "Let your guards attend me," he said,
"if you please--I go but to cut a rod from the next willow-bush."

Locksley returned almost instantly with a willow wand about six feet in
length, perfectly straight, and rather thicker than a man's thumb. He
began to peel this, observing that to ask a good woodman to shoot at a
target so broad as had hitherto been used, was to put shame upon his
skill. "For my own part," he said, "and in the land where I was bred,
men would as soon take for their mark King Arthur's round table, which
held sixty knights around it. A child of seven years old," he said,
"might hit yonder target with a headless shaft; but," added he, walking
deliberately to the other end of the lists, and sticking the willow wand
upright in the ground, "he that hits that rod at five-score yards, I
call him an archer fit to bear bow and quiver before a king."

"My grandsire," said Hubert, "drew a good bow at the battle of Hastings,
and never shot at such a mark in his life--and neither will I. If this
yeoman can cleave that rod, I give him the bucklers--or rather, I yield
to the devil that is in his jerkin, and not to any human skill; a man
can but do his best, and I will not shoot where I am sure to miss. I
might as well shoot at a sunbeam, as at a twinkling white streak which I
can hardly see."

"Cowardly dog!" said Prince John--"Sirrah Locksley, do thou shoot; but,
if thou hittest such a mark, I will say thou art the first man ever did
so. Howe'er it be, thou shalt not crow over us with a mere show of
superior skill."

"I will do my best, as Hubert says," answered Locksley; "no man can do
more."

So saying, he again bent his bow, but on the present occasion looked
with attention to his weapon, and changed the string, which he thought
was no longer truly round, having been a little frayed by the two former
shots. He then took his aim with some deliberation, and the multitude
awaited the event in breathless silence. The archer vindicated their
opinion of his skill: his arrow split the willow rod against which it
was aimed. A jubilee of acclamations followed; and even Prince John, in
admiration of Locksley's skill, lost for an instant his dislike to his
person. "These twenty nobles," he said, "which, with the bugle, thou
hast fairly won, are thine own; we will make them fifty, if thou wilt
take livery and service with us as a yeoman of our body-guard, and be
near to our person. For never did so strong a hand bend a bow, or so
true an eye direct a shaft."

"Pardon me, noble Prince," said Locksley; "but I have vowed, that, if
ever I take service, it should be with your royal brother, King Richard.
These twenty nobles I leave to Hubert, who has this day drawn as brave a
bow as his grandsire did at Hastings. Had his modesty not refused the
trial, he would have hit the wand as well as I."

Hubert shook his head as he received with reluctance the bounty of the
stranger; and Locksley, anxious to escape further observation, mixed
with the crowd, and was seen no more.

Scott: "Ivanhoe."




IN NOVEMBER


    The hills and leafless forests slowly yield
      To the thick-driving snow. A little while
      And night shall darken down. In shouting file
    The woodmen's carts go by me homeward-wheeled,
    Past the thin fading stubbles, half-concealed,
      Now golden-gray, sowed softly through with snow,
      Where the last ploughman follows still his row,
    Turning black furrows through the whitening field.

Archibald Lampman




AUTUMN WOODS


      Ere, in the northern gale,
    The summer tresses of the trees are gone,
    The woods of Autumn, all around our vale,
      Have put their glory on.

      The mountains that infold,
    In their wide sweep, the coloured landscape round,
    Seem groups of giant kings, in purple and gold,
      That guard the enchanted ground.

      I roam the woods that crown
    The upland, where the mingled splendours glow,
    Where the gay company of trees look down
      On the green fields below.

      My steps are not alone
    In these bright walks; the sweet south-west, at play
    Flies, rustling, where the painted leaves are strown
      Along the winding way.

      And far in heaven, the while,
    The sun, that sends that gale to wander here,
    Pours out on the fair earth his quiet smile,--
      The sweetest of the year.

      Where now the solemn shade,
    Verdure and gloom where many branches meet:
    So grateful, when the noon of summer made
      The valleys sick with heat?

      Let in through all the trees
    Come the strange rays; the forest depths are bright,
    Their sunny-coloured foliage, in the breeze,
      Twinkles, like beams of light.

      The rivulet, late unseen,
    Where bickering through the shrubs its waters run,
    Shines with the image of its golden screen
      And glimmerings of the sun.

      Oh, Autumn! why so soon
    Depart the hues that make thy forests glad,
    Thy gentle wind and thy fair sunny noon,
      And leave thee wild and sad!

      Ah! 'twere a lot too blest
    Forever in thy coloured shades to stray;
    Amid the kisses of the soft south-west
      To rove and dream for aye;

      And leave the vain low strife
    That makes men mad--the tug for wealth and power,
    The passions and the cares that wither life,
      And waste its little hour.

Bryant




IN A CANOE


Among all the modes of progression hitherto invented by restless man,
there is not one that can compare in respect of comfort and luxury with
travelling in a birch-bark canoe. It is the poetry of progression. Along
the bottom of the boat are laid blankets and bedding; a sort of
wicker-work screen is sloped against the middle thwart, affording a
delicious support to the back; and indolently, in your shirt sleeves if
the day be warm, or well covered with a blanket if it is chilly, you sit
or lie on this most luxurious of couches, and are propelled at a rapid
rate over the smooth surface of a lake or down the swift current of some
stream. If you want exercise, you can take a paddle yourself. If you
prefer to be inactive, you can lie still and placidly survey the
scenery, rising occasionally to have a shot at a wild duck; at
intervals reading, smoking, and sleeping. Sleep, indeed, you will enjoy
most luxuriously, for the rapid bounding motion of the canoe as it leaps
forward at every impulse of the crew, the sharp quick beat of the
paddles on the water, and the roll of their shafts against the gunwale,
with the continuous hiss and ripple of the stream cleft by the curving
prow, combine to make a most soothing soporific.

Dreamily you lie side by side--you and your friend--lazily gazing at the
pine-covered shores and wooded islands of some unknown lake, the open
book unheeded on your knee; the half-smoked pipe drops into your lap;
your head sinks gently back; and you wander into dreamland, to awake
presently and find yourself sweeping round the curve of some majestic
river, whose shores are blazing with the rich crimson, brown, and gold
of the maple and other hardwood trees in their autumn dress.

Presently the current quickens. The best man shifts his place from the
stern to the bow, and stands ready with his long-handled paddle to twist
the frail boat out of reach of hidden rocks. The men's faces glow with
excitement. Quicker and quicker flows the stream, breaking into little
rapids, foaming round rocks, and rising in tumbling waves over the
shallows. At a word from the bowman the crew redouble their efforts, the
paddle shafts crash against the gunwale, the spray flies beneath the
bending blades. The canoe shakes and quivers through all its fibres,
leaping bodily at every stroke.

Before you is a seething mass of foam, its whiteness broken by horrid
black rocks, one touch against whose jagged sides would rip the canoe
into tatters and hurl you into eternity. Your ears are full of the roar
of waters; waves leap up in all directions, as the river, maddened at
obstruction, hurls itself through some narrow gorge. The bowman stands
erect to take one look in silence, noting in that critical instant the
line of deepest water; then bending to his work, with sharp, short words
of command to the steersman, he directs the boat. The canoe seems to
pitch headlong into space. Whack! comes a great wave over the bow;
crash! comes another over the side. The bowman, his figure stooped, and
his knees planted firmly against the sides, stands, with paddle poised
in both hands, screaming to the crew to paddle hard; and the crew cheer
and shout with excitement in return. You, too, get wild, and feel
inclined to yell defiance to the roaring, hissing flood that madly
dashes you from side to side. After the first plunge you are in a
bewildering whirl of waters. The shore seems to fly past you. Crash! You
are right on that rock, and (I don't care who you are) you will feel
your heart jump into your mouth, and you will catch the side with a grip
that leaves a mark on your fingers afterwards. No! With a shriek of
command to the steersman, and a plunge of his paddle, the bowman
wrenches the canoe out of its course. Another stroke or two, another
plunge forward, and with a loud exulting yell from the bowman, who
flourishes his paddle round his head, you pitch headlong down the final
leap, and with a grunt of relief from the straining crew glide rapidly
into still water.

Lord Dunraven: "The Great Divide."


[Illustration: PARLIAMENT BUILDINGS. TORONTO]




"With whom is no variableness, neither shadow of turning."

    It fortifies my soul to know
    That, though I perish, Truth is so:
    That, howsoe'er I stray and range,
    Whate'er I do, Thou dost not change,
    I steadier step when I recall
    That, if I slip Thou dost not fall.

Clough




AFTON WATER


    Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes,
    Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise:
    My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream,
    Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.

    Thou stock-dove whose echo resounds thro' the glen,
    Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den,
    Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear,
    I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair.

    How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring hills,
    Far mark'd with the courses of clear, winding rills,
    There daily I wander as noon rises high,
    My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye.

    How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below,
    Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow:
    There, oft as mild ev'ning weeps over the lea,
    The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me.

    Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides,
    And winds by the cot where my Mary resides;
    How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave,
    As gathering sweet flow'rets she stems thy clear wave.

    Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes,
    Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays,
    My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream,
    Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.

Burns




DAVID COPPERFIELD'S FIRST JOURNEY ALONE


I slept soundly until we got to Yarmouth and drove to the inn yard. A
lady looked out of a bow-window where some fowls and joints of meat were
hanging up, and said:

"Is that the little gentleman from Blunder-stone?"

"Yes, ma'am," I said.

The lady then rang a bell and called out: "William! show the
coffee-room!" upon which a waiter came running out of a kitchen on the
opposite side of the yard to show it, and seemed a good deal surprised
when he found he was only to show it to me.

It was a large, long room with some large maps in it. I doubt if I could
have felt much stranger if the maps had been real foreign countries, and
I cast away in the middle of them. I felt it was taking a liberty to sit
down, with my cap in my hand, on the corner of the chair nearest the
door; and when the waiter laid a cloth on purpose for me, and put a set
of casters on it, I think I must have turned red all over with modesty.

He brought me some chops, and vegetables, and took the covers off in
such a bouncing manner that I was afraid I must have given him some
offence. But he greatly relieved my mind by putting a chair for me at
the table, and saying, very affably: "Now, six-foot! come on!"

I thanked him, and took my seat at the board; but found it extremely
difficult to handle my knife and fork with anything like dexterity, or
to avoid splashing myself with the gravy, while he was standing
opposite, staring so hard, and making me blush in the most dreadful
manner every time I caught his eye. After watching me into the second
chop, he said:

"There's half a pint of ale for you. Will you have it now?"

I thanked him and said "Yes." Upon which he poured it out of a jug into
a large tumbler, and held it up against the light, and made it look
beautiful.

"My eye!" he said. "It seems a good deal, don't it?"

"It does seem a good deal," I answered with a smile. For it was quite
delightful to me to find him so pleasant. He was a twinkling-eyed,
pimple-faced man, with his hair standing upright all over his head; and
as he stood with one arm a-kimbo, holding up the glass to the light with
the other hand, he looked quite friendly.

"There was a gentleman here, yesterday," he said--"a stout gentleman, by
the name of Topsawyer--perhaps you know him."

"No," I said, "I don't think--"

"In breeches and gaiters, broad-brimmed hat, gray coat, speckled
choker," said the waiter.

"No," I said, bashfully, "I haven't the pleasure--"

"He came in here," said the waiter, looking at the light through the
tumbler, "ordered a glass of this ale--_would_ order it--I told him
not--drank it, and fell dead. It was too old for him. It oughtn't to be
drawn; that's the fact."

I was very much shocked to hear of this melancholy accident, and said I
thought I had better have some water.

"Why, you see," said the waiter, still looking at the light through the
tumbler, with one of his eyes shut up, "our people don't like things
being ordered and left. It offends 'em. But _I'll_ drink it, if you
like. I'm used to it, and use is everything. I don't think it'll hurt
me, if I throw my head back, and take it off quick. Shall I?"

I replied that he would much oblige me by drinking it, if he thought he
could do it safely, but by no means otherwise. When he did throw his
head back and take it off quick, I had a horrible fear, I confess, of
seeing him meet the fate of the lamented Mr. Topsawyer, and fall
lifeless on the carpet. But it didn't hurt him. On the contrary, I
thought he seemed the fresher for it.

"What have we got here?" he said, putting a fork into my dish. "Not
chops?"

"Chops," I said.

"Bless my soul!" he exclaimed, "I didn't know they were chops. Why, a
chop's the very thing to take off the bad effects of that beer! Ain't it
lucky?"

So he took a chop by the bone in one hand, and a potato in the other,
and ate away with a very good appetite, to my extreme satisfaction. He
afterwards took another chop, and another potato; and after that another
chop, and another potato. When he had done, he brought me a pudding, and
having set it before me, seemed to ruminate, and to become absent in his
mind for some moments.

"How's the pie?" he said, rousing himself.

"It's a pudding," I made answer.

"Pudding!" he exclaimed. "Why, bless me, so it is! What!" looking at it
nearer. "You don't mean to say it's a batter-pudding?"

"Yes, it is indeed."

"Why, a batter-pudding," he said, taking up a table-spoon, "it's my
favourite pudding! Ain't that lucky? Come on, little 'un, and let's see
who'll get most."

The waiter certainly got most. He entreated me more than once to come in
and win, but what with his table-spoon to my tea-spoon, his despatch to
my despatch, and his appetite to my appetite, I was left far behind at
the first mouthful, and had no chance with him. I never saw any one
enjoy a pudding so much, I think; and he laughed, when it was all gone,
as if his enjoyment of it lasted still.

Finding him so very friendly and companionable, it was then that I asked
for the pen and ink and paper, to write to Peggoty. He not only brought
it immediately, but was good enough to look over me while I wrote the
letter. When I had finished it, he asked me where I was going to school.

I said: "Near London," which was all I knew.

"Oh! my eye!" he said, looking very low-spirited, "I am sorry for that."

"Why?" I asked him.

"Oh!" he said, shaking his head, "that's the school where they broke the
boy's ribs--two ribs--a little boy he was. I should say he was--let me
see--how old are you, about?"

I told him between eight and nine.

"That's just his age," he said. "He was eight years and six months old
when they broke his first rib; eight years and eight months old when
they broke his second, and did for him."

I could not disguise from myself, or from the waiter, that this was an
uncomfortable coincidence, and inquired how it was done. His answer was
not cheering to my spirits, for it consisted of two dismal words, "With
whopping."

The blowing of the coach-horn in the yard was a seasonable diversion,
which made me get up and hesitatingly inquire, in the mingled pride and
diffidence of having a purse (which I took out of my pocket), if there
were anything to pay.

"There's a sheet of letter-paper," he returned. "Did you ever buy a
sheet of letter-paper?"

I could not remember that I ever had.

"It's dear," he said, "on account of the duty. Threepence. That's the
way we're taxed in this country. There's nothing else, except the
waiter. Never mind the ink! _I_ lose by that."

"What should you--what should I--how much ought I to--what would it be
right to pay the waiter, if you please?" I stammered, blushing.

"If I hadn't a family, and that family hadn't the cowpock," said the
waiter, "I wouldn't take a sixpence. If I didn't support a aged pairint,
and a lovely sister,"--here the waiter was greatly agitated--"I wouldn't
take a farthing. If I had a good place, and was treated well here, I
should beg acceptance of a trifle, instead of taking of it. But I live
on broken wittles--and I sleep on the coals"--here the waiter burst into
tears.

I was very much concerned for his misfortunes, and felt that any
recognition short of ninepence would be mere brutality and hardness of
heart, Therefore I gave him one of my three bright shillings, which he
received with much humility and veneration, and spun up with his thumb,
directly afterwards, to try the goodness of.

It was a little disconcerting to me, to find, when I was being helped up
behind the coach, that I was supposed to have eaten all the dinner
without any assistance. I discovered this, from overhearing the lady in
the bow-window say to the guard: "Take care of that child, George, or
he'll burst!" and from observing that the women-servants who were about
the place came out to look and giggle at me as a young phenomenon. My
unfortunate friend, the waiter, who had quite recovered his spirits, did
not appear to be disturbed by this, but joined in the general admiration
without being at all confused. If I had any doubt of him, I suppose this
half-awakened it; but I am inclined to believe that, with the simple
confidence and natural reliance of a child upon superior years
(qualities I am very sorry any children should prematurely change for
worldly wisdom), I had no serious mistrust of him on the whole, even
then.

Dickens: "David Copperfield."




THE BAREFOOT BOY


    Blessings on thee, little man,
    Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan!
    With thy turned-up pantaloons,
    And thy merry whistled tunes;
    With thy red lip, redder still
    Kissed by strawberries on the hill;
    With the sunshine on thy face,
    Through thy torn brim's jaunty grace;
    From my heart I give thee joy,--
    I was once a barefoot boy!
    Prince thou art,--the grown-up man
    Only is republican.
    Let the million-dollared ride!
    Barefoot, trudging at his side,
    Thou hast more than he can buy
    In the reach of ear and eye,--
    Outward sunshine, inward joy;
    Blessings on thee, barefoot boy!

    Oh for boyhood's painless play,
    Sleep that wakes in laughing day,
    Health that mocks the doctor's rules,
    Knowledge never learned of schools,
    Of the wild bee's morning chase,
    Of the wild-flower's time and place,
    Flight of fowl and habitude
    Of the tenants of the wood;
    How the tortoise bears his shell,
    How the woodchuck digs his cell,
    And the ground-mole sinks his well;
    How the robin feeds her young,
    How the oriole's nest is hung;
    Where the whitest lilies blow,
    Where the freshest berries grow,
    Where the ground-nut trails its vine,
    Where the wood-grape's clusters shine;
    Of the black wasp's cunning way,
    Mason of his walls of clay,
    And the architectural plans
    Of gray hornet artisans!--
    For, eschewing books and tasks,
    Nature answers all he asks;
    Hand in hand with her he walks,
    Face to face with her he talks,
    Part and parcel of her joy,--
    Blessings on the barefoot boy!

    Oh for boyhood's time of June,
    Crowding years in one brief moon,
    When all things I heard or saw,
    Me, their master, waited for.
    I was rich in flowers and trees,
    Humming-birds and honey-bees;
    For my sport the squirrel played,
    Plied the snouted mole his spade;
    For my taste the blackberry cone
    Purpled over hedge and stone;
    Laughed the brook for my delight
    Through the day and through the night,
    Whispering at the garden wall,
    Talked with me from fall to fall,
    Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond,
    Mine the walnut slopes beyond,
    Mine, on bending orchard trees,
    Apples of Hesperides!
    Still, as my horizon grew,
    Larger grew my riches, too;
    All the world I saw or knew
    Seemed a complex Chinese toy,
    Fashioned for a barefoot boy!

    Oh for festal dainties spread,
    Like my bowl of milk and bread;--
    Pewter spoon and bowl of wood,
    On the door-stone, gray and rude!
    O'er me, like a regal tent,
    Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent,
    Purple-curtained, fringed with gold,
    Looped in many a wind-swung fold;
    While for music came the play
    Of the pied frogs' orchestra;
    And, to light the noisy choir,
    Lit the fly his lamp of fire.
    I was monarch: pomp and joy
    Waited on the barefoot boy!

    Cheerily, then, my little man,
    Live and laugh, as boyhood can!
    Though the flinty slopes be hard,
    Stubble-speared the new-mown sward,
    Every morn shall lead thee through
    Fresh baptisms of the dew;
    Every evening from thy feet
    Shall the cool wind kiss the heat;
    All too soon these feet must hide
    In the prison cells of pride,
    Lose the freedom of the sod,
    Like a colt's for work be shod,
    Made to tread the mills of toil,
    Up and down in ceaseless moil;
    Happy if their track be found
    Never on forbidden ground;
    Happy if they sink not in
    Quick and treacherous sands of sin.
    Ah! that thou couldst know thy joy,
    Ere it passes, barefoot boy!

Whittier


[Illustration: PARLIAMENT BUILDINGS. OTTAWA]




COUNTRY LIFE IN CANADA IN THE "THIRTIES"


Country life in Western Canada in the "Thirties" was very simple and
uneventful. There were no lines of social division such as now exist.
All alike had to toil to win and maintain a home; and if, as was
natural, some were more successful in the rough battle of pioneer life
than others, they did not feel, on that account, disposed to treat their
neighbours as their inferiors. Neighbours, they well knew, were too few
and too desirable to be coldly and haughtily treated. Had not all the
members of each community hewn their way side by side into the
fastnesses of the Canadian bush? And what could a little additional
wealth do for them, when the remoteness of the centres which might
supply luxuries, enforced simplicity and made superfluities almost
impossible?

The furnishings of their houses were plain, and the chief articles of
dress, if substantial and comfortable, were of coarse homespun--the
product of their own labour. The sources of amusement were limited. The
day of the harmonium or piano had not come. Music, except in its
simplest vocal form, was not cultivated; only the occasional presence of
some fiddler afforded rare seasons of merriment to the delight both of
old and young.

The motto of "Early to bed and early to rise" was, even in winter, the
strict rule of family life. In the morning all were up, and breakfast
was over usually before seven. As soon as the gray light of dawn
appeared, men and boys were off to the barns, not merely to feed the
cattle but to engage in the needful and tedious labour of threshing by
hand. In the evenings, the family gathered together for lighter tasks
and pleasant talk around a glowing fire. In firewood, at least, there
was, in those days, no need for economy.

We scarcely realize how largely little things may contribute to
convenience and comfort. There were no lucifer matches at that date. It
was needful to cover up carefully the live coals on the hearth before
going to bed, so that there might be the means of starting the fire in
the morning. This precaution was rarely unsuccessful; but sometimes a
member of the family had to set out for a supply of fire from a
neighbour's, in order that breakfast might be prepared. I remember well
having to crawl out of my warm nest and run through the keen frosty air
for half a mile or more, to fetch live coals from a neighbour's. It was,
however, my father's practice to keep bundles of finely split pine
sticks tipped with brimstone. With the aid of these, the merest spark
served to start the fire.

In the spring, tasks of various kinds crowded rapidly upon us. The hams
and beef that had been salted down in casks during the preceding autumn
were taken out of the brine, washed off, and hung in the smoke-house. On
the earthen floor beech or maple was burned; the oily smoke, given off
by the combustion of these woods in a confined space, not only acted as
a preservative but also lent a special flavour to the meat. Then
ploughing, fencing, sowing, and planting followed in quick succession.
No hands could be spared. The children must drive the cows to and from
pasture. They must also take a hand at churning. It was a weary task, I
well remember, to stand, perhaps for an hour, and drive the dasher up
and down through the thick cream. How often did we examine the handle
for evidence that the butter was forming, and what was the relief when
the monotonous task was at an end. As soon as my legs were long enough,
I had to follow a team; indeed, I drove the horses, mounted on the back
of one of them, when my nether limbs were scarcely sufficiently grown to
give me a grip.

The instruments for the agricultural operations were few and rough. Iron
ploughs with cast-iron mould-boards and shares were commonly employed.
Compared with our modern ploughs, they were clumsy things, but a vast
improvement on the earlier wooden ploughs which, even at that date, had
not wholly gone out of use. For drags, tree-tops were frequently used.

In June came sheep-washing. The sheep were driven to the bay shore and
secured in a pen. One by one they were taken out, and the fleeces
carefully washed. Within a day or two, shearing followed in the barn.
The wool was sorted; some was reserved to be carded by hand; the
remainder was sent to the mills to be turned into rolls. Then, day after
day, for weeks, the noise of the spinning-wheel was heard, accompanied
by the steady beat of the girls' feet, as they walked forward and
backward drawing out and twisting the thread and running it on the
spindle. This was work that required some skill, for on the fineness and
evenness of the thread the character of the fabric largely depended.
Finally, the yarn was carried to the weavers to be converted into cloth.

The women of the family found their hands very full in the "Thirties."
Besides the daily round of housewifely cares, every season brought its
special duties. There were wild strawberries and raspberries to be
picked and prepared for daily consumption, or to be preserved for winter
use. Besides milking, there was the making both of butter and cheese.
There was no nurse to take care of the children, no cook to prepare the
dinner. To be sure, in households when the work was beyond the powers of
the family, the daughter of some neighbour might come as a helper.
Though hired, she was treated in all respects as one of the family, and
in return was likely to take the same sort of interest in the work, as
if the tie that bound her to the family was closer than wages. In truth,
such help was regarded as a favour, and not as in any way affecting the
girl's social position.

The girls in those days were more at home in a kitchen than a
drawing-room. They did better execution at a tub than at a spinet, and
could handle a rolling-pin more satisfactorily than a sketch-book. At a
pinch, they could even use a rake or fork to good purpose in field or
barn. Their finishing education was received at the country school along
with their brothers. Of fashion books and milliners, few of them had any
experiences.

Country life in Canada was plodding in the "Thirties" and there was no
varied outlook. The girls' training for future life was mainly at the
hands of their mothers; the boys followed in the footsteps of their
fathers. Neither sex felt that life was cramped or burdensome on that
account. They were content to live as their parents had done. And though
we can see that, as compared with later conditions, there may be
something wanting in such an existence, this at least we know, that, in
such a school and by such masters, the foundations of Canadian character
and prosperity were laid.

Canniff Haight: "Country Life in Canada in the 'Thirties'."
(Adapted)




He who knows most grieves most for wasted time.

Dante




HEAT


    From plains that reel to southward, dim,
      The road runs by me white and bare;
    Up the steep hill it seems to swim
      Beyond, and melt into the glare.
    Upward half-way, or it may be
      Nearer the summit, slowly steals
    A hay-cart, moving dustily
      With idly clacking wheels.

    By his cart's side the wagoner
      Is slouching slowly at his ease,
    Half-hidden in the windless blur
      Of white dust puffing to his knees.
    This wagon on the height above,
      From sky to sky on either hand,
    Is the sole thing that seems to move
      In all the heat-held land.

    Beyond me in the fields the sun
      Soaks in the grass and hath his will;
    I count the marguerites one by one;
      Even the buttercups are still.
    On the brook yonder not a breath
      Disturbs the spider or the midge.
    The water-bugs draw close beneath
      The cool gloom of the bridge.

    Where the far elm-tree shadows flood
      Dark patches in the burning grass,
    The cows, each with her peaceful cud,
      Lie waiting for the heat to pass.
    From somewhere on the slope near by
      Into the pale depths of the noon
    A wandering thrush slides leisurely
      His thin revolving tune.

    In intervals of dreams I hear
      The cricket from the droughty ground;
    The grasshoppers spin into mine ear
      A small innumerable sound.
    I lift mine eyes sometimes to gaze:
      The burning sky-line blinds my sight:
    The woods far off are blue with haze:
      The hills are drenched in light.

    And yet to me not this or that
      Is always sharp or always sweet;
    In the sloped shadow of my hat
      I lean at rest, and drain the heat;
    Nay more, I think some blessed power
      Hath brought me wandering idly here:
    In the full furnace of this hour
      My thoughts grow keen and clear.

Archibald Lampman




THE TWO PATHS


    Hear, O my son, and receive my sayings;
    And the years of thy life shall be many.
    I have taught thee in the way of wisdom;
    I have led thee in paths of uprightness.
    When thou goest, thy steps shall not be straitened;
    And if thou runnest, thou shalt not stumble.
          Take fast hold of instruction;
          Let her not go:
          Keep her;
          For she is thy life.

    Enter not into the Path of the Wicked,
    And walk not in the way of evil men.
          Avoid it,
          Pass not by it;
          Turn from it,
          And pass on.
    For they sleep not, except they have done mischief;
    And their sleep is taken away, unless they cause some to fall.
    For they eat the bread of wickedness,
    And drink the wine of violence.

    But the Path of the Righteous is as the light of dawn,
    That shineth more and more unto the perfect day.
    The way of the wicked is as darkness:
    They know not at what they stumble.

Proverbs, IV.




BERNARDO DEL CARPIO

(The Spanish champion, Bernardo del Carpio, having made many ineffectual
efforts to procure the release of his father, the Count Saldana, who had
been imprisoned by King Alfonso, at last took up arms. The war proved so
destructive that the people demanded of the King, Saldana's liberty.
Alfonso offered Bernardo possession of his father's person in exchange
for his castle. Bernardo accepted the offer, gave up his castle, and
rode forth with the king to meet his father.)


    The warrior bowed his crested head, and
      tamed his heart of fire,
    And sued the haughty king to free his
      long-imprisoned sire:
    "I bring thee here my fortress keys, I
      bring my captive train,
    I pledge thee faith, my liege, my lord!--oh,
      break my father's chain!"

    "Rise, rise! even now thy father comes
      a ransomed man this day:
    Mount thy good horse, and thou and I will
      meet him on his way."
    Then lightly rose that loyal son, and
      bounded on his steed,
    And urged, as if with lance in rest, the
      charger's foamy speed.

    And lo! from far, as on they pressed, there
      came a glittering band,
    With one that midst them stately rode, as
      a leader in the land;
    "Now haste, Bernardo, haste! for there,
      in very truth, is he,
    The father whom thy faithful heart hath
      yearned so long to see."

    His dark eye flashed, his proud breast
      heaved, his cheek's blood came and went,
    He reached that gray-haired chieftain's
      side, and there, dismounting, bent:
    A lowly knee to earth he bent, his father's
      hand he took,--
    What was there in its touch that all his
      fiery spirit shook?

    That hand was cold--a frozen thing--it
      dropped from his like lead:
    He looked up to the face above--the face
      was of the dead!
    A plume waved o'er the noble brow--the
      brow was fixed and white;
    He met at last his father's eyes--but in
      them was no sight!

    Up from the ground he sprang, and gazed,
      but who could paint that gaze?
    They hushed their very hearts, that saw
      its horror and amaze;
    They might have chained him, as before
      that stony form he stood,
    For the power was stricken from his arm,
      and from his lip the blood.

    "Father!" at length he murmured low, and
      wept like childhood, then--
    Talk not of grief till thou hast seen
      the tears of warlike men!--
    He thought on all his glorious hopes,
      and all his young renown,--
    He flung the falchion from his side,
      and in the dust sat down.

    Then, covering with his steel-gloved
      hands his darkly mournful brow,
    "No more, there is no more," he said,
      "to lift the sword for now.
    My king is false, my hope betrayed, my
      father--oh! the worth,
    The glory and the loveliness, are passed
      away from earth!

    "I thought to stand where banners waved,
      my sire! beside thee yet--
    I would that _there_ our kindred
      blood on Spain's free soil had met!
    Thou wouldst have known my spirit then--for
      thee my fields were won,--
    And thou hast perished in thy chains, as
      though thou hadst no son!"

    Then, starting from the ground once more,
      he seized the monarch's rein,
    Amidst the pale and wildered looks of all
      the courtier train;
    And with a fierce, o'ermastering grasp,
      the rearing war-horse led,
    And sternly set them face to face--the
      king before the dead!--

    "Came I not forth upon thy pledge, my
      father's hand to kiss?--
    Be still, and gaze thou on, false king!
      and tell me what is this!
    The voice, the glance, the heart I
      sought--give answer, where are they?--
    If thou wouldst clear thy perjured soul,
      send life through this cold clay!

    "Into these glassy eyes put light--be
      still! keep down thine ire,--
    Bid these white lips a blessing speak--this
      earth is _not_ my sire!
    Give me back him for whom I strove, for
      whom my blood was shed,--
    Thou canst not--and a king! His dust be
      mountains on thy head!"

    He loosed the steed; his slack hand
      fell--upon the silent face
    He cast one long, deep, troubled look--then
      turned from that sad place:
    His hope was crushed, his after-fate untold
      in martial strain,--
    His banner led the spears no more amidst
      the hills of Spain.

Felicia Hemans




               --To thine own self be true;
    And it must follow, as the night the day,
    Thou canst not then be false to any man.

Shakespeare




MOSES' BARGAINS

"My second boy, Moses, whom I designed for business," says the vicar,
"received a sort of miscellaneous education at home."


As we were now to hold up our heads a little higher in the world, it
would be proper to sell the colt, which was grown old, at a neighbouring
fair, and buy us a horse that would carry single or double upon an
occasion, and make a pretty appearance at church or upon a visit. This
at first I opposed stoutly; but it was as stoutly defended. However, as
I weakened, my antagonists gained strength, till at last it was resolved
to part with him.

As the fair happened on the following day, I had intentions of going
myself; but my wife persuaded me that I had got a cold, and nothing
could prevail upon her to permit me from home.

"No, my dear," said she, "our son Moses is a discreet boy and can buy
and sell to very good advantage; you know all our great bargains are of
his purchasing. He always stands out and higgles, and actually tires
them till he gets a bargain."

As I had some opinion of my son's prudence, I was willing enough to
intrust him with this commission; and the next morning I perceived his
sisters mighty busy in fitting out Moses for the fair--trimming his
hair, brushing his buckles, and cocking his hat with pins.

The business of the toilet being over, we had at last the satisfaction
of seeing him mounted upon the colt, with a deal box before him to bring
home groceries in. He had on a coat made of that cloth they call thunder
and lightning, which, though grown too short, was much too good to be
thrown away. His waistcoat was of gosling green, and his sisters had
tied his hair with a broad black ribbon. We all followed him several
paces from the door, bawling after him: "Good luck, good luck!" till we
could see him no longer.

As night came on, I began to wonder what could keep our son so long at
the fair.

"Never mind our son," cried my wife, "depend upon it, he knows what he
is about. I'll warrant we'll never see him sell his hen of a rainy day.
I have seen him buy such bargains as would amaze one. I'll tell you a
good story about that, that will make you split your sides with
laughing. But, as I live, yonder comes Moses, without a horse, and the
box at his back."

As she spoke, Moses came slowly on foot, and sweating under the deal
box, which he had strapped round his shoulders like a pedlar.

"Welcome, welcome, Moses; well, my boy, what have you brought us from
the fair?"

"I have brought you myself," cried Moses, with a sly look, and resting
the box on the dresser.

"Ah, Moses," cried my wife, "that we know, but where is the horse?"

"I have sold him," cried Moses, "for three pounds, five shillings, and
twopence."

"Well done, my good boy," returned she, "I knew you would touch them
off. Between ourselves, three pounds, five shillings, and twopence is no
bad day's work. Come, let us have it then."

"I have brought back no money," cried Moses again. "I have laid it all
out in a bargain, and here it is," pulling out a bundle from his breast:
"here they are, a gross of green spectacles, with silver rims and
shagreen cases."

"A gross of green spectacles!" repeated my wife, in a faint voice. "And
you have parted with the colt and brought us back nothing but a gross of
green paltry spectacles!"

"Dear mother," cried the boy, "why won't you listen to reason? I had
them a dead bargain, or I should not have bought them. The silver rims
will sell for double the money."

"A fig for the silver rims!" cried my wife, in a passion. "I dare swear
they won't sell for above half the money at the rate of broken silver,
five shillings an ounce."

"You need be under no uneasiness," cried I, "about selling the rims; for
they are not worth sixpence, for I perceive they are only copper
varnished over."

"What," cried my wife, "not silver, the rims not silver!"

"No," cried I, "no more silver than your sauce-pan."

"And so," returned she, "we have parted with the colt, and have only got
a gross of green spectacles, with copper rims and shagreen cases! A
murrain take such trumpery! The blockhead has been imposed upon, and
should have known his company better."

"There, my dear," cried I, "you are wrong; he should not have known them
at all."

"Marry, hang the idiot," returned she, "to bring me such stuff; if I had
them, I would throw them into the fire."

"There again you are wrong, my dear," cried I; "for though they be
copper, we will keep them by us, as copper spectacles, you know, are
better than nothing."

By this time the unfortunate Moses was undeceived. He now saw that he
had been imposed upon by a prowling sharper, who, observing his figure,
had marked him for an easy prey. I therefore asked the circumstances of
his deception. He sold the horse, it seems, and walked the fair in
search of another. A reverend-looking man brought him to a tent, under
pretence of having one to sell.

"Here," continued Moses, "we met another man, very well dressed, who
desired to borrow twenty pounds upon these, saying that he wanted money
and would dispose of them for a third of the value. The first gentleman,
who pretended to be my friend, whispered me to buy them, and cautioned
me not to let so good an offer pass. I sent for Mr. Flamborough, and
they talked him up as finely as they did me, and so at last we were
persuaded to buy the two gross between us."

Goldsmith: "The Vicar of Wakefield."




THE MAPLE


    Oh, tenderly deepen the woodland glooms,
      And merrily sway the beeches;
    Breathe delicately the willow blooms,
      And the pines rehearse new speeches;
    The elms toss high till they reach the sky,
      Pale catkins the yellow birch launches,
    But the tree I love all the greenwood above
      Is the maple of sunny branches.

    Let who will sing of the hawthorn in spring,
      Or the late-leaved linden in summer;
    There's a word may be for the locust tree,
      That delicate, strange new-comer;
    But the maple it glows with the tint of the rose
      When pale are the spring-time regions,
    And its towers of flame from afar proclaim
      The advance of Winter's legions.

    And a greener shade there never was made
      Than its summer canopy sifted,
    And many a day, as beneath it I lay,
      Has my memory backward drifted
    To a pleasant lane I may walk not again,
      Leading over a fresh, green hill,
    Where a maple stood just clear of the wood--
      And oh! to be near it still!

Charles G. D. Roberts




THE GREENWOOD TREE


        Under the greenwood tree
        Who loves to lie with me,
        And tune his merry note
        Unto the sweet bird's throat,
    Come hither, come hither, come hither;
        Here shall he see
        No enemy
    But winter and rough weather.

        Who doth ambition shun
        And loves to live i' the sun;
        Seeking the food he eats,
        And pleased with what he gets,
    Come hither, come hither, come hither;
        Here shall he see
        No enemy
    But winter and rough weather.

Shakespeare




Believe me, thrift of time will repay you in after life with a usury of
profit beyond your most sanguine dreams, and the waste of it will make
you dwindle, alike in intellectual and moral stature, beyond your
darkest reckonings.

Gladstone




LAKE SUPERIOR


Before turning our steps westward from this inland ocean, Lake Superior,
it will be well to pause a moment on its shore and look out over its
bosom. It is worth looking at, for the world possesses not its equal.
Four hundred English miles in length, one hundred and fifty miles in
breadth, six hundred feet above Atlantic level, nine hundred feet in
depth; one vast spring of purest crystal water, so cold that during
summer months its waters are like ice itself, and so clear that hundreds
of feet below the surface the rocks stand out as distinctly as though
seen through plate-glass. Follow in fancy the outpourings of this
wonderful basin; seek its future course in Huron, Erie, and Ontario--in
that wild leap from the rocky ledge which makes Niagara famous through
the world. Seek it farther still--in the quiet loveliness of the
Thousand Isles, in the whirl and sweep of the Cedar Rapids, in the
silent rush of the great current under the rocks at the foot of Quebec.
Ay, and even farther away still--down where the lone Laurentian Hills
come forth to look again upon that water whose earliest beginnings they
cradled along the shores of Lake Superior. There, close to the sounding
billows of the Atlantic, two thousand miles from Superior, these
hills--the only ones that ever last--guard the great gate by which the
St. Lawrence seeks the sea.

There are rivers whose currents, running red with the silt and mud of
their soft alluvial shores, carry far into the ocean the record of their
muddy progress; but this glorious river system, through its many lakes
and various names, is ever the same crystal current, flowing pure from
the fountain-head of Lake Superior. Great cities stud its shores; but
they are powerless to dim the transparency of its waters. Steam-ships
cover the broad bosom of its lakes and estuaries; but they change not
the beauty of the water, no more than the fleets of the world mark the
waves of the ocean. Any person looking at a map of the region bounding
the great lakes of North America will be struck by the absence of rivers
flowing into Lakes Superior, Michigan, or Huron, from the south--in
fact, the drainage of the States bordering these lakes on the south is
altogether carried off by the valley of the Mississippi. It follows that
this valley of the Mississippi is at a much lower level than the surface
of the lakes. These lakes, containing an area of some seventy-three
thousand square miles, are therefore an immense reservoir held high over
the level of the great Mississippi valley, from which they are separated
by a barrier of slight elevation and extent.

Major W. F. Butler: "The Great Lone Land."




THE RED RIVER PLAIN


The plain through which Red River flows is fertile beyond description.
At a little distance it seems one vast level plain, through which the
windings of the river are marked by a dark line of woods fringing the
whole length of the stream. Each tributary has also its line of
forest,--a line visible many miles away over the great sea of grass. As
one travels on, there first rise above the prairie the tops of the
trees; these gradually grow larger, until finally, after many hours, the
river is reached. Nothing else breaks the uniform level. Standing upon
the ground, the eye ranges over many miles of grass; standing on a
wagon, one doubles the area of vision; and to look over the plains from
an elevation of twelve feet above the earth, is to survey at a glance a
space so vast that distance alone seems to bound its limits. The effect
of sunset over these oceans of verdure is very beautiful. A thousand
hues spread themselves upon the grassy plains, a thousand tints of gold
are cast along the heavens, and the two oceans of the sky and of the
earth intermingle in one great blaze of glory at the very gates of the
setting sun. But to speak of sunsets now is only to anticipate. Here, at
the Red River, we are only at the threshold of the sunset; its true home
lies yet many days' journey to the west--there, where the long shadows
of the vast herds of bison (used to) trail slowly over the immense
plains, huge and dark against the golden west--there, where the red man
still sees, in the glory of the setting sun, the realization of his
dream of heaven.

Major W. F. Butler: "The Great Lone Land."




As every action is capable of a peculiar dignity in the manner of it, so
also it is capable of dignity still higher in the motive of it. There is
no action so slight, nor so mean, but it may be done to a great purpose,
and ennobled therefore; nor is any purpose so great but that slight
actions may help it, and may be so done as to help it much, most
especially that chief of all purposes, the pleasing of God.

Ruskin




THE UNNAMED LAKE


    It sleeps among the thousand hills
      Where no man ever trod,
    And only nature's music fills
      The silences of God.

    Great mountains tower above its shore,
      Green rushes fringe its brim,
    And o'er its breast for evermore
      The wanton breezes skim.

    Dark clouds that intercept the sun
      Go there in Spring to weep,
    And there, when Autumn days are done,
      White mists lie down to sleep.

    Sunrise and sunset crown with gold
      The peaks of ageless stone,
    Where winds have thundered from of old
      And storms have set their throne.

    No echoes of the world afar
      Disturb it night or day,
    But sun and shadow, moon and star,
      Pass and repass for aye.

    'Twas in the gray of early dawn
      When first the lake we spied,
    And fragments of a cloud were drawn
      Half down the mountain side.

    Along the shore a heron flew,
      And from a speck on high,
    That hovered in the deepening blue,
      We heard the fish-hawk's cry.

    Among the cloud-capt solitudes,
      No sound the silence broke,
    Save when, in whispers down the woods,
      The guardian mountains spoke.

    Through tangled brush and dewy brake,
      Returning whence we came,
    We passed in silence, and the lake
      We left without a name.

F. G. Scott




We are not sent into this world to do anything into which we cannot put
our hearts. We have certain work to do for our bread, and that is to be
done strenuously; other work to do for our delight, and that is to be
done heartily; neither is to be done by halves or shifts, but with a
will.

Ruskin




LIFE IN NORMAN ENGLAND


The tall, frowning keep and solid walls of the great stone castles, in
which the Norman barons lived, betokened an age of violence and
suspicion. Beauty gave way to the needs of safety. Girdled with a green
and slimy ditch, round the inner side of which ran a parapeted wall
pierced along the top with shot-holes, stood the buildings, spreading
often over many acres.

If an enemy managed to cross the moat and force the gateway, in spite of
a portcullis crashing from above, and melted lead pouring in burning
streams from the perforated top of the rounded arch, but little of his
work was yet done; for the keep lifted its huge angular block of masonry
within the inner bailey or courtyard, and from the narrow chinks in its
ten-foot wall rained a sharp incessant shower of arrows, sweeping all
approaches to the high and narrow stair, by which alone access could be
had to its interior.

These loopholes were the only windows, except in the topmost story,
where the chieftain, like a vulture in his rocky nest, watched all the
surrounding country. The day of splendid oriels had not yet come in
castle architecture. Thus a baron in his keep could defy, and often did
defy, the king upon his throne. Under his roof, eating daily at his
board, lived a throng of armed retainers; and around his castle lay
farms tilled by martial franklins, who at his call laid aside their
implements of husbandry, took up the sword and spear, which they could
wield with equal skill, and marched beneath his banner to the war.

The furniture of a Norman keep was not unlike that of an English house.
There was richer ornament--more elaborate carving. A _faldestol_, the
original of our arm-chair, spread its drapery and cushions for the
chieftain in his lounging moods. His bed now boasted curtains and a
roof, although, like the English lord, he still lay only upon straw.
Chimneys tunnelled the thick walls, and the cupboards glittered with
glass and silver. Horn lanterns and the old spiked candle-sticks lit up
his evening hours, when the chess-board arrayed its clumsy men, carved
out of walrus-tusk, then commonly called whale's-bone. But the baron had
an unpleasant trick of breaking the chess-board on his opponent's head,
when he found himself checkmated; which somewhat marred that player's
enjoyment of the game. Dice of horn and bone emptied many a purse in
Norman England. Draughts were also sometimes played.

Dance and music whiled away the long winter nights; and on summer
evenings the castle courtyards resounded with the noise of football,
wrestling, boxing, leaping, and the fierce joys of the bull-bait. But
out of doors, when no fighting was on hand, the hound, the hawk, and the
lance attracted the best energies and skill of the Norman gentleman.

The Normans probably dined at nine in the morning. When they rose they
took a light meal; and ate something also after their day's work,
immediately before going to bed. Goose and garlic formed a favourite
dish. Their cookery was more elaborate, and, in comparison, more
delicate, than the preparations for an English feast; but the character
for temperance, which they brought with them from the continent, soon
vanished.

The poorer classes hardly ever ate flesh, living principally on bread,
butter, and cheese; a fact in social life which seems to underlie that
usage of our tongue by which the living animals in field or stall bore
English names--ox, sheep, calf, pig, deer; while their flesh, promoted
to Norman dishes, rejoiced in names of French origin--beef, mutton,
veal, pork, venison. Round cakes, piously marked with a cross, piled the
tables, on which pastry of various kinds also appeared. In good houses
cups of glass held the wine, which was borne from the cellar below in
jugs.

Squatted around the door or on the stairs leading to the Norman
dining-hall, which was often on an upper floor, was a crowd of beggars
or gluttons, who grew so insolent in the days of Rufus, that ushers,
armed with rods, were posted outside to beat back the noisy throng, who
thought little of snatching the dishes as the cooks carried them to
table!

The juggler, who under the Normans filled the place of the English
gleeman, tumbled, sang, and balanced knives in the hall; or, out in the
bailey of an afternoon, displayed the acquirements of his trained monkey
or bear. The fool, too, clad in coloured patchwork, cracked his ribald
jests and shook his cap and bells at the elbow of roaring barons, when
the board was spread and the circling of the wine began.

Monasteries served many useful purposes at this time. Besides their
manifest value as centres of study and literary work, they gave alms to
the poor, a supper and a bed to travellers; their tenants were better
off and better treated than the tenants of the nobles; the monks could
store grain, grow apples, and cultivate their flower-beds with little
risk of injury from war, because they had spiritual penalties at their
call, which usually awed even the most reckless of the soldiery into a
respect for sacred property.

As schools, too, the monasteries did no trifling service to society in
the Middle Ages. In addition to their influence as great centres of
learning, English law had enjoined every mass-priest to keep a school in
his parish church where all the young committed to his care might be
instructed. The youth of the middle classes, destined for the cloister
or the merchant's stall, chiefly thronged these schools. The aristocracy
cared little for book-learning. Very few indeed of the barons could read
or write. But all could ride, fence, tilt, play at cards, and carve
extremely well; for to these accomplishments many years of pagehood and
squirehood were given.

W. F. Collier, (Adapted)




Self-reverence, self-knowledge, self-control, These three alone lead
life to sovereign power.

Tennyson




YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND


    Ye mariners of England
    That guard our native seas,
    Whose flag has braved, a thousand years,
    The battle and the breeze!
    Your glorious standard launch again
    To match another foe:
    And sweep through the deep,
    While the stormy winds do blow;
    While the battle rages loud and long,
    And the stormy winds do blow.

    The spirits of your fathers
    Shall start from every wave--
    For the deck it was their field of fame,
    And Ocean was their grave:
    Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell
    Your manly hearts shall glow,
    As ye sweep through the deep,
    While the stormy winds do blow;
    While the battle rages loud and long,
    And the stormy winds do blow.

    Britannia needs no bulwarks,
    No towers along the steep;
    Her march is o'er the mountain waves,
    Her home is on the deep.
    With thunders from her native oak
    She quells the floods below--
    As they roar on the shore,
    When the stormy winds do blow;
    When the battle rages loud and long,
    And the stormy winds do blow.

    The meteor flag of England
    Shall yet terrific burn,
    Till danger's troubled night depart
    And the star of peace return.
    Then, then, ye ocean-warriors!
    Our song and feast shall flow
    To the fame of your name,
    When the storm has ceased to blow;
    When the fiery fight is heard no more,
    And the storm has ceased to blow.

Thomas Campbell




    It is the land that freemen till;
      That sober-suited Freedom chose,
      The Land, where girt with friends or foes
    A man may speak the thing he will;
    A land of settled government,
      A land of old and just renown,
      Where freedom broadens slowly down
    From precedent to precedent.

Tennyson




INSTRUCTION


Hear, ye children, the instruction of a father, and attend to know
understanding. Get wisdom, get understanding: forget it not; neither
decline from the words of my mouth. Forsake her not, and she shall
preserve thee: love her, and she shall keep thee. Wisdom is the
principal thing; therefore get wisdom: and with all thy getting get
understanding. Exalt her, and she shall promote thee: she shall bring
thee to honour, when thou dost embrace her. She shall give to thine head
an ornament of grace: a crown of glory shall she deliver to thee.

My son, attend to my words; incline thine ear unto my sayings. Let them
not depart from thine eyes; keep them in the midst of thine heart. For
they are life unto those that find them and health to all their flesh.
Keep thy heart with all diligence; for out of it are the issues of life.
Put away from thee a froward mouth, and perverse lips put far from thee.
Let thine eyes look right on, and let thine eyelids look straight before
thee. Ponder the path of thy feet, and let all thy ways be established.
Turn not to the right hand nor to the left: remove thy foot from evil.

Proverbs, IV.




HOME THOUGHTS FROM ABROAD


            Oh, to be in England
            Now that April's there,
        And whoever wakes in England
        Sees, some morning, unaware,
    That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf
    Round the elm tree bole are in tiny leaf,
    While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough
            In England--now!

    And after April, when May follows,
    And the white-throat builds, and all the swallows!
    Hark! where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge
    Leans to the field and scatters on the clover
    Blossoms and dewdrops--at the bent spray's edge--
    That's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over,
    Lest you should think he never could recapture
    The first fine careless rapture!
    And though the fields look rough with hoary dew,
    All will be gay when noontide wakes anew
    The buttercups, the little children's dower,
    --Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!

Browning




THE BELLS OF SHANDON


    With deep affection and recollection
      I often think of those Shandon bells,
    Whose sounds so wild would, in the days of childhood,
      Fling round my cradle their magic spells.
    On this I ponder where'er I wander,
      And thus grow fonder, sweet Cork, of thee;
    With thy bells of Shandon that sound so grand on
      The pleasant waters of the River Lee.

    I've heard bells chiming full many a clime in,
      Tolling sublime in cathedral shrine;
    While at a glib rate brass tongues would vibrate;--
      But all their music spoke naught like thine.
    For memory dwelling on each proud swelling
      Of thy belfry knelling its bold notes free,
    Made the bells of Shandon sound far more grand on
      The pleasant waters of the River Lee.

    I've heard bells tolling old Adrian's Mole in,
      Their thunder rolling from the Vatican;
    And cymbals glorious swinging uproarious
      In the gorgeous turrets of Notre Dame.
    But thy sounds were sweeter than the dome of Peter
      Flings o'er the Tiber, pealing solemnly;
    O, the bells of Shandon sound far more grand on
      The pleasant waters of the River Lee.

    There's a bell in Moscow; while on tower and kiosk O!
      In Saint Sophia the Turkman gets,
    And loud in air calls men to prayer
      From the tapering summits of tall minarets.
    Such empty phantom I freely grant them;
      But there's an anthem more dear to me;
    'Tis the bells of Shandon that sound so grand on
      The pleasant waters of the River Lee.

Francis Mahony




The man whom I call worthy of the name, is one whose thoughts and
exertions are for others rather than for himself; whose high purpose is
adopted on just principles, and is never abandoned while heaven or earth
affords means of accomplishing it. He is one who will neither seek an
indirect advantage by a specious road, nor take an evil path to secure a
really good purpose.

Scott




THE VISION OF MIRZAH


When I was at Grand Cairo, I picked up several Oriental manuscripts,
which I have still by me. Among others, I met with one entitled, "_The
Visions of Mirzah_," which I have read over with great pleasure. I
intend to give it to the public when I have no other entertainment for
them; and shall begin with the first Vision, which I have translated
word for word, as follows:--

"On the fifth day of the moon, which, according to the custom of my
forefathers, I always keep holy, after having washed myself, and offered
up my morning devotions, I ascended the high hills of Bagdat, in order
to pass the rest of the day in meditation and prayer. As I was here
airing myself on the tops of the mountains, I fell into a profound
contemplation on the vanity of human life; and passing from one thought
to another, 'Surely,' said I, 'man is but a shadow, and life a dream.'

"Whilst I was thus musing, I cast my eyes towards the summit of a rock
that was not far from me, where I discovered one in the habit of a
shepherd, with a little musical instrument in his hand. As I looked
upon him, he applied it to his lips, and began to play upon it. The
sound of it was exceeding sweet, and wrought into a variety of tunes
that were inexpressibly melodious, and altogether different from
anything I had ever heard. They put me in mind of those heavenly airs
that are played to the departed souls of good men upon their first
arrival in paradise, to wear out the impressions of the last agonies,
and qualify them for the pleasures of that happy place. My heart melted
away in secret raptures.

"I had been often told that the rock before me was the haunt of a
genius; and that several had been entertained with music who had passed
by it, but never heard that the musician had before made himself
visible. When he had raised my thoughts by those transporting airs which
he played, to taste the pleasures of his conversation, as I looked upon
him like one astonished, thereupon he beckoned to me and, by the waving
of his hand, directed me to approach the place where he sat.

"I drew near with that reverence which is due to a superior nature; and
as my heart was entirely subdued by the captivating strains I had heard,
I fell down at his feet and wept. The Genius smiled upon me with a look
of compassion and affability that familiarized him to my imagination,
and at once dispelled all the fears and apprehensions with which I
approached him. He lifted me from the ground, and taking me by the hand,
'Mirzah,' said he, 'I have heard thee in thy soliloquies; follow me.'

"He then led me to the highest pinnacle of the rock, and placing me on
the top of it, 'Cast thy eyes eastward,' said he, 'and tell me what thou
seest.' 'I see,' said I, 'a huge valley, and a prodigious tide of water
rolling through it.' 'The valley that thou seest,' said he, 'is the Vale
of Misery, and the Tide of Water that thou seest is part of the great
Tide of Eternity,' 'What is the reason,' said I, 'that the tide I see
rises out of a thick mist at one end, and again loses itself in a thick
mist at the other?' 'What thou seest,' said he, 'is that portion of
eternity which is called Time, measured out by the sun, and reaching
from the beginning of the world to its consummation.'

"'Examine now,' said he, 'this sea that is bounded with darkness at both
ends, and tell me what thou discoverest in it.' 'I see a bridge,' said
I, 'standing in the midst of the tide.' 'The bridge thou seest,' said
he, 'is Human Life; consider it attentively.' Upon a more leisurely
survey of it, I found that it consisted of threescore and ten entire
arches, with several broken arches, which, added to those that were
entire, made up the number about an hundred. As I was counting the
arches, the Genius told me that this bridge had consisted at first of a
thousand arches; but that a great flood swept away the rest and left the
bridge in the ruinous condition I now beheld it.

"'But tell me further,' said he, 'what thou discoverest on it.' 'I see
multitudes of people passing over it,' said I, 'and a black cloud
hanging on each end of it.' As I looked more attentively, I saw several
of the passengers dropping through the bridge, into the great tide that
flowed underneath it; and, upon further examination, perceived that
there were innumerable trap-doors that lay concealed in the bridge,
which the passengers no sooner trod upon, but they fell through them
into the tide and immediately disappeared.

"These hidden pitfalls were set very thick at the entrance of the
bridge, so that the throngs of people no sooner broke through the cloud,
but many of them fell into them. They grew thinner towards the middle,
but multiplied and lay closer together towards the end of the arches
that were entire.

"There were indeed some persons, but their numbers were very small, that
continued a kind of hobbling march on the broken arches, but fell
through one after another, being quite tired and spent with so long a
walk.

"I passed some time in the contemplation of this wonderful structure,
and the great variety of objects which it presented. My heart was filled
with a deep melancholy to see several dropping unexpectedly in the midst
of mirth and jollity, and catching at everything that stood by them to
save themselves.

"Some were looking up towards the heavens in a thoughtful posture, and,
in the midst of a speculation, stumbled and fell out of sight.
Multitudes were very busy in the pursuit of bubbles that glittered in
their eyes and danced before them; but often, when they thought
themselves within reach of them, their footing failed and down they
sunk.

"In this confusion of objects, I observed some with scymetars in their
hands, who ran to and fro upon the bridge, thrusting several persons on
trap-doors which did not seem to lie in their way, and which they might
have escaped had they not been thus forced upon them.

"The Genius, seeing me indulge myself on this melancholy prospect, told
me that I had dwelt long enough upon it: 'Take thine eyes off the
bridge,' said he, 'and tell me if thou yet seest anything thou dost not
comprehend.' Upon looking up, 'What mean,' said I, 'those great flights
of birds that are perpetually hovering about the bridge and settling
upon it from time to time? I see vultures, harpies, ravens, cormorants,
and, among many other feathered creatures, several little winged boys
that perch in great numbers upon the middle arches.' 'These,' said the
Genius, 'are envy, avarice, superstition, despair, love, with the like
cares and passions that infest human life.'

"I here fetched a deep sigh, 'Alas,' said I, 'man was made in vain! How
is he given away to misery and mortality! tortured in life, and
swallowed up in death.'

"The Genius, being moved with compassion towards me, bid me quit so
uncomfortable a prospect: 'Look no more,' said he, 'on man in the first
stage of his existence, in his setting out for eternity; but cast thine
eye on that thick mist into which the tide bears the several
generations of mortals that fall into it.'

"I directed my sight as I was ordered, and (whether or no the good
Genius strengthened it with any supernatural force, or dissipated part
of the mist that was before too thick for the eye to penetrate) I saw
the valley opening at the farther end and spreading forth into an
immense ocean, that had a huge rock of adamant running through the midst
of it and dividing it into two equal parts.

"The clouds still rested on one half of it, insomuch that I could
discover nothing in it; but the other appeared to me a vast ocean,
planted with innumerable islands that were covered with fruits and
flowers and interwoven with a thousand little shining seas that ran
among them. I could see persons dressed in glorious habits with garlands
upon their heads, passing among the trees, lying down by the side of
fountains, or resting on beds of flowers; and could hear a confused
harmony of singing birds, falling waters, human voices, and musical
instruments.

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

"'The islands,' said he, 'that lie so fresh and green before thee, and
with which the whole face of the ocean appears spotted as far as thou
canst see, are more in number than the sands on the sea-shore: there are
myriads of islands behind those which thou here discoverest, reaching
farther than thine eye or even thine imagination can extend itself.
These are the mansions of good men after death, who, according to the
degree and kinds of virtue in which they excelled, are distributed among
these several islands, which abound with pleasures of different kinds
and degrees, suitable to the relishes and perfections of those who are
settled in them: every island is a paradise accommodated to its
respective inhabitants. Are not these, O Mirzah, habitations worth
contending for? Does life appear miserable, that gives thee
opportunities of earning such a reward? Is death to be feared, that will
convey thee to so happy an existence? Think not man was made in vain,
who has such an eternity reserved for him.'

"I gazed with inexpressible pleasure on these happy islands. At length,
I said: 'Show me now, I beseech thee, the secrets that lie hid under
those dark clouds which cover the ocean on the other side of the rock of
adamant.'

"The Genius making me no answer, I turned about to address myself to him
a second time, but found that he had left me; I then turned again to the
Vision which I had been so long contemplating; but instead of the
rolling tide, the arched bridge, and the happy islands, I saw nothing
but the long, hollow valley of Bagdat, with oxen, sheep, and camels
grazing upon the sides of it."

Addison: "The Spectator, No. 159."




FORBEARANCE


    Hast thou named all the birds without a gun?
    Loved the wood-rose, and left it on its stalk?
    At rich men's tables eaten bread and pulse?
    Unarmed, faced danger with a heart of trust?
    And loved so well a high behaviour,
    In man or maid, that thou from speech refrained,
    Nobility more nobly to repay?
    O, be my friend, and teach me to be thine!

Emerson




MERCY TO ANIMALS


    I would not enter on my list of friends
    (Though graced with polished manners and fine sense,
    Yet wanting sensibility) the man
    Who needlessly sets foot upon a worm.
    An inadvertent step may crush the snail
    That crawls at evening in the public path;
    But he that has humanity, forewarned,
    Will tread aside, and let the reptile live.
    The creeping vermin, loathsome to the sight,
    And charged perhaps with venom, that intrudes
    A visitor unwelcome into scenes
    Sacred to neatness and repose, the alcove,
    The chamber, or refectory, may die.
    A necessary act incurs no blame.
    The sum is this: if man's convenience, health,
    Or safety interfere, his rights and claims
    Are paramount, and must extinguish theirs.
    Else they are all--the meanest things that are--
    As free to live, and to enjoy that life,
    As God was free to form them at the first,
    Who in His sovereign wisdom made them all.
    Ye, therefore, who love mercy, teach your sons
    To love it, too.

Cowper




THE UNITED EMPIRE LOYALISTS


The Americans inaugurated their Declaration of Independence by enacting
that all the United Empire Loyalists--that is the adherents to
connection with the mother country--were rebels and traitors; they
followed the recognition of Independence by England with an order
exiling such adherents from their territories. But while this policy
depleted the United States of some of their best blood, it laid the
foundation of the settlement and the institutions of the country which
has since become the great, free, and prosperous Dominion of Canada.

Upper Canada was then unknown, or known only as a region of dense
wilderness and swamps; of venomous reptiles and beasts of prey; of
numerous and fierce Indian tribes; of intense cold in winter; and with
no redeeming feature except abundance of game and fish.

After the war of Independence, many Loyalists went to Nova Scotia and
New Brunswick and settled there. The British Commander of New York,
having found out that Upper Canada was capable of supporting a numerous
population along the great river and the lakes, undertook to send
colonies of Loyalists there.

Five vessels were procured and furnished to convey the first colony from
New York. They sailed round the coasts of Nova Scotia and New Brunswick,
and up the St. Lawrence to Sorel, where they arrived in October, 1783.
Here they wintered, having built themselves huts, or shanties, and in
May, 1784, they continued their voyage in boats, and reached their
destination, Cataraqui, afterwards Kingston, in the month of July.

Other bands of Loyalists came by land over the military highway to Lower
Canada, as far as Plattsburg, and then northward to Cornwall and up the
St. Lawrence, along the north side of which many of them settled.

But the most common route was by way of the Hudson and the Mohawk
Rivers, through Oneida Lake and down the Oswego River to Lake Ontario.
Flat-bottomed boats, specially built or purchased for the purpose by the
Loyalists, were used in this journey. The portages, over which the boats
had to be hauled and all their contents carried, are said to have been
thirty miles long.

On reaching Oswego, some of the Loyalists coasted along the eastern
shore of Lake Ontario to Kingston, and thence up the Bay of Quinte;
others went westward along the south shore of the lake to Niagara and
Queenston. Some conveyed their boats over the portage of ten or twelve
miles to Chippewa, thence up the river and into Lake Erie, settling
chiefly in what was called "Long Point Country," now the County of
Norfolk.

This journey of hardship, privation, and exposure occupied from two to
three months. The obstacles encountered may readily be imagined in a
country where the primeval forest covered the earth, and where the only
path was the river or the lake. The parents and family of the writer of
this history were from the middle of May to the middle of July making
the journey in an open boat. Generally two or more families would unite
in one company, and thus assist each other in carrying their boats and
goods over the portages.

"These excellent men," wrote Sir Richard Bonnycastle, "were willing to
sacrifice life and fortune rather than forego the enviable distinction
of being British subjects." The stern adherence of the Pilgrim Fathers
to their principles was quite equalled by the stern adherence of the
Loyalists to their principles; but the privations and hardships
experienced by many of the Loyalist patriots for years after the first
settlement in Canada were much more severe than anything experienced by
the Puritans during the first years of their settlement in
Massachusetts.

Canada has, indeed, a noble parentage, the remembrance of which its
inhabitants may well cherish with respect, affection, and pride.

Egerton Ryerson: "The Loyalists of America and their Times." (Adapted)


[Illustration: EGERTON RYERSON]




OFT, IN THE STILLY NIGHT


    Oft, in the stilly night,
      Ere slumber's chain has bound me,
    Fond Memory brings the light
      Of other days around me;
        The smiles, the tears,
        Of boyhood's years,
      The words of love then spoken;
        The eyes that shone,
        Now dimmed and gone,
      The cheerful hearts now broken!
    Thus, in the stilly night,
      Ere slumber's chain has bound me,
    Sad Memory brings the light
      Of other days around me.

    When I remember all
      The friends, so linked together,
    I've seen around me fall,
      Like leaves in wintry weather;
        I feel like one,
        Who treads alone
      Some banquet-hall deserted,
        Whose lights are fled,
        Whose garlands dead,
      And all but he departed!
    Thus, in the stilly night,
      Ere slumber's chain has bound me,
    Sad Memory brings the light
      Of other days around me.

Moore




THE HARP THAT ONCE THROUGH TARA'S HALLS


    The harp that once through Tara's halls
      The soul of music shed,
    Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls
      As if that soul were fled.
    So sleeps the pride of former days,
      So glory's thrill is o'er,
    And hearts that once beat high for praise,
      Now feel that pulse no more.

    No more to chiefs and ladies bright
      The harp of Tara swells;
    The chord alone, that breaks at night,
      Its tale of ruin tells.
    Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes,
      The only throb she gives,
    Is when some heart indignant breaks,
      To show that still she lives.

Moore




HUDSON STRAIT


Hudson Strait opens from the Atlantic between Resolution Island on the
north and the Button Islands on the south. From point to point, this end
of the strait is forty-five miles wide. At the other end, the west side,
between Digges' Island and Nottingham Island, is a distance of
thirty-five miles. From east to west, the straits are four hundred and
fifty miles long--wider at the east where the south side is known as
Ungava Bay, contracting at the west, to the Upper Narrows. The south
side of the strait is Labrador; the north, Baffin's Land. Both sides are
lofty, rocky, cavernous shores lashed by a tide that rises in places as
high as thirty-five feet and runs in calm weather ten miles an hour.
Pink granite islands dot the north shore in groups that afford
harbourage, but all shores present an adamant front, edges sharp as a
knife or else rounded hard to have withstood and cut the tremendous ice
jam of a floating world suddenly contracted to forty miles, which Davis
Strait pours down at the east end and Fox Channel at the west.

Seven hundred feet is considered a good-sized hill; one thousand feet, a
mountain. Both the north and the south sides of the straits rise two
thousand feet in places. Through these rock walls ice has poured and
torn and ripped a way since the ice age preceding history, cutting a
great channel to the Atlantic. Here, the iron walls suddenly break to
secluded silent valleys, moss-padded, snow-edged, lonely as the day
Earth first saw light. Down these valleys pour the clear streams of the
eternal snows, burnished as silver against the green, setting the
silence echoing with the tinkle of cataracts over some rock wall, or
filling the air with the voice of many waters at noontide thaw. One old
navigator--Coates--describes the beat of the angry tide at the rock base
and the silver voice of the mountain brooks, like the treble and bass of
some great cathedral organ sounding its diapason to the glory of God in
this peopleless wilderness.

Perhaps the kyacks of some solitary Eskimo, lashed abreast twos and
threes to prevent capsizing, may shoot out from some of these
bog-covered valleys like sea-birds; but it is only when the Eskimos
happen to be hunting here, or the ships of the whalers and fur traders
are passing up and down--that there is any sign of human habitation on
the straits.

Walrus wallow on the pink granite islands in huge herds. Polar bears
flounder from icepan to icepan. The arctic hare, white as snow but for
the great bulging black eye, bounds over the boulders. Snow buntings,
whistling swans, snow geese, ducks in myriads--flacker and clacker and
hold solemn conclave on the adjoining rocks, as though this were their
realm from the beginning and for all time.

Of a tremendous depth are the waters of the straits. Not for nothing has
the ice world been grinding through this narrow channel for billions of
years. No fear of shoals to the mariner. Fear is of another sort. When
the ice is running in a whirlpool and the incoming tide meets the ice
jam and the waters mount thirty-five feet high and a wind roars between
the high shores like a bellows--then it is that the straits roll and
pitch and funnel their waters into black troughs where the ships go
down. "Undertow," the old Hudson's Bay captains called the suck of the
tide against the ice wall; and that black hole, where the lumpy billows
seemed to part like a passage between wall of ice and wall of water, was
what the mariners feared. The other great danger was just a plain crush,
getting nipped between two icepans rearing and plunging like fighting
stallions, with the ice blocks going off like pistol shots or smashed
glass. No child's play is such navigating either for the old sailing
vessels of the fur traders or the modern ice-breakers propelled by
steam! Yet, the old sailing vessels and the whaling fleets have
navigated these straits for two hundred years.

Agnes C. Laut: "The Conquest of the Great Northwest."




    Good name in man and woman,
    Is the immediate jewel of their souls:
    Who steals my purse steals trash; 'tis something, nothing;
    'Twas mine, 'tis his, and has been slave to thousands;
    But he that filches from me my good name
    Robs me of that which not enriches him,
    And makes me poor indeed.

Shakespeare




SCOTS WHA HAE


    Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled,
    Scots, wham Bruce has aften led;
    Welcome to your gory bed,
      Or to victorie.
    Now's the day, and now's the hour;
    See the front o' battle lour:
    See approach proud Edward's power--
      Chains and slaverie!

    Wha will be a traitor knave?
    Wha can fill a coward's grave?
    Wha sae base as be a slave?
      Let him turn and flee!
    Wha for Scotland's King and law
    Freedom's sword will strongly draw,
    Free-man stand, or free-man fa',
      Let him follow me!

    By Oppression's woes and pains!
    By your sons in servile chains,
    We will drain our dearest veins,
      But they shall be free!
    Lay the proud usurpers low!
    Tyrants fall in every foe!
    Liberty's in every blow!
      Let us do, or die!

Burns




ST. AMBROSE CREW WIN THEIR FIRST RACE

(The chief characters in this sketch are Miller, the tyrannical little
cockswain of the crew; old Jervis, the captain; Tom Brown, number two,
who is rowing his first race; Hardy, a friend of Tom's and one of the
best oarsmen in the college--also Jack, the college dog. Though there
are several crews in the race the real struggle is between the boats
from St. Ambrose and Exeter Colleges. If St. Ambrose can drive the nose
of its boat against the Exeter boat--"bump it"--it wins.)


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

"Shall we push her off?" asked Bow.

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

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

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

"Now, jackets off, and get her head out steadily."

The jackets were thrown on shore, and gathered up by the boatman in
attendance. The crew poised their oars, Number Two pushing out her head,
and the captain doing the same for the stern. Miller took the
starting-rope in his hand.

"How the wind catches her stern," he said; "here, pay out the rope one
of you. No, not you--some fellow with a strong hand. Yes, you'll do," he
went on, as Hardy stepped down the bank and took hold of the rope; "let
me have it foot by foot as I want it. Not too quick; make the most of
it--that'll do. Two and Three, just dip your oars in to give her way."

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

"You _must_ back her a bit, Miller, and keep her a little further out or
our oars on stroke side will catch the bank."

"So I see; curse the wind. Back her, one stroke all. Back her, I say!"
shouted Miller.

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

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

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

"By Jove, we are drifting in again," said Miller, in horror. The captain
looked grim but said nothing; it was too late now for him to be
unshipping again. "Here, catch hold of the long boat-hook and fend her
off."

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

It is an awful moment. But the coxswain, though almost dragged backwards
off his seat, is equal to the occasion. He holds his watch in his right
hand with the tiller rope. "Eight seconds more only. Look out for the
flash. Remember, all eyes in the boat."

There it comes, at last--the flash of the starting-gun. Long before the
sound of the report can roll up the river, the whole pent-up life and
energy which has been held in leash, as it were, for the last six
minutes, is loose, and breaks away with a bound and a dash which he who
has felt it will remember for his life, but the like of which, will he
ever feel again? The starting-ropes drop from the coxswains' hands, the
oars flash into the water and gleam on the feather, the spray flies from
them, and the boats leap forward.

The crowds on the bank scatter and rush along, each keeping as near as
may be to its own boat. Some of the men on the towing-path, some on the
very edge of, often in, the water; some slightly in advance, as if they
could help to drag their boat forward; some behind, where they can see
the pulling better; but all at full speed, in wild excitement, and
shouting at the top of their voices to those on whom the honour of the
college is laid.

"Well pulled, all!" "Pick her up there, Five!" "You're gaining every
stroke!" "Time in the bows!" "Bravo, St. Ambrose!"

On they rushed by the side of the boats, jostling one another,
stumbling, struggling, and panting along.

For a quarter of a mile along the bank the glorious, maddening
hurly-burly extends, and rolls up the side of the stream.

For the first ten strokes Tom was in too great fear of making a mistake
to feel or hear or see. His whole soul was glued to the back of the man
before him, his one thought to keep time and get his strength into the
stroke. But, as the crew settled down into the well-known long sweep,
what we may call consciousness returned; and, while every muscle in his
body was straining, and his chest heaved, and his heart leaped, every
nerve seemed to be gathering new life, and his senses to wake into
unwonted acuteness. He caught the scent of wild thyme in the air, and
found room in his brain to wonder how it could have got there, as he had
never seen the plant near the river, or smelt it before. Though his eye
never wandered from the back of Diogenes, he seemed to see all things at
once. The boat behind, which seemed to be gaining;--it was all he could
do to prevent himself from quickening on the stroke as he fancied
that;--the eager face of Miller, with his compressed lips, and eyes
fixed so earnestly ahead that Tom could almost feel the glance passing
over his right shoulder; the flying banks and the shouting crowd; see
them with his bodily eyes he could not, but he knew, nevertheless, that
Grey had been upset and nearly rolled down the bank into the water in
the first hundred yards, that Jack was bounding and scrambling and
barking along by the very edge of the stream; above all, he was just as
well aware as if he had been looking at it, of a stalwart form in cap
and gown, bounding along, brandishing the long boat-hook, and always
keeping just opposite the boat; and amid all the Babel of voices, and
the dash and pulse of the stroke, and the labouring of his own
breathing, he heard Hardy's voice coming to him again and again, and
clear as if there had been no other sound in the air, "Steady, Two!
steady! well pulled! steady, steady." The voice seemed to give him
strength and keep him to his work. And what work it was! he had had many
a hard pull in the last six weeks, but never aught like this.

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

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

Miller's face and attitude are a study. Coiled up into the smallest
possible space, his chin almost resting on his knees, his hands close to
his sides, firmly but lightly feeling the rudder, as a good horseman
handles the mouth of a free-going hunter; if a coxswain could make a
bump by his own exertions, surely he will do it. No sudden jerks of the
St. Ambrose rudder will you see, watch as you will from the bank; the
boat never hangs through fault of his, but easily and gracefully rounds
every point. "You're gaining! you're gaining!" he now and then mutters
to the captain, who responds with a wink, keeping his breath for other
matters. Isn't he grand, the captain, as he comes forward like
lightning, stroke after stroke, his back flat, his teeth set, his whole
frame working from the hips with the regularity of a machine? As the
space still narrows, the eyes of the fiery little coxswain flash with
excitement, but he is far too good a judge to hurry the final effort
before the victory is safe in his grasp.

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

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

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

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

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

Thomas Hughes: "Tom Brown at Oxford."




HUNTING SONG


    Waken, lords and ladies gay,
    On the mountain dawns the day;
    All the jolly chase is here
    With hawk and horse and hunting-spear;
    Hounds are in their couples yelling,
    Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling,
    Merrily, merrily mingle they,
    'Waken, lords and ladies gay.'

    Waken, lords and ladies gay,
    The mist has left the mountain gray,
    Springlets in the dawn are steaming,
    Diamonds on the brake are gleaming,
    And foresters have busy been
    To track the buck in thicket green;
    Now we come to chant our lay,
    'Waken, lords and ladies gay.'

    Waken, lords and ladies gay,
    To the greenwood haste away;
    We can show you where he lies,
    Fleet of foot and tall of size;
    We can show the marks he made
    When 'gainst the oak his antlers frayed;
    You shall see him brought to bay:
    'Waken, lords and ladies gay.'

    Louder, louder chant the lay,
    Waken, lords and ladies gay!
    Tell them youth and mirth and glee
    Run a course as well as we;
    Time, stern huntsman! who can baulk,
    Staunch as hound and fleet as hawk;
    Think of this, and rise with day,
    Gentle lords and ladies gay!

Scott




It is not what he has, nor even what he does, which directly expresses
the worth of a man, but what he is.

Amiel




BORDER BALLAD


    March, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale,
      Why, my lads, dinna ye march forward in order!
    March, march, Eskdale and Liddesdale,
      All the Blue Bonnets are bound for the Border.
        Many a banner spread
        Flutters above your head,
      Many a crest that is famous in story;
        Mount and make ready then,
        Sons of the mountain glen,
    Fight for the Queen and our old Scottish glory!

    Come from the hills where your hirsels[1] are grazing,
      Come from the glen of the buck and the roe;
    Come to the crag where the beacon is blazing,
      Come with the buckler, the lance, and the bow;
        Trumpets are sounding,
        War-steeds are bounding,
      Stand to your arms, and march in good order;
        England shall many a day
        Tell of the bloody fray
    When the Blue Bonnets came over the Border.

Scott

FOOTNOTES:
[1] Cattle




THE GREAT NORTHERN DIVER


The weird, long call, or the shrill, demoniacal laugh coming out of the
night tells of the sleepless activity of the loon. The whip-poor-will in
the adjacent shrubbery seems companionable, and there is a friendly
spirit in the short, shrill tremolo of the night-hawk from the invisible
sky. Even the plaint of the screech-owl has a tone of human sympathy.
But the dreary cadence of the loon is the voice of the inhospitable
night, repelling every thought of human association. It does not
entreat, it does not warn; yet there is a fascination in its
expressionless strength. Over the black water, under the lowering sky,
or through the bright still moonlight, the same unfeeling tone fills the
ear of night. And sometimes, when the lingering moon sheds a broad trail
of light along the still waters of the lake, the graceful swimmer will
glide across and disappear in the darkness, breaking the bright
reflection into a multitude of chasing, quivering, trailing threads of
silver. Throughout the day, where the cedars come down to meet their
shadows in the dark water, he swims ceaselessly about, sitting low, with
black, glossy neck gracefully curved and displaying its delicate white
markings. Sometimes he stretches himself wearily, flapping his wings,
and displaying his white breast and the handsome, showy markings of his
sides. Though wary and aloof, and without a trace of animation in his
loud, penetrating cries, he shows his kinship by the scrupulous care
with which he preens his handsome feathers--even lying on his back in
the water to comb out and smooth his glossy, white breast.

A hurried cry from overhead may unexpectedly reveal the presence of a
pair of loons in another element, and it is always fascinating to watch
their steady, strained, energetic flight above the tops of the pines,
generally to curve down to some more attractive expanse in the
cedar-girt lake. For the water is the loon's natural element. There is
an amusing deliberateness in his graceful, silent dive. He does not make
the hurried dip of his smaller cousin, the grebe, but more calmly curves
both neck and body, disappearing under the surface in a graceful arch.
Settling down and swimming with only head and neck exposed is an
evidence of suspicion, and is generally followed by a long dive, with a
belated reappearance in some remote part of the lake.

When the mother loon takes her two offspring out for a swim, it is a big
event in the domestic circle. The outing is announced by prolonged and
unusual repetitions of the laughing call. For half an hour the echoes of
the lake are kept alive with sounds portentous of new departures in the
loon world. Then a peculiar object is seen to emerge from the marshy bay
and cross under the shadowy cedars toward the open water. A field-glass
shows it to be the mother loon and her two offspring, the three huddled
so closely together that they are almost indistinguishable. The mother
is unceasing in her care and attention. She strokes the backs of the
young birds with her bill, playing and fussing around and close to them,
as if they could not exist without her constant attention. Now and then
she leans over and lifts a broad, black, webbed foot out of the water,
holding it up distended, as if to endorse the modern theory that the
parent loon teaches her young to swim. They cling to each other and
cling to her, as if afraid of being lost in the great expanse of water
to which they have been so recently introduced.

A short distance away the father swims about in lordly indifference,
diving occasionally and regaling himself on the unsuspecting fish. A
boat comes out from the shore, rowed by an industrious guide, with an
angler, picturesquely protected by mosquito net, sitting in the stern.
The mother loon pushes and urges her indolent pair in the direction of
safety. How slow they must seem as she hurries and encourages them! The
trio moves at a snail's pace compared with her ordinary speed, but the
young ones show no inclination to dive out of harm's way. Their
clinging, crowding tendency serves but to incommode and obstruct her.
And where is the male protector? Alas for the romance of chivalry! When
the boat comes near, he deliberately dives, and, after the usual
protracted wait, reappears in another part of the lake, away from the
danger that alarms and threatens the defenceless trio. But the mother
remains and urges the encumbering young things to speed. They do make
some headway, though slowly, toward the marshy bay from which they
recently emerged with so much loud, wild laughter. The indifference of
the fisherman and the guide does not reassure them, and they never cease
their entangled struggle till lost to sight in the winding lagoon.

S. T. Wood




TO THE CUCKOO


    O blithe New-comer! I have heard,
    I hear thee and rejoice.
    O Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird,
    Or but a wandering Voice?

    While I am lying on the grass
    Thy twofold shout I hear;
    From hill to hill it seems to pass,
    At once far off, and near.

    Though babbling only to the Vale,
    Of sunshine and of flowers,
    Thou bringest unto me a tale
    Of visionary hours.

    Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring!
    Even yet thou art to me
    No bird, but an invisible thing,
    A voice, a mystery;

    The same whom in my school-boy days
    I listened to; that Cry
    Which made me look a thousand ways
    In bush, and tree, and sky.

    To seek thee did I often rove
    Through woods and on the green;
    And thou wert still a hope, a love;
    Still longed for, never seen.

    And I can listen to thee yet;
    Can lie upon the plain
    And listen, till I do beget
    That golden time again.

    O blessed Bird! the earth we pace
    Again appears to be
    An unsubstantial faery place,
    That is fit home for Thee!

Wordsworth




ON THE GRASSHOPPER AND CRICKET


    The poetry of earth is never dead:
      When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,
      And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run
    From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead;
    That is the Grasshopper's--he takes the lead
      In summer luxury--he has never done
      With his delights; for when tired out with fun

    He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.
    The poetry of earth is ceasing never:
      On a lone winter evening, when the frost
      Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills
    The Cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever,
      And seems to one in drowsiness half-lost,
      The Grasshopper's among some grassy hills.

Keats




THE GREAT NORTHWEST


And now let us turn our glance to this great Northwest, whither my
wandering steps are about to lead me. Fully nine hundred miles as bird
would fly, and one thousand two hundred as horse can travel, west of Red
River, an immense range of mountains eternally capped with snow rises in
rugged masses from a vast stream-scarred plain. They who first beheld
these grand guardians of the central prairies named them the Montagnes
des Rochers (Rocky Mountains),--a fitting title for such vast
accumulations of rugged magnificence. From the glaciers and ice-valleys
of this great range of mountains, innumerable streams descend into the
plains. For a time they wander, as if heedless of direction, through
groves and glades and green-spreading declivities; then, assuming
greater fixity of purpose, they gather up many a wandering rill and
start eastward upon a long journey. At length the many detached streams
resolve themselves into two great water systems. Through hundreds of
miles these two rivers pursue their parallel courses, now approaching,
now opening out from each other. Suddenly the southern river bends
towards the north, and, at a point some six hundred miles from the
mountains, pours its volume of water into the northern channel. Then the
united river rolls, in vast, majestic curves, steadily towards the
north-east, turns once more towards the south, opens out into a great
reed-covered marsh, sweeps on into a large cedar-lined lake, and
finally, rolling over a rocky ledge, casts its waters into the northern
end of the great Lake Winnipeg, fully one thousand three hundred miles
from the glacier cradle where it took its birth. This river, which has
along it every diversity of hill and vale, meadow-land and forest,
treeless plain and fertile hillside, is called by the wild tribes who
dwell along its glorious shores, the Saskatchewan or "rapid-flowing
river." But this Saskatchewan is not the only river which drains the
great central region between Red River and the Rocky Mountains. The
Assiniboine or "stony river" drains the rolling prairie-lands five
hundred miles west from Red River; and many a smaller stream, and
rushing, bubbling brook, carries into its devious channel the waters of
that vast country which lies between the American boundary line and the
pine woods of the Lower Saskatchewan.

So much for the rivers; and now for the land through which they flow.
How shall we picture it? how shall we tell the story of that great,
boundless, solitary waste of verdure? The old, old maps, which the
navigators of the sixteenth century formed from the discoveries of Cabot
and Cartier, of Verrazanno and Hudson, played strange pranks with the
geography of the New World. The coast-line, with the estuaries of large
rivers, was tolerably accurate; but the centre of America was
represented as a vast inland sea, whose shores stretched far into the
Polar North--a sea through which lay the much-coveted passage to the
long-sought treasures of the old realms of Cathay. Well, the geographers
of that period erred only in the description of ocean which they placed
in the centre of the continent; for an ocean there is--an ocean through
which men seek the treasures of Cathay even in our own times. But the
ocean is one of grass, and the shores are the crests of mountain ranges
and the dark pine forests of sub-Arctic regions. The great ocean itself
does not present such infinite variety as does this prairie-ocean of
which we speak:--in winter, a dazzling surface of purest snow; in early
summer, a vast expanse of grass and pale pink roses; in autumn, too
often a wild sea of raging fire! No ocean of water in the world can vie
with its gorgeous sunsets; no solitude can equal the loneliness of a
night-shadowed prairie: one feels the stillness, and hears the silence:
the wail of the prowling wolf makes the voice of solitude audible; the
stars look down through infinite silence upon a silence almost as
intense. This ocean has no past;--time has been nought to it, and men
have come and gone, leaving behind them no track, no vestige of their
presence. Some French writer, speaking of these prairies, has said that
the sense of this utter negation of life, this complete absence of
history, has struck him with a loneliness, oppressive and sometimes
terrible in its intensity. Perhaps so, but, for my part, the prairies
had nothing terrible in their aspect, nothing oppressive in their
loneliness. One saw here the world, as it had taken shape and form from
the hands of the Creator. Nor did the scene look less beautiful because
nature alone tilled the earth, and the unaided sun brought forth the
flowers.

October had reached its latest week; the wild geese and swans had taken
their long flight to the south, and their wailing cry no more descended
through the darkness; ice had settled upon the quiet pools and was
settling upon the quick-running streams; the horizon glowed at night
with the red light of moving prairie fires. It was the close of the
Indian Summer, and Winter was coming quickly down, from his far northern
home.

Major W. F. Butler: "The Great Lone Land."


[Illustration: PIONEERS]




RULE, BRITANNIA


    When Britain first, at Heaven's command,
      Arose from out the azure main,
    This was the charter of the land,
      And guardian angels sung this strain:
        Rule, Britannia, rule the waves!
        Britons never will be slaves!

    The nations, not so blest as thee,
      Must in their turns to tyrants fall,
    While thou shalt flourish great and free--
      The dread and envy of them all.

    Still more majestic shalt thou rise,
      More dreadful from each foreign stroke;
    As the loud blast that tears the skies
      Serves but to root thy native oak.

    Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame;
      All their attempts to bend thee down
    Will but arouse thy generous flame,
      But work their woe and thy renown.

    To thee belongs the rural reign;
      Thy cities shall with commerce shine;
    All thine shall be the subject main,
      And every shore it circles thine.

    The Muses, still with Freedom found,
      Shall to thy happy coast repair;
    Blest Isle, with matchless beauty crowned,
      And manly hearts to guard the fair:--
        Rule, Britannia, rule the waves!
        Britons never will be slaves!

James Thomson




THE COMMANDMENT AND THE REWARD


    My son, forget not my law;
    But let thine heart keep my commandments:
      For length of days, and years of life,
      And peace, shall they add to thee.
    Let not mercy and truth forsake thee:
    Bind them about thy neck;
    Write them upon the table of thine heart:
      So shalt thou find favour,
      And good repute in the sight of God and man.

    Trust in the LORD with all thine heart,
    And lean not upon thine own understanding:
    In all thy ways acknowledge him,
      And he shall direct thy paths.
    Be not wise in thine own eyes;
    Fear the LORD, and depart from evil:
    Honour the LORD with thy substance,
    And with the first-fruits of all thine increase:
      So shall thy barns be filled with plenty,
      And thy vats shall overflow with new wine.

Proverbs, III.




THE SPACIOUS FIRMAMENT


    The spacious firmament on high,
    With all the blue ethereal sky,
    And spangled heavens, a shining frame,
    Their great Original proclaim.
    Th' unwearied Sun from day to day
    Does his Creator's power display;
    And publishes to every land
    The work of an Almighty hand.

    Soon as the evening shades prevail,
    The Moon takes up the wondrous tale;
    And nightly to the listening Earth
    Repeats the story of her birth:
    Whilst all the stars that round her burn,
    And all the planets in their turn,
    Confirm the tidings as they roll,
    And spread the truth from pole to pole.

    What though in solemn silence all
    Move round the dark terrestrial ball;
    What though no real voice nor sound
    Amid their radiant orbs be found?
    In Reason's ear they all rejoice,
    And utter forth a glorious voice;
    Forever singing as they shine,
    "The Hand that made us is divine."

Addison




JUNE


    --What is so rare as a day in June?
      Then, if ever, come perfect days;
    Then Heaven tries earth if it be in tune,
      And over it softly her warm ear lays:
    Whether we look, or whether we listen,
    We hear life murmur, or see it glisten;
    Every clod feels a stir of might,
      An instinct within it that reaches and towers,
    And groping blindly above it for light,
      Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers;
    The flush of life may well be seen
      Thrilling back over hills and valleys;
    The cowslip startles in meadows green,
      The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice,
    And there's never a leaf nor a blade too mean
      To be some happy creature's palace;
    The little bird sits at his door in the sun,
      Atilt like a blossom among the leaves,
    And lets his illumined being o'errun
      With the deluge of summer it receives;
    His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings,
    And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings;
    He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest,--
    In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best?
    Now is the high-tide of the year,
      And whatever of life hath ebbed away
    Comes flooding back with a ripply cheer,
      Into every bare inlet and creek and bay;
    Now the heart is so full that a drop overfills it,
    We are happy now because God wills it;
    No matter how barren the past may have been,
    'Tis enough for us now that the leaves are green;
    We sit in the warm shade and feel right well
    How the sap creeps up and the blossoms swell;
    We may shut our eyes, but we cannot help knowing
    That skies are clear and grass is growing;
    The breeze comes whispering in our ear,
    That dandelions are blossoming near,
      That maize has sprouted, that streams are flowing,
    That the river is bluer than the sky,
    That the robin is plastering his house hard by;
    And if the breeze kept the good news back,
    For other couriers we should not lack;
      We could guess it all by yon heifer's lowing.--
    And hark! how clear bold chanticleer,
    Warmed with the new wine of the year,
      Tells all in his lusty crowing!

Lowell




THE FIFTH VOYAGE OF SINBAD THE SAILOR


All the troubles and calamities I had undergone could not cure me of my
inclination to make new voyages. I therefore bought goods, departed with
them for the best seaport, and there, that I might not be obliged to
depend upon a captain, but have a ship at my own command, I remained
till one was built on purpose at my own charge. When the ship was ready,
I went on board with my goods: but not having enough to load her, I
agreed to take with me several merchants of different nations, with
their merchandise.

We sailed with the first fair wind, and after a long navigation the
first place we touched at was a desert island, where we found an egg of
a roc, equal in size to that I saw on a former voyage, fifty paces
round, and shining as a great white dome when seen even from afar. There
was a young roc in it, just ready to be hatched, and its bill had begun
to appear.

The merchants whom I had taken on board, and who landed with me, broke
the egg with hatchets, and having made a hole in it, pulled out the
young roc piecemeal and roasted it. I had earnestly entreated them not
to meddle with the egg, but they would not listen to me.

Scarcely had they finished their repast, when there appeared in the air,
at a considerable distance from us, two great clouds. The captain whom I
had hired to navigate my ship, knowing by experience what they meant,
said they were the male and female roc that belonged to the young one,
and pressed us to re-embark with all speed, to prevent the misfortune
which he saw would otherwise befall us. We hastened on board and set
sail with all possible expedition. In the meantime, the two rocs
approached with a frightful noise, which they redoubled when they saw
the egg broken and their young one gone. They flew back in the direction
they had come, and disappeared for some time, while we made all the sail
we could to endeavour to prevent that which unhappily befell us.

They soon returned, and we observed that each of them carried between
its talons, stones, or rather rocks, of a monstrous size. When they came
directly over my ship they hovered, and one of them let fall a stone,
but by the dexterity of the steersman it missed us, and, falling into
the sea, divided the water so that we could almost see the bottom. The
other roc, to our misfortune, threw his massy burden so exactly into the
middle of the ship as to split it into a thousand pieces. The mariners
and passengers were all crushed to death, or sunk. I myself was of the
number of the latter, but, as I came up again, I fortunately caught hold
of a piece of the wreck, and swimming, sometimes with one hand and
sometimes with the other, but always holding fast my board, the wind and
tide favouring me, I came to an island whose shore was very steep. I
overcame that difficulty, however, and got ashore.

I sat down upon the grass to recover myself from my fatigue, after which
I went into the island to explore it. It seemed to be a delicious
garden. I found trees everywhere, some of them bearing green, and others
ripe fruits; and there were streams of fresh, pure water running in
pleasant meanders. I ate of the fruits, which I found excellent; and
drank of the water, which was very light and good.

When I was a little advanced into the island I saw an old man, who
appeared very weak and infirm. He was sitting on the bank of a stream,
and at first I took him to be one who had been shipwrecked like myself.
I went towards him and saluted him, but he only slightly bowed his
head. I asked him why he sat so still; but instead of answering me, he
made a sign for me to take him upon my back and carry him over the
brook, signifying that it was to gather fruit.

I believed him really to stand in need of my assistance, took him upon
my back, and having carried him over, bade him get down, and for that
end stooped, that he might get off with ease; but instead of doing so
(which I laugh at every time I think of it), the old man who appeared to
me quite decrepit, threw his legs nimbly about my neck. He sat astride
upon my shoulders, and held my throat so tight that I thought he would
have strangled me, the apprehension of which made me swoon and fall
down.

Notwithstanding my fainting, the ill-natured old fellow kept fast about
my neck. When I had recovered my breath, he thrust one of his feet
against my stomach, and struck me so rudely on the side with the other,
that he forced me to rise up against my will. Having arisen, he made me
carry him under the trees, and forced me now and then to stop, to gather
and eat fruit such as we found. He never left me all day, and when I lay
down to rest at night, he laid himself down with me, holding always
fast about my neck. Every morning he pushed me to make me awake, and
afterwards obliged me to get up and walk, and pressed me with his feet.
You may judge then, what trouble I was in to be loaded with such a
burden of which I could not get rid.

One day I found in my way several dry calabashes that had fallen from a
tree. I took a large one, and after cleaning it, pressed into it some
juice of grapes, which abounded in the island. Having filled the
calabash, I put it by in a convenient place; and going thither again
some days after, I tasted it and found the wine so good that it soon
made me forget my sorrow, gave me new vigour, and so exhilarated my
spirits, that I began to sing and dance as I walked along.

The old man, perceiving the effect which this liquor had upon me, and
that I carried him with more ease than before, made me a sign to give
him some of it. I handed him the calabash, and the liquor pleasing his
palate, he drank it all off. There being a considerable quantity of it,
and the fumes getting into his head, he began to sing and dance upon my
shoulders, and to loosen his legs from about me by degrees. Finding
that he did not press me as before, I threw him upon the ground, where
he lay without motion; then I took up a great stone and crushed his
head.

I was extremely glad to be thus freed for ever from this troublesome
fellow. I now walked towards the beach, where I met the crew of a ship
that had cast anchor, to take water. They were surprised to see me, but
more so at the particulars of my adventures. "You fell," said they,
"into the hands of the old man of the sea, and are the first who ever
escaped strangling by his malicious tricks. He never quitted those he
had once made himself master of till he had destroyed them, and he has
made this island notorious by the number of men he has slain."

After having informed me of these things, they carried me with them to
the ship; the captain received me with great kindness when they told him
what had befallen me. He put out again to sea, and after some days'
sail, we arrived at the harbour of a great city, the houses of which
were built with hewn stone.

One of the merchants who had taken me into his friendship invited me to
go along with him and carried me to a place appointed for the
accommodation of foreign merchants. He gave me a large bag, and having
recommended me to some people of the town, who used to gather
cocoa-nuts, desired them to take me with them. "Go," said he, "follow
them, and act as you see them do; but do not part from them, otherwise
you may endanger your life." Having thus spoken, he gave me provisions
for the journey, and I went with them.

We came to a thick forest of cocoa trees, very lofty, with trunks so
smooth that it was not possible to climb to the branches that bore the
fruit. When we entered the forest, we saw a great number of apes of
several sizes, who fled as soon as they perceived us and climbed up to
the tops of the trees with surprising swiftness.

The merchants gathered stones and threw them at the apes in the trees. I
did the same, and the apes, out of revenge, threw cocoa-nuts at us so
fast, and with such gestures, as sufficiently testified their anger and
resentment. We gathered up the cocoa-nuts, and from time to time threw
stones to provoke the apes; so that by this stratagem we filled our bags
with cocoa-nuts, which it had been impossible otherwise to have done. I
thus gradually collected as many cocoa-nuts as produced me a
considerable sum.

We sailed towards the islands, where pepper grows in great plenty. From
thence we went to the isle of Comari, where the best species of wood of
aloes grows. I exchanged my cocoa in those islands for pepper and wood
of aloes, and went with other merchants a-pearl-fishing. I hired divers,
who brought me up some that were very large and pure. I embarked in a
vessel that happily arrived at Bussorah; from thence I returned to
Bagdat, where I made vast sums of my pepper, wood of aloes, and pearls.
I gave the tenth of my gains in alms, as I had done upon my return from
my other voyages, and endeavoured to dissipate my fatigues by amusements
of different kinds.

"The Arabian Nights Entertainments."




    All are needed by each one;
    Nothing is fair or good alone.
    I thought the sparrow's note from heaven,
    Singing at dawn on the alder bough;
    I brought him home, in his nest, at even;
    He sings the song, but it cheers not now,
    For I did not bring home the river and sky;--
    He sang to my ear,--they sang to my eye.

Emerson




OCEAN


      Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean--roll!
      Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain;
      Man marks the earth with ruin,--his control
      Stops with the shore; upon the watery plain
      The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain
      A shadow of man's ravage, save his own,
      When for a moment, like a drop of rain,
      He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan--
    Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown.

      His steps are not upon thy paths,--thy fields,
      Are not a spoil for him,--thou dost arise
      And shake him from thee; the vile strength he wields
      For earth's destruction, thou dost all despise,
      Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies,
      And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray,
      And howling to his gods, where haply lies
      His petty hope in some near port or bay,
    And dashest him again to earth; there let him lay.

      The armaments which thunderstrike the walls
      Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake,
      And monarchs tremble in their capitals;
      The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make
      Their clay creator the vain title take
      Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war:
      These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake,
      They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar
    Alike the Armada's pride or spoils of Trafalgar.

      Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee--
      Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they?
      Thy waters washed them power while they were free,
      And many a tyrant since; their shores obey
      The stranger, slave, or savage; their decay
      Has dried up realms to deserts: not so, thou;
      Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play.
      Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow;
    Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now.

      Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form
      Glasses itself in tempests; in all time,
      Calm or convulsed--in breeze or gale or storm,
      Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime,
      Dark-heaving, boundless, endless and sublime--
      The image of eternity--the throne
      Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime
      The monsters of the deep are made; each zone
    Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone.

      And I have loved thee, Ocean! and my joy
      Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be
      Borne, like thy bubbles onward: from a boy
      I wantoned with thy breakers; they to me
      Were a delight; and, if the freshening sea
      Made them a terror--'twas a pleasing fear;
      For I was as it were a child of thee
      And trusted to thy billows far and near,
    And laid my hand upon thy mane--as I do here.

Byron: "Childe Harold's Pilgrimage."




    Britain's myriad voices call
    "Sons be welded each and all,
    Into one imperial whole,
    One with Britain, heart and soul!
    One life, one flag, one fleet, one Throne!"
        Britons, hold your own!

Tennyson


[Illustration: HOMEWARD BOUND]




PONTIAC'S ATTEMPT TO CAPTURE FORT DETROIT


In the year 1763, a celebrated chief of the Ottawas, called Pontiac,
succeeded in forming a confederacy of the Ottawas, Hurons, Chippewas,
and some other tribes, with the avowed object of expelling the British
from the lake regions of the country. With the craftiness peculiar to
the Indian race, an ingenious stratagem was devised, by means of which
it was hoped that the allies would easily gain possession of the forts.

For this purpose a grand Lacrosse match was organized at each post, and
the officers of the garrison invited to become participators in the
game.

Pontiac and his attendant chiefs had, while the warriors and braves were
engaged in the game of Lacrosse on the common, sought an audience of the
governor of the fort. He received them in the mess-room, apparently not
suspecting any artifice on their part.

"The pale warrior, the friend of the Ottawa chief, is not here," said
the governor, as he glanced his eye along the semi-circle of Indians.
"How is this? Is his voice still sick, that he cannot come? or has the
great chief of the Ottawas forgotten to tell him?"

"The voice of the pale warrior is still sick, and he cannot speak,"
replied the Indian. "The Ottawa chief is very sorry; for the tongue of
his friend, the pale-face, is full of wisdom."

Scarcely had the last words escaped his lips when a wild, shrill cry
from without the fort rang on the ears of the assembled council, and
caused a momentary commotion among the officers. It arose from a single
voice, and that voice could not be mistaken by any who had heard it once
before. A second or two, during which the officers and chiefs kept their
eyes intently fixed on one another, passed anxiously away; and then
nearer to the gate, apparently on the very drawbridge itself, was pealed
forth the wild and deafening yell of a legion of fiendish voices. At
that sound, the Ottawa and the other chiefs sprang to their feet, and
their own fierce cry responded to that yet vibrating on the ears of all.
Already were their gleaming tomahawks brandished wildly over their
heads, and Pontiac had even bounded a pace forward to reach the governor
with the deadly weapon, when, at the sudden stamping of the foot of the
latter upon the floor, the scarlet cloth in the rear was thrown aside,
and twenty soldiers, their eyes glancing along the barrels of their
levelled muskets, met the startled gaze of the astonished Indians.

An instant was enough to satisfy the keen chief of the true state of the
case. The calm, composed mien of the officers, not one of whom had even
attempted to quit his seat amid the din by which his ears were so
alarmingly assailed,--the triumphant, yet dignified, and even severe
expression of the governor's countenance; and, above all, the unexpected
presence of the prepared soldiery,--all these at once assured him of the
discovery of his treachery, and the danger that awaited him. The
necessity for an immediate attempt to join his warriors without was now
obvious to the Ottawa; and scarcely had he conceived the idea before he
sought to execute it. In a single spring he gained the door of the
mess-room, and, followed eagerly and tumultuously by the other chiefs,
to whose departure no opposition was offered, in the next moment stood
on the steps of the piazza that ran along the front of the building
whence he had issued. The surprise of the Indians on reaching this point
was now too powerful to be dissembled; and incapable either of
advancing or receding, they remained gazing on the scene before them
with an air of mingled stupefaction, rage, and alarm. Scarcely ten
minutes had elapsed since they had proudly strode through the naked area
of the fort, and yet even in that short space of time its appearance had
been entirely changed. Not a part was there now of the surrounding
buildings that was not replete with human life and hostile preparation.
Through every window of the officers' low rooms was to be seen the dark
and frowning muzzle of a field-piece bearing upon the gateway, and
behind these were artillerymen holding their lighted matches, supported
again by files of bayonets that glittered in their rear. In the
block-houses the same formidable array of field-pieces and muskets was
visible; while from the four angles of the square as many heavy guns,
that had been artfully masked at the entrance of the chiefs, seemed
ready to sweep away everything that should come before them. The
guard-room near the gate presented the same hostile front. The doors of
this, as well as of the other buildings, had been firmly secured within;
and from every window affording cover to the troops gleamed a line of
bayonets, rising above the threatening field-pieces, pointed, at a
distance of little more than twelve feet, directly upon the gateway. In
addition to his musket, each man of the guard held a hand grenade,
provided with a short fuse that could be ignited in a moment from the
matches of the gunners, with immediate effect. The soldiers in the
block-houses were similarly provided.

Almost magical as was the change thus suddenly effected in the
appearance of the garrison, it was not the most interesting feature in
the exciting scene. Choking up the gateway, in which they were
completely wedged, and crowding the drawbridge, a dense mass of "husky"
Indians were to be seen casting their fierce glances around, yet
paralyzed in their movements by the unlooked-for display of resisting
force, threatening instant annihilation to those who should attempt
either to advance or recede. Never, perhaps, were astonishment and
disappointment more forcibly depicted on the human countenance, than
they were now exhibited by these men, who had already in imagination
secured to themselves an easy conquest. They were the warriors who had
so recently been engaged in the manly yet innocent exercise of the ball;
but, instead of the harmless hurdle, each now carried a short gun in
one hand and a gleaming tomahawk in the other.

After the first general yelling heard in the council-room, not a sound
was uttered. Their burst of rage and triumph had evidently been checked
by the unexpected manner of their reception; and they now stood on the
spot on which the further advance of each had been arrested, so silent
and motionless, that, but for the rolling of their dark eyes, as they
keenly measured the insurmountable barriers that were opposed to their
progress, they might almost have been taken for a wild group of
statuary. Conspicuous at the head of these was he who wore the blanket;
a tall warrior on whom rested the startled eye of every officer and
soldier who was so situated as to behold him. His face was painted black
as death; and as he stood under the arch of the gateway, with his white
turbaned head towering far above those of his companions, this
formidable and mysterious enemy might have been likened to the spirit of
darkness presiding over his terrible legions.

In order to account for the extraordinary appearance of the Indians,
armed in every way for death, at a moment when neither gun nor tomahawk
was apparently within miles of their reach, it was necessary to revert
to the first entrance of the chiefs into the fort. The fall of Pontiac
had been the effect of design; and the yell pealed forth by him, on
recovering his feet, as if in taunting reply to the laugh of his
comrades, was in reality a signal intended for the guidance of the
Indians without. These now following up their game with increasing
spirit, at once changed the direction of their line, bringing the ball
nearer to the fort. In their eagerness to effect this object, they had
overlooked the gradual secession of the unarmed troops, spectators of
their sport from the ramparts, until scarcely more than twenty
stragglers were left. As they neared the gate, the squaws broke up their
several groups, and, forming a line on either hand of the road leading
to the drawbridge, appeared to separate solely with a view not to impede
the players. For an instant a dense group collected around the ball,
which had been drawn to within a hundred yards of the gate, and fifty
hurdles were crossed in their endeavour to secure it, when the warrior,
who formed the solitary exception to the multitude, in his blanket
covering, and who had been lingering in the extreme rear of the party,
came rapidly up to the spot where the well-affected struggle was
maintained. At his approach the hurdles of the other players were
withdrawn, when, at a single blow from his powerful arm, the ball was
seen flying in an oblique direction and was for a moment lost altogether
to the view. When it again met the eye, it was descending into the very
centre of the fort.

With the fleetness of thought now commenced a race which had ostensibly
for its object the recovery of the lost ball, and in which he who had
driven it with resistless force outstripped them all. Their course lay
between the two lines of squaws; and scarcely had the head of the
bounding Indians reached the opposite extremity of those lines, when the
women suddenly threw back their blankets, and disclosed each a short gun
and tomahawk. To throw away their hurdles and seize upon these, was the
work of an instant. Already, in imagination, was the fort their own;
and, such, was the peculiar exaltation of the black and turbaned warrior
when he felt the planks of the drawbridge bending beneath his feet, all
the ferocious joy of his soul was pealed forth in the terrible cry
which, rapidly succeeded by that of the other Indians, had resounded so
fearfully through the council-room.

What their disappointment was, when, on gaining the interior, they found
the garrison prepared for their reception, has already been shown.

Major Richardson




MY NATIVE LAND


    Breathes there the man, with soul so dead,
    Who never to himself hath said,
      This is my own, my native land!
    Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned,
    As home his footsteps he hath turned,
      From wandering on a foreign strand!
    If such there breathe, go, mark him well;
    For him no minstrel raptures swell;
    High though his titles, proud his name,
    Boundless his wealth as wish can claim:
    Despite those titles, power, and pelf,
    The wretch, concentred all in self,
    Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
    And, doubly dying, shall go down
    To the vile dust, from whence he sprung,
    Unwept, unhonoured, and unsung.

Scott: "The Lay of the Last Minstrel."




MORNING ON THE LIEVRE


    Far above us where a jay
    Screams his matins to the day,
    Capped with gold and amethyst,
    Like a vapour from the forge
    Of a giant somewhere hid,
    Out of hearing of the clang
    Of his hammer, skirts of mist
    Slowly up the woody gorge
    Lift and hang.

    Softly as a cloud we go,
    Sky above and sky below,
    Down the river; and the dip
    Of the paddles scarcely breaks,
    With the little silvery drip
    Of the water as it shakes
    From the blades, the crystal deep
    Of the silence of the morn,
    Of the forest yet asleep;
    And the river reaches borne
    In a mirror, purple gray,
    Sheer away
    To the misty line of light,
    Where the forest and the stream
    In the shadow meet and plight,
    Like a dream.

    From amid a stretch of reeds,
    Where the lazy river sucks
    All the water as it bleeds
    From a little curling creek,
    And the muskrats peer and sneak
    In around the sunken wrecks
    Of a tree that swept the skies
    Long ago,
    On a sudden seven ducks
    With a splashy rustle rise,
    Stretching out their seven necks,
    One before, and two behind,
    And the others all arow,
    And as steady as the wind
    With a swivelling whistle go,
    Through the purple shadow led,
    Till we only hear their whir
    In behind a rocky spur,
    Just ahead.

Archibald Lampman




I call, therefore, a complete and generous education, that which fits a
man to perform justly, skilfully, and magnanimously, all the offices,
both private and public, of peace and war.

Milton: "On Education."




EVENING


    From upland slopes I see the cows file by,
    Lowing, great-chested, down the homeward trail,
    By dusking fields and meadows shining pale
    With moon-tipped dandelions. Flickering high,
    A peevish night-hawk in the western sky
    Beats up into the lucent solitudes,
    Or drops with griding wing. The stilly woods
    Grow dark and deep and gloom mysteriously.
    Cool night winds creep, and whisper in mine ear,
    The homely cricket gossips at my feet,
    From far-off pools and wastes of reeds I hear,
    Clear and soft-piped, the chanting frogs break sweet
    In full Pandean chorus. One by one
    Shine out the stars, and the great night comes on.

Archibald Lampman




    For manners are not idle, but the fruit
    Of loyal nature and of noble mind.

Tennyson




AN ELIZABETHAN SEAMAN


Some two miles above the port of Dartmouth, once among the most
important harbours in England, on a projecting angle of land which runs
out into the river at the head of one of its most beautiful reaches,
there has stood for some centuries the Manor House of Greenaway. The
water runs deep all the way to it from the sea, and the largest vessels
may ride with safety within a stone's throw of the windows. In the
latter half of the sixteenth century there must have met, in the hall of
this mansion, a party as remarkable as could have been found anywhere in
England. Humfrey and Adrian Gilbert, with their half-brother, Walter
Raleigh, here, when little boys, played at sailors in the reaches of
Long Stream, in the summer evenings doubtless rowing down with the tide
to the port, and wondering at the quaint figure-heads and carved prows
of the ships which thronged it; or climbing on board, and listening,
with hearts beating, to the mariners' tales of the new earth beyond the
sunset. And here in later life, matured men, whose boyish dreams had
become heroic action, they used again to meet in the intervals of quiet,
and the rock is shown underneath the house where Raleigh smoked the
first tobacco. Another remarkable man could not fail to have made a
fourth at these meetings. A sailor-boy of Sandwich, the adjoining
parish, John Davis, showed early a genius which could not have escaped
the eye of such neighbours, and in the atmosphere of Greenaway he
learned to be as noble as the Gilberts, and as tender and delicate as
Raleigh.

In 1585 John Davis left Dartmouth on his first voyage into the Polar
Seas; and twice subsequently he went again, venturing in small,
ill-equipped vessels of thirty or forty tons into the most dangerous
seas. These voyages were as remarkable for their success as for the
daring with which they were accomplished, and Davis' epitaph is written
on the map of the world, where his name still remains to commemorate his
discoveries. Brave as he was, he is distinguished by a peculiar and
exquisite sweetness of nature, which, from many little facts of his
life, seems to have affected every one with whom he came in contact in a
remarkable degree. We find men, for the love of Master Davis, leaving
their firesides to sail with him, without other hope or motion; we find
silver bullets cast to shoot him in a mutiny; the hard, rude natures of
the mutineers being awed by something in his carriage which was not like
that of a common man. He has written the account of one of his northern
voyages himself; and there is an imaginative beauty in it, and a rich
delicacy of expression, which is called out in him by the first sight of
strange lands and things and people.

We have only space to tell something of the conclusion of his voyage
north. In latitude sixty-three degrees, he fell in with a barrier of
ice, which he coasted for thirteen days without finding an opening. The
very sight of an iceberg was new to all his crew; and the ropes and
shrouds, though it was midsummer, becoming compassed with ice,--

"The people began to fall sick and faint-hearted--whereupon, very
orderly, and with good discretion, they entreated me to regard the
safety of mine own life, as well as the preservation of theirs; and that
I should not, through over-boldness, leave their widows and fatherless
children to give me bitter curses.

"Whereupon, seeking counsel of God, it pleased His Divine Majesty to move
my heart to prosecute that which I hope shall be to His glory and to the
contentation of every Christian mind."

He had two vessels--one of some burden, the other a pinnace of thirty
tons. The result of the counsel which he had sought was, that he made
over his own large vessel to such as wished to return, and himself,
"thinking it better to die with honour than to return with infamy," went
on with such volunteers as would follow him, in a poor leaky cutter, up
the sea now in commemoration of that adventure called Davis' Strait. He
ascended four degrees north of the furthest known point, among storms
and icebergs, when the long days and twilight nights alone saved him
from being destroyed, and, coasting back along the American shore, he
discovered Hudson Strait, supposed then to be the long desired entrance
into the Pacific. This exploit drew the attention of Walsingham, and by
him Davis was presented to Burleigh, "who was also pleased to show him
great encouragement." If either these statesmen or Elizabeth had been
twenty years younger, his name would have filled a larger space in
history than a small corner of the map of the world; but, if he was
employed at all in the last years of the century, no _vates sacer_ has
been found to celebrate his work, and no clew is left to guide us. He
disappears; a cloud falls over him. He is known to have commanded
trading vessels in the Eastern seas, and to have returned five times
from India. But the details are all lost, and accident has only parted
the clouds for a moment to show us the mournful setting with which he,
too, went down upon the sea.

In taking out Sir Edward Michellthorne to India, in 1604, he fell in
with a crew of Japanese, whose ship had been burnt, drifting at sea,
without provisions, in a leaky junk. He supposed them to be pirates, but
he did not choose to leave them to so wretched a death, and took them on
board; and in a few hours, watching their opportunity, they murdered
him.

As the fool dieth, so dieth the wise, and there is no difference; it was
the chance of the sea, and the ill reward of a humane action--a
melancholy end for such a man--like the end of a warrior, not dying
Epaminondas-like on the field of victory, but cut off in some poor brawl
or ambuscade. But so it was with all these men. They were cut off in the
flower of their days, and few of them laid their bones in the sepulchres
of their fathers. They knew the service which they had chosen, and they
did not ask the wages for which they had not laboured. Life with them
was no summer holiday, but a holy sacrifice offered up to duty, and
what their Master sent was welcome. Beautiful is old age--beautiful is
the slow-dropping mellow autumn of a rich, glorious summer. In the old
man, Nature has fulfilled her work; she loads him with her blessings;
she fills him with the fruits of a well-spent life; and, surrounded by
his children and his children's children, she rocks him softly away to a
grave, to which he is followed with blessings. God forbid we should not
call it beautiful. It is beautiful, but not the most beautiful. There is
another life, hard, rough, and thorny, trodden with bleeding feet and
aching brow; the life of which the cross is the symbol; a battle which
no peace follows, this side the grave; which the grave gapes to finish,
before the victory is won; and--strange that it should be so--this is
the highest life of man. Look back along the great names of history;
there is none whose life has been other than this. They to whom it has
been given to do the really highest work in this earth--whoever they
are, Jew or Gentile, Pagan or Christian, warriors, legislators,
philosophers, priests, poets, kings, slaves--one and all, their fate has
been the same--the same bitter cup has been given them to drink. And so
it was with the servants of England in the sixteenth century. Their
life was a long battle, either with the elements or with men; and it was
enough for them to fulfil their work, and to pass away in the hour when
God had nothing more to bid them do.

Froude: "Short Studies on Great Subjects."




THE SEA-KING'S BURIAL


    "My strength is failing fast,"
      Said the sea-king to his men;
    "I shall never sail the seas
      As a conqueror again.
    But while yet a drop remains
    Of the life-blood in my veins,
    Raise, O raise me from the bed;
    Put the crown upon my head;
    Put my good sword in my hand,
    And so lead me to the strand,
    Where my ship at anchor rides
            Steadily;
      If I cannot end my life
      In the crimsoned battle-strife,
    Let me die as I have lived,
            On the sea."

    They have raised King Balder up,
      Put his crown upon his head;
    They have sheathed his limbs in mail,
      And the purple o'er him spread;
    And amid the greeting rude
    Of a gathering multitude,
    Borne him slowly to the shore--
    All the energy of yore
    From his dim eyes flashing forth--
    Old sea-lion of the north--
    As he looked upon his ship
            Riding free,
      And on his forehead pale
      Felt the cold, refreshing gale,
    And heard the welcome sound
            Of the sea.

    They have borne him to the ship
      With a slow and solemn tread;
    They have placed him on the deck
      With his crown upon his head,
    Where he sat as on a throne;
    And have left him there alone,
    With his anchor ready weighed
    And his snowy sails displayed
    To the favouring wind, once more
    Blowing freshly from the shore;
    And have bidden him farewell
            Tenderly,
       Saying, "_King of mighty men,
       We shall meet thee yet again,
    In Valhalla, with the monarchs
            Of the sea_."

    Underneath him in the hold
      They have placed the lighted brand;
    And the fire was burning slow
      As the vessel from the land,
    Like a stag-hound from the slips,
    Darted forth from out the ships.
    There was music in her sail
    As it swelled before the gale,
    And a dashing at her prow
    As it cleft the waves below,
    And the good ship sped along,
            Scudding free;
      As on many a battle morn
      In her time she had been borne,
    To struggle and to conquer
            On the sea.

    And the king, with sudden strength,
      Started up and paced the deck,
    With his good sword for his staff
      And his robe around his neck:
    Once alone, he raised his hand
    To the people on the land;
    And with shout and joyous cry
    Once again they made reply,
    Till the loud, exulting cheer
    Sounded faintly on his ear;
    For the gale was o'er him blowing
            Fresh and free;
      And ere yet an hour had passed,
      He was driven before the blast,
    And a storm was on his path
            On the sea.

    "So blow, ye tempests, blow,
      And my spirit shall not quail:
    I have fought with many a foe,
      I have weathered many a gale;
    And in this hour of death,
    Ere I yield my fleeting breath--
    Ere the fire now burning slow
    Shall come rushing from below,
    And this worn and wasted frame
    Be devoted to the flame--
    I will raise my voice in triumph,
            Singing free;--
      To the great All-Father's home
      I am driving through the foam,
    I am sailing to Valhalla,
            O'er the sea.

    "So blow, ye stormy winds--
      And, ye flames, ascend on high;--
    In the easy, idle bed
      Let the slave and coward die!
    But give me the driving keel,
    Clang of shields and flashing steel;
    Happy, happy, thus I'd yield,
    On the deck or in the field,
    My last breath, shouting: 'On
            To victory.'
      But since this has been denied,
      They shall say that I have died
    Without flinching, like a monarch
            Of the sea."

    And Balder spoke no more,
      And no sound escaped his lip;--
    Neither recked he of the roar,
      The destruction of his ship,
    Nor the fleet sparks mounting high,
    Nor the glare upon the sky;
    Scarcely heard the billows dash,
    Nor the burning timber crash:
    Scarcely felt the scorching heat
    That was gathering at his feet,
    Nor the fierce flames mounting o'er him
            Greedily.
      But the life was in him yet,
      And the courage to forget
    All his pain, in his triumph
            On the sea.

    Once alone a cry arose,
      Half of anguish, half of pride,
    As he sprang upon his feet
      With the flames on every side.
    "I am coming!" said the king,
    "Where the swords and bucklers ring--
    Where the warrior lives again
    With the souls of mighty men--
    I am coming, great All-Father,
            Unto Thee!
      Unto Odin, unto Thor,
      And the strong, true hearts of yore--
    I am coming to Valhalla,
            O'er the sea."

Charles Mackay




Reading enables us to see with the keenest eyes, to hear with the finest
ears, and listen to the sweetest voices of all time.

Lowell




MY CASTLES IN SPAIN


I am the owner of great estates. Many of them lie in the west, but the
greater part in Spain.

You may see my western possessions any evening at sunset when their
spires and battlements flash against the horizon. But my finest castles
are in Spain. It is a country famously romantic, and my castles are all
of perfect proportions and appropriately set in the most picturesque
situations.

I have never been in Spain myself, but I have naturally conversed much
with travellers to that country; although, I must allow, without
deriving from them much substantial information about my property there.

The wisest of them told me that there were more holders of real estate
in Spain than in any other region he had ever heard of, and they are all
great proprietors.

Every one of them possesses a multitude of the stateliest castles. It is
remarkable that none of the proprietors have ever been to Spain to take
possession and report to the rest of us the state of our property there,
and it is not easy for me to say how I know so much about my castles in
Spain.

The sun always shines upon them. They stand lofty and fair in a
luminous, golden atmosphere, a little hazy and dreamy, perhaps, like the
Indian summer, but in which no gales blow and there are no tempests.

All the sublime mountains and beautiful valleys and soft landscapes that
I have not yet seen are to be found in the grounds.

I have often wondered how I should reach my castles. I have inquired
very particularly, but nobody seemed to know the way. It occurred to me
that Bourne, the millionaire, must have ascertained the safest and most
expeditious route to Spain; so I stole a few minutes one afternoon and
went into his office.

He was sitting at his desk, writing rapidly, and surrounded by files of
papers and patterns, specimens, boxes,--everything that covers the
tables of a great merchant.

"A moment, please, Mr. Bourne." He looked up hastily, and wished me
good-morning, which courtesy I attributed to Spanish sympathy.

"What is it, sir?" he asked blandly, but with wrinkled brow.

"Mr. Bourne, have you any castles in Spain?" said I, without preface. He
looked at me for a few moments, without speaking and without seeming to
see me. His brow gradually smoothed, and his eyes apparently looking
into the street were really, I have no doubt, feasting upon the Spanish
landscape.

"Too many, too many," said he, at length, musingly, shaking his head and
without addressing me.

He feared, I thought, that he had too much impracticable property
elsewhere to own so much in Spain: so I asked:--

"Will you tell me what you consider the shortest and safest route
thither, Mr. Bourne? for, of course, a man who drives such an immense
trade with all parts of the world will know all that I have come to
inquire."

"My dear sir," answered he, wearily, "I have been trying all my life to
discover it; but none of my ships have ever been there--none of my
captains have any report to make.

"They bring me, as they brought my father, gold-dust from Guinea, ivory,
pearls, and precious stones from every part of the earth; but not a
fruit, not a solitary flower, from one of my castles in Spain.

"I have sent clerks, agents, and travellers of all kinds, philosophers,
pleasure hunters, and invalids, in all sorts of ships, to all sorts of
places, but none of them ever saw or heard of my castles, except a young
poet, and he died in a madhouse."

"Mr. Bourne, will you take five thousand at ninety-seven?" hastily
demanded a man whom, as he entered, I recognized as a broker. "We'll
make a splendid thing of it."

Bourne nodded assent, and the broker disappeared.

"Happy man!" muttered the merchant, as the broker went out; "he has no
castles in Spain."

"I am sorry to have troubled you, Mr. Bourne," said I, retiring.

"I'm glad you came," returned he; "but, I assure you, had I known the
route you hoped to ascertain from me I should have sailed years and
years ago. People sail for the Northwest Passage, which is nothing when
you have found it. Why don't the English Admiralty fit out expeditions
to discover all our castles in Spain?"

Yet I dream my dreams and attend to my castles in Spain. I have so much
property there that I could not in conscience neglect it.

All the years of my youth and hopes of my manhood are stored away, like
precious stones, in the vaults; and I know that I shall find everything
elegant, beautiful, and convenient when I come into possession.

As the years go by, I am not conscious that my interest diminishes.

Shall I tell a secret? Shall I confess that sometimes when I have been
sitting reading to my Prue "Cymbeline," perhaps, or a "Canterbury Tale,"
I have seemed to see clearly before me the broad highway to my castles
in Spain, and, as she looked up from her work and smiled in sympathy, I
have even fancied that I was already there?

George William Curtis: "Prue and I."
(Adapted)




ALADDIN


    When I was a beggarly boy
      And lived in a cellar damp,
    I had not a friend or a toy,
      But I had Aladdin's lamp;
    When I could not sleep for cold,
      I had fire enough in my brain,
    And builded with roofs of gold
      My beautiful castles in Spain!

    Since then I have toiled day and night,
      I have money and power good store,
    But I'd give all my lamps of silver bright
      For the one that is mine no more;
    Take, Fortune, whatever you choose,
      You gave, and may snatch again;
    I have nothing 'twould pain me to lose,
      For I own no more castles in Spain!

Lowell




DRAKE'S VOYAGE ROUND THE WORLD


Francis Drake was born near Tavistock in the year 1545. He served his
time as an apprentice in a Channel coaster, and his master, who had been
struck with his character, left the vessel to him in his will when he
died. He was then twenty-one. His kinsman, John Hawkins, was fitting out
his third expedition to the Spanish Main, and young Drake, with a party
of his Kentish friends, went to Plymouth and joined him. In 1572 "he
made himself whole with the Spaniards" by seizing a convoy of bullion at
Panama, and on that occasion, having seen the South Pacific from the
mountains, "he fell on his knees and prayed God that he might one day
navigate those waters," which no English keel as yet had furrowed.

The time and the opportunity had come. He was now in the prime of his
strength, thirty-two years old, of middle height, with crisp brown hair,
a broad high forehead; gray, steady eyes, unusually long; small ears
tight to the head; the mouth and chin slightly concealed by the
moustache and beard, but hard, inflexible, and fierce. His dress, as he
appears in his portrait, is a loose, dark, seaman's shirt, belted at the
waist. About his neck is a plaited cord with a ring attached to it, in
which, as if the attitude was familiar, one of his fingers is slung,
displaying a small, delicate, but long and sinewy hand. When at sea he
wore a scarlet cap with a gold band, and was exacting in the respect
with which he required to be treated by his crew.

Such was Francis Drake when he stood on the deck of the Pelican in
Plymouth harbour, in November, 1577. The squadron, with which he was
preparing to sail into a chartless ocean and invade the dominions of the
King of Spain, consisted of his own ship, of a hundred and twenty tons,
the size of the smallest class of our modern Channel schooners, two
barques of fifty and thirty tons each, a second ship as it was called,
the Elizabeth, of eighty tons, not larger than a common revenue cutter,
and a pinnace, hardly more than a boat, intended to be burnt if it
could not bear the seas. These vessels, with a hundred and sixty-four
men, composed the force. The object of the expedition was kept as far as
possible secret. On the fifteenth of November the expedition sailed from
Plymouth Sound. The vessels struck across the Atlantic and made the
coast of South America on the fifth of April in latitude thirty-three
degrees South.

The perils of the voyage were now about to commence. No Englishman had
as yet passed Magellan's Strait. Cape Horn was unknown. Tierra del Fuego
was supposed to be part of a solid continent which stretched unbroken to
the Antarctic pole. A single narrow channel was the only access to the
Pacific then believed to exist. There were no charts, no records of past
experiences. It was known that Magellan had gone through, but that was
all. It was the wildest and coldest season of the year, and the vessels
in which the attempt was to be made were mere cockle-shells. They were
taken on shore, overhauled and scoured, the rigging looked to, and the
sails new bent.

On the seventeenth of August, answering to the February of the northern
hemisphere, all was once more in order. Drake sailed from Port St.
Julian, and on the twentieth entered the Strait and felt his way between
the walls of mountain "in extreme cold with frost and cold continually."
To relieve the crews, who were tried by continual boat work and heaving
the lead in front of the ships, they were allowed occasional halts at
the islands, where they amused and provisioned themselves with killing
infinite seals and penguins. Everything which they saw, birds, beasts,
trees, climate, country, were strange, wild, and wonderful. After three
weeks' toil and anxiety, they had accomplished the passage and found
themselves in the open Pacific. But they found also that it was no
peaceful ocean into which they had entered, but the stormiest they had
ever encountered. Their vessels were now reduced to three; the pinnace
had been left behind at Port St. Julian, and there remained only the
Pelican, the Elizabeth, and the thirty-ton cutter. Instantly that they
emerged out of the Strait, they were caught in a gale which swept them
six hundred miles to the south-west. For six weeks they were battered to
and fro, in bitter cold and winds which seemed as if they blew in these
latitudes for ever. The cutter went down in the fearful seas, carrying
her crew with her. The Elizabeth and the Pelican were separated. The
bravest sailor might well have been daunted at such a commencement, and
Winter, recovering the opening again and, believing Drake to be lost,
called a council in his cabin and proposed to return to England. They
had agreed to meet, if they were parted, on the coast in the latitude of
Valparaiso. The men, with better heart than their commander, desired to
keep the appointment. But those terrible weeks had sickened Winter. He
overruled the opinions of the rest, re-entered the Strait, and reached
England in the following June.

Drake, meanwhile, had found shelter among the islands of Tierra del
Fuego. At length spring brought fair winds and smooth seas, and running
up the coast and looking about for her consort, the Pelican or Golden
Hind--for she had both names--fell in with an Indian fisherman, who
informed Drake that in the harbour of Valparaiso, already a small
Spanish settlement, there lay a great galleon which had come from Peru.
Galleons were the fruit that he was in search of. He sailed in, and the
Spanish seamen, who had never yet seen a stranger in those waters, ran
up their flags, beat their drums, and prepared a banquet for their
supposed countrymen. The Pelican shot up alongside. The English sailors
leaped on board, and one "Thomas Moore," a lad from Plymouth, began the
play with knocking down the first man that he met, saluting him in
Spanish as he fell, and crying out "Down, dog." The Spaniards,
overwhelmed with surprise, began to cross and bless themselves. One
sprang overboard and swam ashore; the rest were bound and stowed away
under the hatches while the ship was rifled. The beginning was not a bad
one. Wedges of gold were found weighing four hundred pounds, besides
miscellaneous plunder. The settlement, which was visited next, was less
productive, for the inhabitants had fled, taking their valuables with
them.

At Arica, the port of Potosi, fifty-seven blocks of precious metal were
added to the store; and from thence they made haste to Lima, where the
largest booty was looked for. They found that they had just missed it.
Twelve ships lay at anchor in the port without arms, without crews, and
with their sails on shore. In all of these they discovered but a few
chests of reals and some bales of silk and linen. A thirteenth, called
by the seamen the Cacafuego, but christened in her baptism "Our Lady of
the Conception," had sailed for the Isthmus a few days before, taking
with her all the bullion which the mines had yielded for the season. She
had been literally ballasted with silver, and carried also several
precious boxes of gold and jewels.

Not a moment was lost. The cables of the ships at Lima were cut, and
they were left to drive on shore to prevent pursuit; and then away sped
the Pelican due north, with every stitch of her canvas spread. A gold
chain was promised to the first man who caught sight of the Cacafuego. A
sail was seen the second day of the chase: it was not the vessel which
they were in pursuit of, but the prize was worth the having. They took
eighty pounds' weight of gold in wedges, the purest which they yet had
seen.

For eight hundred miles the Pelican flew on. At length, one degree to
the north of the line, off Quito, and close to the shore, a look-out on
the mast-head cried out that he saw the chase and claimed the promised
chain; she was recognized by the peculiarities in her sails, of which
they had received exact information at Lima. There lay the Cacafuego; if
they could take her their work would be done, and they might go home in
triumph. She was several miles ahead of them; if she guessed their
character, she would run in under the land, and they might lose her. It
was afternoon: several hours remained of daylight, and Drake did not
wish to come up with her till dark.

The Pelican sailed two feet to the Cacafuego's one, and dreading that
her speed might rouse suspicion, he filled his empty wine casks with
water and trailed them astern. The chase meanwhile unsuspecting, and
glad of company on a lonely voyage, slackened sail and waited for her
slow pursuer. The sun sank low, and at last set into the ocean, and
then, when both ships had become invisible from the land, the casks were
hoisted in, the Pelican was restored to her speed, and shooting up
within a cable's length of the Cacafuego, hailed to her to run into the
wind. The Spanish commander, not understanding the meaning of such an
order, paid no attention to it. The next moment the corsair opened her
ports, fired a broadside, and brought his main-mast about his ears. His
decks were cleared by a shower of arrows, with one of which he was
himself wounded. In a few minutes more he was a prisoner, and his ship
and all that it contained was in the hands of the English. The wreck
was cut away, the ship cleared, and her head turned to the sea; by
daybreak even the line of the Andes had become invisible, and at
leisure, in the open ocean, the work of rifling began. The full value of
the plunder taken in this ship was never actually confessed. It remained
a secret between Drake and the Queen. In a schedule afterwards
published, he acknowledged to have found in the Cacafuego alone
twenty-six tons of silver bullion, thirteen chests of coined silver, and
almost a hundredweight of gold. But this was only so much as the
Spaniards could prove to have been on board.

Drake imagined, like most other English seamen, that there was a passage
to the north corresponding to Magellan's Strait, of which Frobisher
conceived that he had found the eastern entrance. He went on therefore
at his leisure towards the coast of Mexico, intending to follow the
shore till he found it. Another ship coming from China crossed him on
his way loaded with silks and porcelain. He took the best of the freight
with a golden falcon and a superb emerald. Then needing fresh water he
touched at the Spanish settlement of Guatulco.

The work of plunder was nearly over. Again sailing north, the Pelican
fell in with a Spanish nobleman who was going out as Governor to the
Philippines. He was detained a few hours and relieved of his finery, and
then, says one of the party: "Our general, thinking himself both in
respect of his private injuries received from the Spaniards, as also
their contempt and indignities offered to our country and prince in
general, sufficiently satisfied and revenged, and supposing her Majesty
would rest contented with this service, began to consider the best way
for his country."

The first necessity was a complete repair of the Pelican's hull. Before
the days of copper sheathing, the ships' bottoms grew foul with weed;
the great barnacles formed in clusters and stopped their speed, and the
sea-worms bored holes into the planking. Twenty thousand miles of
unknown water lay between Drake and Plymouth Sound, and he was not a man
to run idle risks. Running on till he had left the furthest Spanish
station far to the south, he put into the Bay of Canoa in Lower
California. There he laid his ship on shore, set up forge and workshop,
and refitted her with a month's labour from stem to stern.

By the sixteenth of April, 1579, the Pelican was once more in order, and
started on her northern course in search of the expected passage. She
held on up the coast for eight hundred miles into latitude forty-three
degrees North, but no signs appeared of an opening. Though it was summer
the air grew colder, and the crew having been long in the tropics
suffered from the change. Not caring to run risks in exploring with so
precious a cargo, and finding by observation that the passage, if it
existed, must be of enormous length, Drake resolved to go no further,
and expecting, as proved to be the case, that the Spaniards would be on
the look-out for him at Magellan's Strait, he determined on the
alternative route by the Cape of Good Hope. The Portuguese had long
traded with China. In the ship going to the Philippines he had found a
Portuguese chart of the Indian Archipelago, and with the help of this
and his own skill he trusted to find his way.

At the little island of Ternate, south of the Celebes, the ship was
again docked and scraped. The crew were allowed another month's rest,
when they feasted their eyes on the marvels of tropical life, then first
revealed to them in their luxuriance--vampires "as large as hens,"
crayfish a foot round, and fireflies lighting the midnight forest.
Starting once more, they had now to feel their way among the rocks and
shoals of the most dangerous waters in the world. They crept round
Celebes among coral reefs and low islands scarcely visible above the
water-line. The Malacca Straits formed the only route marked in the
Portuguese chart, and between Drake and his apparent passage lay the
Java Sea and the channel between Borneo and Sumatra. But it was not
impossible that there might be some other opening, and the Pelican
crawled in search of it along the Java coast. Here, if nowhere else, her
small size and manageableness were in her favour. In spite of all the
care that was taken, she was almost lost. One evening as the black
tropical night was closing, a grating sound was heard under her keel:
another moment she was hard and fast upon an invisible reef. The breeze
was light and the water calm, or the world would have heard no more of
Francis Drake and the Pelican. She lay immovable till morning; "we were
out of all hope to escape danger," but with the daylight the position
was seen not to be utterly desperate. "Our general, then as always,
showed himself most courageous, and of good confidence in the mercy and
protection of God; and as he would not seem to perish wilfully, so he
and we did our best endeavour to save ourselves, and in the end cleared
ourselves of that danger."

The Pelican had no more adventures; and sweeping in clear fine weather
close to the Cape of Good Hope, and touching for water at Sierra Leone,
she sailed in triumph into Plymouth harbour in the beginning of October,
having marked a furrow with her keel round the globe.

Froude: "History of England."
(Adapted)




    Who, if he rise to station of command,
    Rises by open means; and there will stand
    On honourable terms, or else retire,
    And in himself possess his own desire;
    Who comprehends his trust, and to the same
    Keeps faithful with a singleness of aim;
    And therefore does not stoop, nor lie in wait
    For wealth, or honours, or for worldly state:
    Whom they must follow; on whose head must fall,
    Like showers of manna, if they come at all.

Wordsworth: "The Happy Warrior."




THE SOLITARY REAPER


    Behold her, single in the field,
      Yon solitary Highland Lass!
    Reaping and singing by herself;
      Stop here, or gently pass!
    Alone she cuts and binds the grain,
    And sings a melancholy strain;
    O listen! for the Vale profound
    Is overflowing with the sound.

    No Nightingale did ever chaunt
      More welcome notes to weary bands
    Of travellers in some shady haunt
      Among Arabian sands:
    A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard
    In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,
    Breaking the silence of the seas
    Among the farthest Hebrides.

    Will no one tell me what she sings?--
      Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
    For old, unhappy, far-off things,
      And battles long ago:
    Or is it some more humble lay,
    Familiar matter of to-day?
    Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
    That has been, and may be again?

    Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang
      As if her song could have no ending;
    I saw her singing at her work,
      And o'er the sickle bending;--
    I listened, motionless and still;
    And, as I mounted up the hill,
    The music in my heart I bore
    Long after it was heard no more.

Wordsworth




CLOUDS, RAINS, AND RIVERS


Every occurrence in Nature is preceded by other occurrences which are
its causes, and succeeded by others which are its effects. The human
mind is not satisfied with observing and studying any natural occurrence
alone, but takes pleasure in connecting every natural fact with what has
gone before it, and with what is to come after it. Thus, when we enter
upon the study of rivers, our interest will be greatly increased by
taking into account, not only their actual appearances but also their
causes and effects.

Let us trace a river to its source. Beginning where it empties itself
into the sea, and following it backwards, we find it from time to time
joined by tributaries which swell its waters. The river, of course,
becomes smaller as these tributaries are passed. It shrinks first to a
brook, then to a stream; this again divides itself into a number of
smaller streamlets, ending in mere threads of water. These constitute
the source of the river, and are usually found among hills. Thus, the
Severn has its source in the Welsh Mountains; the Thames in the Cotswold
Hills; the Rhine and the Rhone in the Alps; the Missouri in the Rocky
Mountains; and the Amazon in the Andes of Peru.

But it is quite plain, that we have not yet reached the real beginning
of the rivers. Whence do the earliest streams derive their water? A
brief residence among the mountains would prove to you that they are fed
by rains. In dry weather you would find the streams feeble, sometimes
indeed quite dried up. In wet weather you would see them foaming
torrents. In general these streams lose themselves as little threads of
water upon the hillsides; but sometimes you may trace a river to a
definite spring. You may, however, very soon assure yourself that such
springs are also fed by rain, which has percolated through the rocks or
soil, and which, through some orifice that it has found or formed, comes
to the light of day.

But we cannot end here. Whence comes the rain which forms the mountain
streams? Observation enables you to answer the question. Rain does not
come from a clear sky. It comes from clouds. But what are clouds? Is
there nothing you are acquainted with, which they resemble? You discover
at once a likeness between them and the condensed steam of a locomotive.
At every puff of the engine, a cloud is projected into the air. Watch
the cloud sharply: you notice that it first forms at a little distance
from the top of the funnel. Give close attention, and you will sometimes
see a perfectly clear space between the funnel and the cloud. Through
that clear space the thing which makes the cloud must pass. What, then,
is this thing which at one moment is transparent and invisible, and at
the next moment visible as a dense opaque cloud?

It is the _steam_ or _vapour of water_ from the boiler. Within the
boiler this steam is transparent and invisible; but to keep it in this
invisible state a heat would be required as great as that within the
boiler. When the vapour mingles with the cold air above the hot funnel,
it ceases to be vapour. Every bit of steam shrinks, when chilled, to a
much more minute particle of water. The liquid particles thus produced
form a kind of _water-dust_ of exceeding fineness, which floats in the
air, and is called a _cloud_.

Watch the cloud-banner from the funnel of a running locomotive; you see
it growing gradually less dense. It finally melts away altogether; and
if you continue your observations, you will not fail to notice that the
speed of its disappearance depends upon the character of the day. In
humid weather the cloud hangs long and lazily in the air; in dry weather
it is rapidly licked up. What has become of it? It has been reconverted
into true invisible vapour.

The _drier_ the air, and the _hotter_ the air, the greater is the amount
of cloud which can be thus dissolved in it. When the cloud first forms,
its quantity is far greater than the air is able to maintain in an
invisible state. But, as the cloud mixes gradually with a larger mass of
air, it is more and more dissolved, and finally passes altogether from
the condition of a finely-divided liquid into that of transparent vapour
or gas.

Make the lid of a kettle air-tight, and permit the steam to issue from
the spout; a cloud is formed in all respects similar to that issuing
from the funnel of the locomotive. To produce the cloud, in the case of
the locomotive and the kettle, _heat_ is necessary. By heating the water
we first convert it into steam, and then by chilling the steam we
convert it into cloud. Is there any fire in Nature which produces the
clouds of our atmosphere? There is: the fire of the sun.

When the sunbeams fall upon the earth, they heat it, and also the water
which lies on its surface, whether it be in large bodies, such as seas
or rivers, or in the form of moisture. The water being thus warmed, a
part of it is given off in the form of aqueous vapour, just as invisible
vapour passes off from a boiler when the water in it is heated by fire.
This vapour mingles with the air in contact with the earth. The
vapour-charged air, being heated by the warm earth, expands, becomes
lighter, and rises. It expands also, as it rises, because the pressure
of the air above it becomes less and less with the height it attains.
But an expanding body always becomes colder as the result of its
expansion. Thus the vapour-laden air is chilled by its expansion. It is
also chilled by coming in contact with the colder, higher air. The
consequence is that the invisible vapour which it contains is chilled,
and forms into tiny water-drops, like the steam from a kettle or the
funnel of the locomotive. And so, as the air rises and becomes colder,
the vapour gathers into visible masses, which we call clouds.

This ascending moist air might become chilled, too, by meeting with a
current of cold, dry air, and then clouds would be formed; and should
this chilling process continue in either case until the water-drops
become heavier than the surrounding air, they would fall to the earth as
raindrops. Rain is, therefore, but a further stage in the condensation
of aqueous vapour caused by the chilling of the air.

Mountains also assist in the formation of clouds. When a wind laden with
moisture strikes against a mountain, it is tilted and flows up its side.
The air expands as it rises, the vapour is chilled and becomes visible
in the form of clouds, and if sufficiently chilled, it comes down to the
earth in the form of rain, hail, or snow.

Thus, by tracing a river backwards, from its end to its real beginning,
we come at length to the sun; for it is the sun that produces aqueous
vapour, from which, as we have seen, clouds are formed, and it is from
clouds that water falls to the earth to become the sources of rivers.

There are, however, rivers which have sources somewhat different from
those just mentioned. They do not begin by driblets on a hillside, nor
can they be traced to a spring. Go, for example, to the mouth of the
river Rhone, and trace it backwards. You come at length to the Lake of
Geneva, from which the river rushes, and which you might be disposed to
regard as the source of the Rhone. But go to the head of the lake, and
you find that the Rhone there enters it; that the lake is, in fact, an
expansion of the river. Follow this upwards; you find it joined by
smaller rivers from the mountains right and left. Pass these, and push
your journey higher still. You come at length to a huge mass of ice--the
end of a glacier--which fills the Rhone valley, and from the bottom of
the glacier the river rushes. In the glacier of the Rhone you thus find
the source of the river Rhone.

But whence come the glaciers? Wherever lofty mountains, like the Alps,
rise into the high parts of the atmosphere where the temperature is
below the freezing-point, the vapour condensed from the air falls upon
them, not as rain, but as snow. In such high mountainous regions, the
heat of the summer melts the snow from the lower hills, but the higher
parts remain covered, for the heat cannot melt all the snow which falls
there in a year. When a considerable depth of snow has accumulated, the
pressure upon the lower layers squeezes them into a firm mass, and after
a time the snow begins to slide down the slope of the mountain. It
passes downward from one slope to another, joined continually by other
sliding masses from neighbouring slopes, until they all unite into one
long tongue, which creeps slowly down some valley to a point where it
melts. This tongue from the snow-fields is called a glacier.

Without solar fire, therefore, we could have no atmospheric vapour,
without vapour no clouds, without clouds no snow, and without snow no
glaciers. Curious then as the conclusion may be, the cold ice of the
Alps has its origin in this heat of the sun.

Tyndall: "The Forms of Water."
(Adapted)




    For what are men better than sheep or goats
    That nourish a blind life within the brain,
    If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer
    Both for themselves and those who call them friend?

Tennyson




FITZ-JAMES AND RODERICK DHU


    The Chief in silence strode before,
    And reached that torrent's sounding shore,
    Which, daughter of three mighty lakes,
    From Vennachar in silver breaks,
    Sweeps through the plain, and ceaseless mines
    On Bochastle the mouldering lines,
    Where Rome, the Empress of the world,
    Of yore her eagle wings unfurled.
    And here his course the Chieftain staid,
    Threw down his target and his plaid,
    And to the Lowland warrior said--
    "Bold Saxon! to his promise just,
    Vich Alpine has discharged his trust.
    This murderous Chief, this ruthless man,
    This head of a rebellious clan,
    Hath led thee safe, through watch and ward,
    Far past Clan-Alpine's outmost guard.
    Now, man to man, and steel to steel,
    A Chieftain's vengeance thou shalt feel.
    See here, all vantageless I stand,
    Armed, like thyself, with single brand:
    For this is Coilantogle ford,
    And thou must keep thee with thy sword."

    The Saxon paused:--"I ne'er delayed,
    When foeman bade me draw my blade;
    Nay, more, brave Chief, I vowed thy death:
    Yet sure thy fair and generous faith,
    And my deep debt for life preserved,
    A better meed have well deserved:
    Can nought but blood our feud atone?
    Are there no means?"--"No, Stranger, none;
    And hear,--to fire thy flagging zeal,--
    The Saxon cause rests on thy steel;
    For thus spoke Fate, by prophet bred
    Between the living and the dead:
    'Who spills the foremost foeman's life,
    His party conquers in the strife.'"--
    "Then, by my word," the Saxon said,
    "The riddle is already read.
    Seek yonder brake beneath the cliff,--
    There lies Red Murdoch, stark and stiff.
    Thus Fate has solved her prophecy,
    Then yield to Fate, and not to me.
    To James, at Stirling, let us go,
    When, if thou wilt be still his foe,
    Or if the King shall not agree
    To grant thee grace and favour free,
    I plight mine honour, oath, and word,
    That, to thy native strengths restored,
    With each advantage shalt thou stand,
    That aids thee now to guard thy land."

    Dark lightning flashed from Roderick's eye--
    "Soars thy presumption, then, so high,
    Because a wretched kern ye slew,
    Homage to name to Roderick Dhu?
    He yields not, he, to man nor Fate!
    Thou add'st but fuel to my hate:--
    My clansman's blood demands revenge.
    Not yet prepared?--By heaven, I change
    My thought, and hold thy valour light
    As that of some vain carpet knight,
    Who ill deserved my courteous care,
    And whose best boast is but to wear
    A braid of his fair lady's hair."--
    "I thank thee, Roderick, for the word!
    It nerves my heart, it steels my sword;
    For I have sworn this braid to stain
    In the best blood that warms thy vein.
    Now, truce, farewell! and, ruth, begone!--
    Yet think not that by thee alone,
    Proud Chief! can courtesy be shown;
    Though not from copse, or heath, or cairn,
    Start at my whistle clansmen stern,
    Of this small horn one feeble blast
    Would fearful odds against thee cast.
    But fear not--doubt not--which thou wilt--
    We try this quarrel hilt to hilt."--
    Then each at once his falchion drew,
    Each on the ground his scabbard threw,
    Each looked to sun, and stream, and plain,
    As what they ne'er might see again;
    Then foot, and point, and eye opposed,
    In dubious strife they darkly closed.

    Ill fared it then with Roderick Dhu,
    That on the field his targe he threw,
    Whose brazen studs and tough bull-hide
    Had death so often dashed aside;
    For, trained abroad his arms to wield,
    Fitz-James's blade was sword and shield.
    He practised every pass and ward,
    To thrust, to strike, to feint, to guard;
    While less expert, though stronger far,
    The Gael maintained unequal war.
    Three times in closing strife they stood,
    And thrice the Saxon blade drank blood;
    No stinted draught, no scanty tide,
    The gushing flood the tartans dyed.
    Fierce Roderick felt the fatal drain,
    And showered his blows like wintry rain;
    And, as firm rock, or castle-roof,
    Against the winter shower is proof,
    The foe, invulnerable still,
    Foiled his wild rage by steady skill;
    Till, at advantage ta'en, his brand
    Forced Roderick's weapon from his hand,
    And backward borne upon the lea,
    Brought the proud Chieftain to his knee.

    "Now, yield thee, or by Him who made
    The world, thy heart's blood dyes my blade!"--
    "Thy threats, thy mercy, I defy!
    Let recreant yield, who fears to die."
    --Like adder darting from his coil,
    Like wolf that dashes through the toil,
    Like mountain-cat who guards her young,
    Full at Fitz-James's throat he sprung;
    Received, but recked not of a wound,
    And locked his arms his foeman round.--
    Now, gallant Saxon, hold thine own!
    No maiden's hand is round thee thrown!
    That desperate grasp thy frame might feel,
    Through bars of brass and triple steel!--
    They tug, they strain! down, down they go,
    The Gael above, Fitz-James below.
    The Chieftain's gripe his throat compressed,
    His knee was planted on his breast;
    His clotted locks he backward threw,
    Across his brow his hand he drew,
    From blood and mist to clear his sight,
    Then gleamed aloft his dagger bright!--
    --But hate and fury ill supplied
    The stream of life's exhausted tide,
    And all too late the advantage came,
    To turn the odds of deadly game;
    For, while the dagger gleamed on high,
    Reeled soul and sense, reeled brain and eye,
    Down came the blow! but in the heath
    The erring blade found bloodless sheath.
    The struggling foe may now unclasp
    The fainting Chief's relaxing grasp;
    Unwounded from the dreadful close,
    But breathless all, Fitz-James arose.

Scott: "The Lady of the Lake."




THE INDIGNATION OF NICHOLAS NICKLEBY

("Nicholas Nickleby" deals with the gross mismanagement of schools in
Yorkshire, England. Squeers, a vulgar, crafty despot, is head of
Dotheboys Hall. Nicholas is an usher or undermaster in the school;
Smike, a little, friendless, starved pupil who has run away to escape
from drudgery and harshness.)


"He is off," said Mrs. Squeers. "The cow-house and stable are locked up,
so he can't be there; and he's not down-stairs anywhere, for the girl
has looked. He must have gone York way, and by a public road, too."

"Why must he?" inquired Squeers.

"Stupid!" said Mrs. Squeers, angrily. "He hadn't any money, had he?"

"Never had a penny of his own in his whole life, that I know of,"
replied Squeers.

"To be sure," rejoined Mrs. Squeers, "and he didn't take anything to eat
with him; that I'll answer for. Ha! ha! ha!"

"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed Squeers.

"Then, of course," said Mrs. S., "he must beg his way, and he could do
that nowhere but on the public road."

"That's true," exclaimed Squeers, clapping his hands.

"True! yes; but you would never have thought of it for all that, if I
hadn't said so," replied his wife. "Now, if you take the chaise and go
one road, and I borrow Swallow's chaise and go the other, what with
keeping our eyes open, and asking questions, one or other of us is
pretty sure to lay hold of him."

The worthy lady's plan was adopted and put in execution without a
moment's delay. After a hasty breakfast, and the prosecution of some
inquiries in the village, the result of which seemed to show that he was
on the right track, Squeers started forth in the pony-chaise, intent
upon discovery and vengeance. Shortly afterwards, Mrs. Squeers, arrayed
in the white topcoat and tied up in various shawls and handkerchiefs,
issued forth in another chaise in another direction, taking with her a
good-sized bludgeon, several odd pieces of strong cord, and a stout
labouring man; all provided and carried upon the expedition with the
sole object of assisting in the capture, and (once caught) insuring the
safe custody of the unfortunate Smike.

Nicholas remained behind, in a tumult of feeling, sensible that whatever
might be the upshot of the boy's flight, nothing but painful and
deplorable consequences were likely to ensue from it. Death, from want
and exposure to the weather, was the best that could be expected from
the protracted wanderings of so poor and helpless a creature, alone and
unfriended, through a country of which he was wholly ignorant. There was
little, perhaps, to choose between this fate and a return to the tender
mercies of the Yorkshire school: but the unhappy being had established a
hold upon his sympathy and compassion, which made his heart ache at the
prospect of the suffering he was destined to undergo. He lingered on in
restless anxiety, picturing a thousand possibilities, until the evening
of the next day when Squeers returned alone and unsuccessful.

"No news of the scamp!" said the schoolmaster, who had evidently been
stretching his legs, on the old principle, not a few times during the
journey. "I'll have consolation for this out of somebody, Nickleby, if
Mrs. Squeers don't hunt him down. So I give you fair warning."

"It is not in my power to console you, sir," said Nicholas. "It is
nothing to me."

"Isn't it?" said Squeers, in a threatening manner. "We shall see!"

"We shall," rejoined Nicholas.

"Here's the pony run right off his legs, and me obliged to come home
with a hack cob, that'll cost fifteen shillings besides other expenses,"
said Squeers; "who's to pay for that, do you hear?"

Nicholas shrugged his shoulders and remained silent.

"I'll have it out of somebody, I tell you," said Squeers, his usual
harsh, crafty manner changed to open bullying. "None of your whining
vapourings here, Mr. Puppy: but be off to your kennel, for it's past
your bed-time! Come, get out!"

Nicholas bit his lip and knit his hands involuntarily, for his finger
ends tingled to avenge the insult; but remembering that the man was
drunk, and that it could come to little but a noisy brawl, he contented
himself with darting a contemptuous look at the tyrant and walked, as
majestically as he could, upstairs, and sternly resolved that the
outstanding account between himself and Mr. Squeers should be settled
rather more speedily than the latter anticipated.

Another day came, and Nicholas was scarcely awake when he heard the
wheels of a chaise approaching the house. It stopped. The voice of Mrs.
Squeers was heard, and in exultation, ordering a glass of spirits for
somebody, which was in itself a sufficient sign that something
extraordinary had happened. Nicholas hardly dared to look out of the
window; but he did so, and the very first object that met his eyes was
the wretched Smike; so bedabbled with mud and rain, so haggard and worn,
and wild, that, but for his garments being such as no scarecrow was ever
seen to wear, he might have been doubtful, even then, of his identity.

"Lift him out," said Squeers, after he had literally feasted his eyes in
silence upon the culprit. "Bring him in; bring him in!"

"Take care," cried Mrs. Squeers, as her husband proffered his
assistance. "We tied his legs under the apron and made 'em fast to the
chaise, to prevent him giving us the slip again."

With hands trembling with delight, Squeers unloosed the cord; and Smike,
to all appearances more dead than alive, was brought into the house and
securely locked up in a cellar, until such time as Mr. Squeers should
deem it expedient to operate upon him, in the presence of the assembled
school.

The news that Smike had been caught and brought back in triumph ran like
wild fire through the hungry community, and expectation was on tiptoe
all morning. On tiptoe it was destined to remain, however, until
afternoon; when Squeers, having refreshed himself with his dinner and
further strengthened himself by an extra libation or so, made his
appearance (accompanied by his amiable partner) with a countenance of
portentous import, and a fearful instrument of flagellation, strong,
supple, wax-ended, and new--in short, purchased that morning expressly
for the occasion.

"Is every boy here?" asked Squeers, in a tremendous voice.

Every boy was there, but every boy was afraid to speak; so Squeers
glared along the lines to assure himself; and every eye dropped, and
every head cowered down, as he did so.

"Each boy keep his place," said Squeers, administering his favourite
blow to the desk and regarding with gloomy satisfaction the universal
start it never failed to occasion.

"Nickleby! to your desk, sir."

It was remarked by more than one small observer that there was a very
curious and unusual expression in the usher's face; but he took his seat
without opening his lips in reply. Squeers, casting a triumphant glance
at his assistant and a look of most comprehensive despotism on the boys,
left the room, and shortly afterward returned, dragging Smike by the
collar--or rather by that fragment of his jacket which was nearest to
the place where his collar would have been, had he boasted such a
decoration.

In any other place, the appearance of the wretched, jaded, spiritless
object would have occasioned a murmur of compassion and remonstrance. It
had some effect even there; for the lookers-on moved uneasily in their
seats; and a few of the boldest ventured to steal looks at each other,
expressive of indignation and pity.

They were lost on Squeers, however, whose gaze was fastened on the
luckless Smike, as he inquired, according to custom in such cases,
whether he had anything to say for himself.

"Nothing, I suppose?" said Squeers, with a diabolical grin.

Smike glanced round, and his eyes rested for an instant on Nicholas, as
if he had expected him to intercede; but his look was riveted on his
desk.

"Have you anything to say?" demanded Squeers again, giving his right arm
two or three flourishes to try its power and suppleness.

"Stand a little out of the way, Mrs. Squeers, my dear; I've hardly got
enough room."

"Spare me, sir!" cried Smike.

"Oh! that's all, is it?" said Squeers. "Yes, I'll flog you within an
inch of your life, and spare you that."

"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed Mrs. Squeers, "that's a good un!"

"I was driven to it," said Smike, faintly; and casting another imploring
look about him.

"Driven to it, were you?" said Squeers. "Oh! it wasn't your fault; it
was mine, I suppose--eh?"

"A nasty, ungrateful, pig-headed, brutish, obstinate, sneaking dog,"
exclaimed Mrs. Squeers, taking Smike's head under her arm and
administering a cuff at every epithet; "what does he mean by that?"

"Stand aside, my dear," replied Squeers. "We'll try and find out."

Mrs. Squeers being out of breath with her exertions, complied. Squeers
caught the boy firmly in his grip; one desperate cut had fallen on his
body--he was wincing from the lash and uttering a scream of pain--it was
raised again, and again about to fall--when Nicholas Nickleby, suddenly
starting up, cried "Stop!" in a voice that made the rafters ring.

"Who cried stop?" asked Squeers, turning savagely round.

"I," said Nicholas, stepping forward. "This must not go on."

"Must not go on!" cried Squeers, almost in a shriek.

"No!" thundered Nicholas.

Aghast and stupefied at the boldness of the interference, Squeers
released his hold of Smike, and, falling back a pace, gazed upon
Nicholas with looks that were positively frightful.

"I say must not," repeated Nicholas, nothing daunted; "shall not, I will
prevent it."

Squeers continued to gaze upon him with his eyes starting out of his
head; but astonishment had actually for the moment bereft him of
speech.

"You have disregarded all my quiet interference in this miserable lad's
behalf," said Nicholas; "you have returned no answer to the letter in
which I begged forgiveness for him and offered to be responsible that he
would remain quietly here. Don't blame me for this public interference.
You have brought it upon yourself; not I."

"Sit down, beggar!" screamed Squeers, almost beside himself with rage,
and seizing Smike as he spoke.

"Wretch," rejoined Nicholas, fiercely, "touch him at your peril! I will
not stand by and see it done. My blood is up, and I have the strength of
ten such men as you. Look to yourself, for by Heaven I will not spare
you, if you drive me on!"

"Stand back!" cried Squeers, brandishing his weapon.

"I have a long series of insults to avenge," said Nicholas, flushed with
passion; "and my indignation is aggravated by the dastardly cruelties
practised on helpless infancy in this foul den. Have a care; for if you
do raise the devil within me, the consequences shall fall heavily upon
your own head!"

He had scarcely spoken, when Squeers in a violent outbreak of wrath,
and with a cry like the howl of a wild beast, spat upon him and struck
him a blow across the face with his instrument of torture, which raised
a bar of livid flesh as it was inflicted. Smarting with the agony of the
blow, and concentrating into that one moment all his feelings of rage,
scorn, and indignation, Nicholas sprang upon him, wrested the weapon
from his hand, and pinning him by the throat beat the ruffian till he
roared for mercy.

The boys--with the exception of Master Squeers, who, coming to his
father's assistance, harassed the enemy in the rear--moved not hand or
foot; but Mrs. Squeers, with many shrieks for aid, hung on to the tail
of her partner's coat and endeavoured to drag him from his infuriated
adversary; while Miss Squeers, who had been peeping through the keyhole
in the expectation of a very different scene, darted in at the very
beginning of the attack, and after launching a shower of inkstands at
the usher's head, beat Nicholas to her heart's content; animating
herself, at every blow, with the recollection of his having refused her
proffered love, and thus imparting additional strength to an arm which
(as she took after her mother in this respect) was, at no time, of the
weakest.

Nicholas, in the full strength of his violence, felt the blows no more
than if they had been dealt with feathers; but, becoming tired of the
noise and uproar, and feeling that his arm grew weaker besides, he threw
all his remaining strength into half a dozen finishing cuts, and flung
Squeers from him, with all the force he could muster. The violence of
his fall precipitated Mrs. Squeers completely over an adjacent form;
Squeers, striking his head against it in his descent, lay at his full
length on the ground, stunned and motionless.

Having brought affairs to this happy termination, and ascertained, to
his thorough satisfaction, that Squeers was only stunned, and not dead
(upon which point he had some unpleasant doubts at first), Nicholas left
his family to restore him, and retired to consider what course he had
better adopt. He looked anxiously round for Smike, as he left the room,
but he was nowhere to be seen.

After a brief consideration, he packed up a few clothes in a small
valise, and, finding that nobody offered to oppose his progress, marched
boldly out by the front door, and, shortly afterward, struck into the
road which led to the Greta Bridge.

Dickens: "Nicholas Nickleby."




DICKENS IN THE CAMP


    Above the pines the moon was slowly drifting,
        The river sang below;
    The dim Sierras, far beyond, uplifting
        Their minarets of snow.

    The roaring camp-fire, with rude humour, painted
        The ruddy tints of health
    On haggard face and form that drooped and fainted
        In the fierce race for wealth;

    Till one arose, and from his pack's scant treasure
        A hoarded volume drew,
    And cards were dropped from hands of listless leisure
        To hear the tale anew.

    And then, while round them shadows gathered faster,
        And as the firelight fell,
    He read aloud the book wherein the Master
        Had writ of "Little Nell."

    Perhaps 'twas boyish fancy,--for the reader
        Was youngest of them all,--
    But, as he read, from clustering pine and cedar
        A silence seemed to fall;

    The fir trees, gathering closer in the shadows,
        Listened in every spray,
    While the whole camp, with "Nell" on English meadows,
        Wandered and lost their way.

    And so in mountain solitudes--o'ertaken
        As by some spell divine--
    Their cares dropped from them like the needles shaken
        From out the gusty pine.

    Lost is that camp and wasted all its fire:
        And he who wrought that spell?--
    Ah! towering pine and stately Kentish spire,
        Ye have one tale to tell!

    Lost is that camp, but let its fragrant story
        Blend with the breath that thrills
    With hopvines' incense all the pensive glory
        That fills the Kentish hills.

    And on that grave where English oak, and holly,
        And laurel wreaths entwine,
    Deem it not all a too presumptuous folly,--
        This spray of Western pine!

Bret Harte




DOST THOU LOOK BACK ON WHAT HATH BEEN


    Dost thou look back on what hath been,
      As some divinely gifted man,
      Whose life in low estate began
    And on a simple village green;

    Who breaks his birth's invidious bar,
      And grasps the skirts of happy chance,
      And breasts the blows of circumstance,
    And grapples with his evil star;

    Who makes by force his merit known,
      And lives to clutch the golden keys,
      To mould a mighty state's decrees,
    And shape the whisper of the throne;

    And moving up from high to higher,
      Becomes on Fortune's crowning slope
      The pillar of a people's hope,
    The centre of a world's desire;

    Yet feels, as in a pensive dream,
      When all his active powers are still,
      A distant dearness in the hill,
    A secret sweetness in the stream,

    The limit of his narrower fate,
      While yet beside its vocal springs
      He played at counsellors and kings,
    With one that was his earliest mate;

    Who ploughs with pain his native lea,
      And reaps the labour of his hands,
      Or in the furrow musing stands;
    "Does my old friend remember me?"

Tennyson: "In Memoriam, LXIV."




THE PASSING OF ARTHUR


And so both hosts dressed them together. And king Arthur took his horse,
and said, Alas this unhappy day, and so rode to his party: and Sir
Mordred in like wise. And never was there seen a more dolefuller battle
in any Christian land. For there was but rushing and riding, foining and
striking, and many a grim word was there spoken either to other, and
many a deadly stroke. But ever king Arthur rode throughout the battle
of Sir Mordred many times, and did full nobly as a noble king should;
and at all times he fainted never. And Sir Mordred that day put him in
great peril. And thus they fought all the long day, and never stinted,
till the noble knights were laid to the cold ground, and ever they
fought still, till it was near night, and by that time was there an
hundred thousand laid dead upon the down.

Then was Arthur wroth out of measure, when he saw his people so slain
from him. Then the king looked about him, and then was he ware of all
his host, and of all his good knights, were left no more alive but two
knights, that was Sir Lucan de Butlere, and his brother Sir Bedivere:
and they full were sore wounded. Jesu mercy, said the king, where are
all my noble knights becomen. Alas that ever I should see this doleful
day. For now, said Arthur, I am come to mine end. But would to God that
I wist where were that traitor Sir Mordred, that hath caused all this
mischief. Then was king Arthur ware where Sir Mordred leaned upon his
sword among a great heap of dead men. Now give me my spear, said Arthur
unto Sir Lucan, for yonder I have espied the traitor that all this woe
hath wrought.

Then the king gat his spear in both his hands, and ran toward Sir
Mordred, crying, Traitor, now is thy death day come. And when Sir
Mordred heard Sir Arthur, he ran until him with his sword drawn in his
hand. And then king Arthur smote Sir Mordred under the shield, with a
foin of his spear throughout the body more than a fathom. And when Sir
Mordred felt that he had his death's wound, he thrust himself, with the
might that he had, up to the bur of king Arthur's spear. And right so he
smote Arthur with his sword holden in both his hands, on the side of the
head, that the sword pierced the helmet and the brain-pan, and
therewithal Sir Mordred fell stark dead to the earth. And the noble
Arthur fell in a swoon to the earth, and there he swooned oft-times. And
Sir Lucan de Butlere and Sir Bedivere oft-times heaved him up, and so
weakly they led him betwixt them both to a little chapel not far from
the sea side.

Then Sir Lucan took up the king the one part, and Sir Bedivere the other
part, and in the lifting, the king swooned, and Sir Lucan fell in a
swoon with the lift and therewith the noble knight's heart burst. And
when king Arthur came to himself again, he beheld Sir Lucan how he lay
foaming at the mouth. Alas, said the king, this is unto me a full heavy
sight to see this noble duke so die for my sake, for he would have
holpen me that had more need of help than I. Alas, he would not complain
him, his heart was so set to help me. Now Jesu have mercy upon his soul.
Then Sir Bedivere wept for the death of his brother. Leave this mourning
and weeping, said the king, for all this will not avail me: for, wit
thou well, and I might live myself the death of Sir Lucan would grieve
me evermore; but my time hieth fast, said the king.

Therefore, said Arthur, take thou Excalibur, my good sword, and go with
it to yonder water side, and when thou comest there, I charge thee throw
my sword in that water, and come again, and tell me what thou there
seest. My lord, said Bedivere, your commandment shall be done, and
lightly bring you word again. So Sir Bedivere departed, and by the way
he beheld that noble sword, that the pommel and haft were all of
precious stones, and then he said to himself, If I throw this rich sword
in the water, thereof shall never come good, but harm and loss. And then
Sir Bedivere hid Excalibur under a tree. And as soon as he might he
came again unto the king, and said he had been at the water, and had
thrown the sword into the water. What sawest thou there? said the king.
Sir, he said, I saw nothing but waves and winds. That is untruly said of
thee, said the king; therefore go thou lightly again, and do my command
as thou art to me lief and dear, spare not, but throw it in.

Then Sir Bedivere returned again, and took the sword in his hand; and
then him thought sin and shame to throw away that noble sword; and so
eft he hid the sword, and returned again, and told to the king that he
had been at the water, and done his commandment. What sawest thou there?
said the king. Sir, he said, I saw nothing but the waters wap and the
waves wan. Ah traitor, untrue, said king Arthur, now hast thou betrayed
me twice. Who would have wend that thou that hast been to me so lief and
dear, and thou art named a noble knight, and would betray me for the
riches of the sword. But now go again lightly, for thy long tarrying
putteth me in great jeopardy of my life, for I have taken cold. And
unless if thou do now as I bid thee, if ever I may see thee, I shall
slay thee with mine own hands, for thou wouldest for my rich sword see
me dead.

Then Sir Bedivere departed, and went to the sword, and lightly took it
up, and went to the water side, and there he bound the girdle about the
hilts, and then he threw the sword as far into the water as he might,
and there came an arm and an hand above the water, and met it, and
caught it, and so shook it thrice and brandished, and then vanished away
the hand with the sword in the water. So Sir Bedivere came again to the
king, and told him what he saw. Alas, said the king, help me hence, for
I dread me I have tarried over long.

Then Sir Bedivere took the king upon his back, and so went with him to
that water side. And when they were at the water side, even fast by the
bank hoved a little barge, with many fair ladies in it, and among them
all was a queen, and all they had black hoods, and all they wept and
shrieked when they saw king Arthur. Now put me into the barge, said the
king: and so he did softly. And there received him three queens with
great mourning, and so they set him down, and in one of their laps king
Arthur laid his head, and then that queen said, Ah, dear brother, why
have ye tarried so long from me? Alas, this wound on your head hath
caught over much cold. And so then they rowed from the land; and Sir
Bedivere beheld all those ladies go from him.

Then Sir Bedivere cried, Ah, my lord Arthur, what shall become of me now
ye go from me, and leave me here alone among mine enemies. Comfort
thyself, said the king, and do as well as thou mayest, for in me is no
trust for to trust in. For I will into the vale of Avilion, to heal me
of my grievous wound. And if thou hear never more of me, pray for my
soul. But ever the queens and the ladies wept and shrieked, that it was
pity to hear. And as soon as Sir Bedivere had lost the sight of the
barge, he wept and wailed, and so took the forest.

Sir Thomas Malory
Read: Tennyson's Morte D'Arthur.




THE ARMADA


    Attend, all ye who list to hear our noble
      England's praise;
    I tell of the thrice famous deeds she wrought
      in ancient days,
    When that great fleet invincible against her
      bore in vain
    The richest spoils of Mexico, the stoutest
      hearts of Spain.
    It was about the lovely close of a warm summer
      day,
    There came a gallant merchant-ship full sail
      to Plymouth Bay;
    Her crew hath seen Castile's black fleet,
      beyond Aurigny's isle,[2]
    At earliest twilight, on the waves lie heaving
      many a mile.
    At sunrise she escaped their van, by God's
      especial grace;
    And the tall Pinta, till the noon, had held
      her close in chase.
    Forthwith a guard at every gun was placed
      along the wall;
    The beacon blazed upon the roof of Edgecumbe's
      lofty hall;
    Many a light fishing-bark put out to pry along
      the coast,
    And with loose rein and bloody spur rode inland
      many a post.
    With his white hair unbonneted, the stout old
      sheriff comes;
    Behind him march the halberdiers; before him
      sound the drums;
    His yeomen, round the market-cross, make clear
      an ample space;
    For there behoves him to set up the standard
      of Her Grace.
    And haughtily the trumpets peal, and gaily
      dance the bells,
    As slow upon the labouring wind the royal
      blazon swells.
    Look how the lion of the sea lifts up his
      ancient crown,
    And underneath his deadly paw treads the gay
      lilies down.
    So stalked he when he turned to flight on that
      famed Picard field,[3]
    Bohemia's plume, and Genoa's bow, and Caesar's
      eagle shield:
    So glared he when at Agincourt in wrath he
      turned to bay,
    And crushed and torn beneath his claws the
      princely hunters lay.
    Ho! strike the flag-staff deep, Sir Knight: ho!
      scatter flowers, fair maids:
    Ho! gunners fire a loud salute: ho! gallants,
      draw your blades:
    Thou sun, shine on her joyously; ye breezes
      waft her wide;
    Our glorious SEMPER EADEM, the banner of our
      pride.
    The freshening breeze of eve unfurled that
      banner's massy fold;
    The parting gleam of sunshine kissed the haughty
      scroll of gold;
    Night sank upon the dusky beach and on the
      purple sea,
    Such night in England ne'er had been, nor e'er
      again shall be.
    From Eddystone to Berwick bounds, from Lynn to
      Milford Bay,
    That time of slumber was as bright and busy as
      the day;
    For swift to east and swift to west the ghastly
      war-flame spread;
    High on St. Michael's Mount it shone: it shone
      on Beachy Head.
    Far on the deep the Spaniard saw, along each
      southern shire,
    Cape beyond cape, in endless range, those
      twinkling points of fire.
    The fisher left his skiff to rock on Tamar's
      glittering waves:
    The rugged miners poured to war from Mendip's
      sunless caves:
    O'er Longleat's towers, o'er Cranbourne's oaks,
      the fiery herald flew:
    He roused the shepherds of Stonehenge, the
      rangers of Beaulieu.
    Right sharp and quick the bells all night rang
      out from Bristol town,
    And ere the day three hundred horse had met on
      Clifton down;
    The sentinel on Whitehall gate looked forth
      into the night,
    And saw o'erhanging Richmond Hill the streak
      of blood-red light.
    Then bugle's note and cannon's roar the
      deathlike silence broke,
    And with one start, and with one cry, the royal
      city woke.
    At once on all her stately gates arose the
      answering fires;
    At once the wild alarum clashed from all her
      reeling spires;
    From all the batteries of the Tower pealed
      loud the voice of fear;
    And all the thousand masts of Thames sent back
      a louder cheer;
    And from the farthest wards was heard the rush
      of hurrying feet,
    And the broad streams of pikes and flags rushed
      down each roaring street;
    And broader still became the blaze, and louder
      still the din,
    As fast from every village round the horse came
      spurring in:
    And eastward straight from wild Blackheath the
      warlike errand went,
    And roused in many an ancient hall the gallant
      squires of Kent.
    Southward from Surrey's pleasant hills flew
      those bright couriers forth;
    High on bleak Hampstead's swarthy moor they
      started for the North;
    And on, and on, without a pause, untired the
      bounded still:
    All night from tower to tower they sprang--they
      sprang from hill to hill:
    Till the proud peak unfurled the flag o'er
      Darwin's rocky dales,
    Till like volcanoes flared to Heaven the stormy
      hills of Wales,
    Till twelve fair counties saw the blaze on
      Malvern's lonely height,
    Till streamed in crimson on the wind the
      Wrekin's crest of light,
    Till broad and fierce the star came forth on
      Ely's stately fane,
    And tower and hamlet rose in arms o'er all the
      boundless plain;
    Till Belvoir's lordly terraces the sign to
      Lincoln sent,
    And Lincoln sped the message on o'er the wide
      vale of Trent;
    Till Skiddaw saw the fire that burned on Gaunt's
      embattled pile,
    And the red glare of Skiddaw roused the burghers
      of Carlisle.

Macaulay

FOOTNOTES:
[2] Alderney.
[3] Cressy.




DEPARTURE AND DEATH OF NELSON


Nelson, having despatched his business at Portsmouth, endeavoured to
elude the populace by taking a by-way to the beach, but a crowd
collected in his train, pressing forward to obtain a sight of his face:
many were in tears, and many knelt down before him and blessed him as he
passed. England has had many heroes, but never one who so entirely
possessed the love of his fellow-countrymen as Nelson. All men knew that
his heart was as humane as it was fearless; that there was not in his
nature the slightest alloy of selfishness or cupidity; but that, with
perfect and entire devotion, he served his country with all his heart,
and with all his soul, and with all his strength; and therefore, they
loved him as truly and as fervently as he loved England. They pressed
upon the parapet to gaze after him when his barge pushed off, and he
returned their cheers by waving his hat. The sentinels, who endeavoured
to prevent them from trespassing upon this ground, were wedged among the
crowd; and an officer who, not very prudently upon such an occasion,
ordered them to drive the people down with their bayonets, was compelled
speedily to retreat; for the people would not be debarred from gazing
till the last moment upon the hero--the darling hero of England!

It had been part of Nelson's prayer, that the British fleet might be
distinguished by humanity in the victory which he expected. Setting an
example himself, he twice gave orders to cease firing on the
Redoubtable, supposing that she had struck, because her guns were
silent; for, as she carried no flag, there was no means of instantly
ascertaining the fact. From this ship, which he had thus twice spared,
he received his death. A ball fired from her mizzen-top, which, in the
then situation of the two vessels, was not more than fifteen yards from
that part of the deck where he was standing, struck the epaulet on his
left shoulder, about a quarter after one, just in the heat of action. He
fell upon his face, on the spot which was covered with his poor
secretary's blood. Hardy, who was a few steps from him, turning round,
saw three men raising him up. "They have done for me at last, Hardy,"
said he. "I hope not," cried Hardy. "Yes," he replied, "my backbone is
shot through." Yet even now, not for a moment losing his presence of
mind, he observed, as they were carrying him down the ladder, that the
tiller ropes, which had been shot away, were not yet replaced, and
ordered that new ones should be rove immediately: then, that he might
not be seen by the crew, he took out his handkerchief, and covered his
face and his stars. Had he but concealed these badges of honour from the
enemy, England, perhaps, would not have had cause to receive with sorrow
the news of the battle of Trafalgar.

The cockpit was crowded with wounded and dying men, over whose bodies he
was with some difficulty conveyed, and laid upon a pallet in the
midshipmen's berth. It was soon perceived, upon examination, that the
wound was mortal. This, however, was concealed from all except Captain
Hardy, the chaplain, and the medical attendants. He himself being
certain, from the sensation in his back and the gush of blood he felt
momently within his breast, that no human care could avail him, insisted
that the surgeon should leave him and attend to those to whom he might
be useful; "for," said he, "you can do nothing for me." All that could
be done was to fan him with paper, and frequently to give him lemonade
to alleviate his intense thirst.

He was in great pain, and expressed much anxiety for the event of the
action, which now began to declare itself. As often as a ship struck,
the crew of the Victory hurrahed; and at each hurrah, a visible
expression of joy gleamed in the eyes and marked the countenance of the
dying hero. But he became impatient to see Hardy; and as that officer,
though often sent for, could not leave the deck, Nelson feared that some
fatal cause prevented him, and repeatedly cried, "Will no one bring
Hardy to me? He must be killed! He is surely dead!"

An hour and ten minutes elapsed from the time when Nelson received his
wound, before Hardy could come to him. They shook hands in silence,
Hardy in vain struggling to suppress the feelings of that most painful
and yet sublime moment. "Well, Hardy," said Nelson, "how goes the day
with us?" "Very well," replied Hardy: "ten ships have struck, but five
of the van have tacked and show an intention to bear down upon the
Victory. I have called two or three of our fresh ships round, and have
no doubt of giving them a drubbing." "I hope," said Nelson, "none of our
ships have struck." Hardy answered, "There is no fear of that." Then,
and not till then, Nelson spoke of himself. "I am a dead man, Hardy,"
said he; "I am going fast; it will be all over with me soon." Hardy
observed that he hoped Mr. Beatty could yet hold out some prospect of
life. "Oh, no," he replied; "it is impossible. My back is shot through.
Beatty will tell you so." Hardy then once more shook hands with him,
and, with a heart almost bursting, hastened upon deck.

By this time all feeling below the breast was gone, and Nelson, having
made the surgeon ascertain this, said to him: "You know I am gone. I
know it. I feel something rising in my breast," putting his hand on his
left side, "which tells me so." And upon Beatty's inquiring whether his
pain was very great, he replied, it was so great that he wished he was
dead. "Yet," he added in a lower voice, "one would like to live a little
longer, too!"

Captain Hardy, some fifty minutes after he had left the cockpit,
returned, and again taking the hand of his dying friend and commander,
congratulated him on having gained a complete victory. How many of the
enemy were taken he did not know, as it was impossible to perceive them
distinctly, but fourteen or fifteen at least. "That's well," said
Nelson; "but I bargained for twenty." And then, in a stronger voice, he
said, "Anchor, Hardy, anchor." Hardy, thereupon, hinted that Admiral
Collingwood would take upon himself the direction of affairs. "Not while
I live, Hardy," said the dying Nelson, ineffectually endeavouring to
raise himself from the bed: "do you anchor." His previous orders for
preparing to anchor had shown how clearly he foresaw the necessity for
this.

Presently calling Hardy back, he said to him in a low voice, "Don't
throw me overboard:" and he desired that he might be buried beside his
parents, unless it should please the king to order otherwise. Then
reverting to private feelings,--"Kiss me, Hardy," said he. Hardy knelt
down and kissed his cheek; and Nelson said, "Now I am satisfied. Thank
God, I have done my duty!" Hardy stood over him in silence for a moment
or two, then knelt again and kissed his forehead. "Who is that?" said
Nelson; and being informed, he replied, "God bless you, Hardy." And
Hardy then left him for ever.

Nelson now desired to be turned upon his right side, and said, "I wish I
had not left the deck, for I shall soon be gone." Death was, indeed,
rapidly approaching. His articulation now became difficult, but he was
distinctly heard to say, "Thank God, I have done my duty!" These words
he repeatedly pronounced, and they were the last words which he uttered.
He expired at thirty minutes after four, three hours and a quarter after
he had received his wound.

The death of Nelson was felt in England as something more than a public
calamity: men started at the intelligence and turned pale, as if they
had heard of the loss of a near friend. An object of our admiration and
affection, of our pride and of our hopes, was suddenly taken from us;
and it seemed as if we had never till then known how deeply we loved and
reverenced him. What the country had lost in its great naval hero--the
greatest of our own and of all former times--was scarcely taken into the
account of grief. So perfectly, indeed, had he performed his part, that
the maritime war, after the battle of Trafalgar, was considered at an
end. The fleets of the enemy were not merely defeated--they were
destroyed: new navies must be built, and a new race of seamen reared for
them, before the possibility of their invading our shores could again
be contemplated. It was not, therefore, from any selfish reflection upon
the magnitude of our loss that we mourned for him; the general sorrow
was of a higher character.

The people of England grieved that the funeral ceremonies, and public
monuments, and posthumous rewards, were all that they could now bestow
upon him whom the king, the legislature and the nation would have alike
delighted to honour; whom every tongue would have blessed; whose
presence in every village through which he might have passed would have
awakened the church bells, have given school-boys a holiday, have drawn
children from their sports to gaze upon him, and "old men from the
chimney-corner" to look upon Nelson ere they died.

The victory of Trafalgar was celebrated, indeed, with the usual forms of
rejoicing, but they were without joy; for such already was the glory of
the British navy, through Nelson's surpassing genius, that it scarcely
seemed to receive any addition from the most signal victory that ever
was achieved upon the seas. The destruction of this mighty fleet, by
which all the maritime schemes of France were totally frustrated, hardly
appeared to add to our security and strength; for while Nelson was
living to watch the combined squadrons of the enemy, we felt ourselves
as secure as now, when they were no longer in existence.

There was reason to suppose, from the appearances upon opening his body,
that in the course of nature he might have attained, like his father, to
a good old age. Yet he cannot be said to have fallen prematurely whose
work was done; nor ought he to be lamented who died so full of honours,
and at the height of human fame. The most triumphant death is that of
the martyr; the most awful, that of the martyred patriot; the most
splendid, that of the hero in the hour of victory; and if the chariot
and the horses of fire had been vouchsafed for Nelson's translation, he
could scarcely have departed in a brighter blaze of glory. He has left
us, not indeed a mantle of inspiration, but a name and an example which
are at this moment inspiring thousands of the youth of England--a name
which is our pride, and an example which will continue to be our shield
and strength. Thus it is that spirits of the great and the wise continue
to live and to act after them.

Southey




England expects that every man will do his duty.

Nelson




WATERLOO


    There was a sound of revelry by night,
    And Belgium's capital had gathered then
    Her Beauty and her Chivalry, and bright
    The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men;
    A thousand hearts beat happily; and when
    Music arose with its voluptuous swell,
    Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again,
    And all went merry as a marriage bell;
    But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!

    Did ye not hear it?--No; 'twas but the wind,
    Or the car rattling o'er the stony street;
    On with the dance! let joy be unconfined;
    No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet
    To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet.
    But hark!--that heavy sound breaks in once more,
    As if the clouds its echo would repeat;
    And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before!
    Arm! arm! it is--it is--the cannon's opening roar!

    Within a windowed niche of that high hall
    Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain; he did hear
    That sound, the first amidst the festival,
    And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear;
    And when they smiled because he deemed it near,
    His heart more truly knew that peal too well
    Which stretched his father on a bloody bier,
    And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell:
    He rushed into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell.

    Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro,
    And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress,
    And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago
    Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness;
    And there were sudden partings, such as press
    The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs
    Which ne'er might be repeated: who could guess
    If ever more should meet those mutual eyes,
    Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise!

    And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed,
    The mustering squadron, and the clattering car,
    Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,
    And swiftly forming in the ranks of war;
    And the deep thunder peal on peal afar;
    And near, the beat of the alarming drum
    Roused up the soldier ere the morning star;
    While thronged the citizens with terror dumb,
    Or whispering, with white lips--"The foe! They come! they come!"

    And wild and high the "Cameron's gathering" rose,
    The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills
    Have heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon foes:--
    How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills
    Savage and shrill! But with the breath which fills
    Their mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineers
    With the fierce native daring which instils
    The stirring memory of a thousand years,
    And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clansman's ears!

    And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves,
    Dewy with Nature's tear-drops, as they pass,
    Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves,
    Over the unreturning brave,--alas!
    Ere evening to be trodden like the grass
    Which now beneath them, but above shall grow
    In its next verdure, when this fiery mass
    Of living valour, rolling on the foe,
    And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low.

    Last noon beheld them full of lusty life,
    Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay,
    The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife,
    The morn the marshalling in arms,--the day
    Battle's magnificently stern array!
    The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent
    The earth is covered thick with other clay,
    Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent,
    Rider and horse,--friend, foe,--in one red burial blent!

Byron: "Childe Harold's Pilgrimage."




Show me the man you honour; I know by that symptom better than by any
other, what kind of a man you are yourself; for you show me what your
ideal of manhood is, what kind of a man you long to be.

Carlyle


[Illustration: WATERING THE HORSES]




ODE WRITTEN IN 1746


    How sleep the brave who sink to rest
    By all their country's wishes blest!
    When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,
    Returns to deck their hallowed mould,
    She there shall dress a sweeter sod
    Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.

    By fairy hands their knell is rung,
    By forms unseen their dirge is sung;
    There Honour comes, a pilgrim gray,
    To bless the turf that wraps their clay;
    And Freedom shall awhile repair,
    To dwell a weeping hermit there!

William Collins




    To catch dame Fortune's golden smile,
      Assiduous wait upon her;
    And gather gear by ev'ry wile
      That's justified by honour;
    Not for to hide it in a hedge,
      Nor for a train attendant,
    But for the glorious privilege
      Of being independent.

Burns




BALAKLAVA


The cavalry who have been pursuing the Turks on the right are coming up
to the ridge beneath us, which conceals our cavalry from view. The heavy
brigade in advance is drawn up in two lines. The light cavalry brigade
is on their left, in two lines also. The silence is oppressive: between
the cannon bursts one can hear the champing of bits and the clink of
sabres in the valley below.

The Russians on their left drew breath for a moment and then in one
grand line dashed at the Highlanders. The ground flies beneath their
horses' feet. Gathering speed at every stride they dash on towards that
thin red streak topped with a line of steel. The Turks fire a volley at
eight hundred yards and run. As the Russians come within six hundred
yards, down goes that line of steel in front, and out rings a rolling
volley of Minie musketry. The distance is too great: the Russians are
not checked, but still sweep onward through the smoke with the whole
force of horse and man, here and there knocked over by the shot of our
batteries above. With breathless suspense everyone awaits the bursting
of the wave upon the line of Gaelic rock, but ere they come within a
hundred and fifty yards another deadly volley flashes from the levelled
rifles and carries death and terror into the Russians. They wheel about,
open files right and left, and fly back faster than they came. "Bravo,
Highlanders! well done!" shout the excited spectators.

But events thicken. The Highlanders and their splendid front are soon
forgotten; men scarcely have a moment to think of this fact, that they
never altered their formation to receive that tide of horsemen. "No,"
said Sir Colin Campbell, "I did not think it worth while to form them
even four deep!" The ordinary British line, two deep, was quite
sufficient to repel the attack of these Muscovite cavaliers.

Our eyes were, however, turned in a moment on our own cavalry. We saw
Brigadier-General Scarlett ride along in front of his massive squadrons.
The Russians, evidently _corps d'elite_, their light blue jackets
embroidered with silver lace, were advancing on their left at an easy
gallop towards the brow of the hill. A forest of lances glistened in
their rear, and several squadrons of gray-coated dragoons moved up
quickly to support them as they reached the summit. The instant they
came in sight the trumpets of our cavalry gave out the warning blast
which told us all that in another moment we should see the shock of
battle beneath our very eyes. Lord Raglan, all his staff and escort and
groups of officers, the Zouaves, French generals and officers, and
bodies of French infantry on the height were spectators of the scene as
though they were looking on the stage from the boxes of a theatre.
Nearly every one dismounted and sat down, and not a word was said.

The Russians advanced down the hill at a slow canter, which they changed
to a trot, and at last nearly halted. Their first line was at least
double the length of ours--it was three times as deep. Behind them was a
similar line equally strong and compact. They evidently despised their
insignificant-looking enemy: but their time was come. The trumpets rang
out again through the valley, and the Greys and the Enniskilleners went
right at the centre of the Russian cavalry. The space between them was
only a few hundred yards; it was scarcely enough to let the horses
"gather way," nor had the men quite space sufficient for the full play
of their sword-arms.

The Russian line brings forward each wing as our cavalry advance, and
threatens to annihilate them as they pass on. Turning a little to their
left so as to meet the Russian right the Greys rush on with a cheer that
thrills to every heart--the wild shout of the Enniskilleners rises
through the air at the same instant. As lightning flashes through a
cloud the Greys and Enniskilleners pierced through the dark masses of
Russians. The shock was but for a moment. There was a clash of steel and
a light play of sword-blades in the air, and then the Greys and the
Red-coats disappear in the midst of the shaken and quivering columns. In
another moment we see them emerging and dashing on with diminished
numbers and in broken order against the second line, which is advancing
against them as fast as it can to retrieve the fortune of the charge. It
was a terrible moment. "God help them! they are lost!" was the
exclamation of more than one man and the thought of many.

With unabated fire, the noble hearts dashed at their enemy. It was a
fight of heroes. The first line of Russians--which had been smashed
utterly by our charge and had fled off at one flank and towards the
centre--was coming back to swallow up our handful of men. By sheer
steel and sheer courage Enniskillener and Scot were winning their
desperate way right through the enemy's squadrons, and already gray
horses and red coats had appeared right at the rear of the second mass,
when, with irresistible force like a bolt from a bow, the second line of
the heavy brigade rushed at the remnants of the first line of the enemy,
went through it as though it were made of paste-board and, dashing on
the second body of Russians as they were still disordered by the
terrible assault of the Greys and their companions, put them to utter
rout.

     *       *       *      *       *

And now occurred the melancholy catastrophe which fills us all with
sorrow. It appears that the Quartermaster-General, Brigadier Airey,
thinking that the light cavalry had not gone far enough in front when
the enemy's horse had fled, gave an order in writing to Captain Nolan to
take to Lord Lucan, directing his lordship "to advance" his cavalry
nearer the enemy. Lord Lucan, with reluctance, gave the order to Lord
Cardigan to advance upon the guns, conceiving that his orders compelled
him to do so.

It is a maxim of war that "cavalry never act without a support," that
"infantry should be close at hand when cavalry carry guns as the effect
is only instantaneous," and that it is necessary to have on the flank of
a line of cavalry some squadrons in column--the attack on the flank
being most dangerous. The only support our light cavalry had was the
reserve of heavy cavalry at a great distance behind them, the infantry
and guns being far in the rear. There were no squadrons in column at all
and there was a plain to charge over before the enemy's guns could be
reached, of a mile and a half in length!

At ten minutes past eleven our light cavalry brigade advanced. The whole
brigade scarcely made one effective regiment according to the numbers of
continental armies, and yet it was more than we could spare. As they
rushed towards the front the Russians opened on them from the guns in
the redoubt on the right with volleys of musketry and rifles. They swept
proudly past, glittering in the morning sun in all the pride and
splendour of war.

We could scarcely believe the evidence of our senses. Surely that
handful of men are not going to charge an army in position? Alas! it
was but too true. Their desperate valour knew no bounds, and far indeed
was it removed from its so-called better part--discretion. They advanced
in two lines, quickening their pace as they closed upon the enemy. A
more fearful spectacle was never witnessed than by those who beheld
these heroes rushing to the arms of Death.

At the distance of twelve hundred yards, the whole line of the enemy
belched forth from thirty iron mouths a flood of smoke and flame,
through which hissed the deadly balls. Their flight was marked by
instant gaps in our ranks, by dead men and horses, by steeds flying
wounded or riderless across the plain. The first line is broken--it is
joined by the second--they never halt or check their speed an instant.
With diminished ranks thinned by those thirty guns which the Russians
had laid with the most deadly accuracy, with a halo of flashing steel
above their heads, and with a cheer which was many a noble fellow's
death-cry, they flew into the smoke of the batteries, but ere they were
lost from view the plain was strewn with their bodies and with the
carcasses of horses. They were exposed to an oblique fire from the
batteries on the hills on both sides, as well as to a direct fire of
musketry. Through the clouds of smoke we could see their sabres flashing
as they rode up to the guns and dashed into their midst, cutting down
the gunners where they stood. We saw them riding through the guns, as I
have said: to our delight we saw them returning after breaking through a
column of Russian infantry and scattering it like chaff, when the flank
fire of the battery on the hill swept them down scattered and broken as
they were. Wounded men and riderless horses flying towards us told the
sad tale. Demi-gods could not have done what they had failed to do.

At the very moment when they were about to retreat an enormous mass of
Lancers was hurled on their flank. Colonel Shewell saw the danger and
rode his few men straight to them, cutting his way through with fearful
loss. The other regiments turned and engaged in a desperate encounter.

With courage too great almost for credence, they were breaking their way
through the columns which enveloped them, when there took place an act
of atrocity without parallel in the modern warfare of civilized nations.
The Russian gunners, when the storm of cavalry passed, returned to their
guns. They saw their own cavalry mingled with the troopers who had just
ridden over them, and, to the eternal disgrace of the Russian name, the
miscreants poured a murderous volley of grape and canister on the mass
of struggling men and horses, mingling friend and foe in one common
ruin!

It was as much as our heavy cavalry could do to cover the retreat of the
miserable remnants of the band of heroes as they returned to the place
they had so lately quitted. At thirty-five minutes past eleven not a
British soldier, except the dead and the dying, was left in front of
those guns.

William Howard Russell




FUNERAL OF WELLINGTON


    Who is he that cometh, like an honour'd guest,
    With banner and with music, with soldier and with priest,
    With a nation weeping, and breaking on my rest?
      Mighty Seaman, this is he
      Was great by land as thou by sea.
    Thine island loves thee well, thou famous man,
    The greatest sailor since our world began.
    Now, to the roll of muffled drums,
    To thee the greatest soldier comes;
    For this is he
    Was great by land as thou by sea;
    His foes were thine; he kept us free;
    O give him welcome, this is he
    Worthy of our gorgeous rites,
    And worthy to be laid by thee;
    For this is England's greatest son,
    He that gain'd a hundred fights,
    Nor ever lost an English gun;

         *       *       *      *       *

    Remember him who led your hosts;
    He bad you guard the sacred coasts.
    Your cannons moulder on the seaward wall;
    His voice is silent in your council-hall
    For ever; and whatever tempests lour
    For ever silent; even if they broke
    In thunder, silent; yet remember all
    He spoke among you, and the Man who spoke;
    Who never sold the truth to serve the hour,
    Nor palter'd with Eternal God for power;
    Who let the turbid streams of rumour flow
    Thro' either babbling world of high and low;
    Whose life was work, whose language rife
    With rugged maxims hewn from life;
    Who never spoke against a foe:
    Whose eighty winters freeze with one rebuke
    All great self-seekers trampling on the right:
    Truth-teller was our England's Alfred named;
    Truth-lover was our English Duke;
    Whatever record leap to life,
    He never shall be shamed.

Tennyson




IN A CAVE WITH A WHALE


Just when the delightful days were beginning to pall upon us, a real
adventure befell us, which, had we been attending strictly to business,
we should not have encountered. For a week previous we had been cruising
constantly without ever seeing a spout, except those belonging to whales
out at sea, whither we knew it was folly to follow them. At last, one
afternoon as we were listlessly lolling (half-asleep, except the
look-out man) across the thwarts, we suddenly came upon a gorge between
two cliffs that we must have passed before several times unnoticed. At a
certain angle it opened, disclosing a wide sheet of water extending a
long distance ahead. I put the helm up, and we ran through the passage,
finding it about a boat's length in width and several fathoms deep,
though overhead the cliffs nearly came together in places. The place was
new to us, and our languor was temporarily dispelled, and we paddled
along, taking in every feature of the shores with keen eyes that let
nothing escape. After we had gone on in this placid manner for maybe an
hour, we suddenly came to a stupendous cliff--that is, for those
parts--rising almost sheer from the water for about a thousand feet. Of
itself it would not have arrested our attention, but at its base was a
semicircular opening, like the mouth of a small tunnel. This looked
alluring, so I headed the boat for it, passing through a deep channel
between two reefs which led straight to the opening. There was ample
room for us to enter, as we had lowered the mast; but just as we were
passing through, a heave of the unnoticed swell lifted us unpleasantly
near the crown of this natural arch. Beneath us, at a great depth, the
bottom could be dimly discerned, the water being of the richest blue
conceivable, which the sun, striking down through, resolved into some
most marvellous colour-schemes in the path of its rays. A delicious
sense of coolness, after the fierce heat outside, saluted us as we
entered a vast hall, whose roof rose to a minimum height of forty feet,
but in places could not be seen at all. A sort of diffused light, weak,
but sufficient to reveal the general contour of the place, existed, let
in, I supposed, through some unseen crevices in the roof or walls. At
first, of course, to our eyes, fresh from the fierce glare outside, the
place seemed wrapped in impenetrable gloom, and we dared not stir lest
we should run into some hidden danger. Before many minutes, however, the
gloom lightened as our pupils enlarged, so that, although the light was
faint, we could find our way about with ease. We spoke in low tones, for
the echoes were so numerous and resonant that even a whisper gave back
from those massy walls in a series of recurring hisses, as if a colony
of snakes had been disturbed.

We paddled on into the interior of this vast cave, finding everywhere
the walls rising sheer from the silent, dark waters, not a ledge or a
crevice where one might gain foothold. Indeed, in some places there was
a considerable overhang from above, as if a great dome whose top was
invisible sprang from some level below the water. We pushed ahead until
the tiny semi-circle of light through which we had entered was only
faintly visible; and then, finding there was nothing to be seen except
what we were already witnessing, unless we cared to go on into the thick
darkness, which extended apparently into the bowels of the mountain, we
turned and started to go back. Do what we would, we could not venture to
break the solemn hush that surrounded us, as if we were shut within the
dome of some vast cathedral in the twilight. So we paddled noiselessly
along for the exit, till suddenly an awful, inexplicable roar set all
our hearts thumping fit to break our bosoms. Really, the sensation was
most painful, especially as we had not the faintest idea whence the
noise came or what had produced it. Again it filled that immense cave
with its thunderous reverberations; but this time all the sting was
taken out of it, as we caught sight of its author. A goodly
bull-humpback had found his way in after us, and the sound of his spout,
exaggerated a thousand times in the confinement of that mighty cavern,
had frightened us all so that we nearly lost our breath. So far so good;
but, unlike the old negro though we were "doin' blame well," we did not
"let blame well alone." The next spout that intruder gave, he was right
alongside of us. This was too much for the semi-savage instincts of my
gallant harpooner, and before I had time to shout a caution he had
plunged his weapon deep into old Blowhard's broad back.

I should like to describe what followed, but, in the first place, I
hardly know; and, in the next, even had I been cool and collected, my
recollections would sound like the ravings of a fevered dream. For of
all the hideous uproars conceivable, that was, I should think, about the
worst. The big mammal seemed to have gone frantic with the pain of his
wound, the surprise of the attack, and the hampering confinement in
which he found himself. His tremendous struggles caused such a commotion
that our position could only be compared to that of men shooting Niagara
in a cylinder at night. How we kept afloat, I do not know. Some one had
the gumption to cut the line, so that by the radiation of the
disturbance we presently found ourselves close to the wall, and trying
to hold the boat in to it with our finger tips. Would he never be quiet?
we thought, as the thrashing, banging, and splashing still went on with
unfailing vigour. At last, in, I suppose, one supreme effort to escape,
he leaped clear of the water like a salmon. There was a perceptible
hush, during which we shrank together like unfledged chickens on a
frosty night; then, in a never-to-be-forgotten crash that ought to have
brought down the massy roof, that mountainous carcass fell. The
consequent violent upheaval of the water should have smashed the boat
against the rocky walls, but that final catastrophe was mercifully
spared us. I suppose the rebound was sufficient to keep us a safe
distance off.

A perfect silence succeeded, during which we sat speechless, awaiting a
resumption of the clamour. At last Abner broke the heavy silence by
saying: "I doan' see the do'way any mo' at all, sir." He was right. The
tide had risen, and that half-moon of light had disappeared, so that we
were now prisoners for many hours, it not being at all probable that we
should be able to find our way out during the night ebb. Well, we were
not exactly children, to be afraid of the dark, although there is
considerable difference between the velvety darkness of a dungeon and
the clear, fresh night of the open air. Still, as long as that beggar of
a whale would only keep quiet or leave the premises, we should be fairly
comfortable. We waited and waited until an hour had passed, and then
came to the conclusion that our friend was either dead or had gone out,
as he gave no sign of his presence.

That being settled, we anchored the boat, and lit pipes, preparatory to
passing as comfortable a night as might be under the circumstances, the
only thing troubling me being the anxiety of the skipper on our behalf.
Presently the blackness beneath was lit up by a wide band of phosphoric
light, shed in the wake of no ordinary-sized fish, probably an immense
shark. Another and another followed in rapid succession, until the
depths beneath were all ablaze with brilliant foot-wide ribbons of green
glare, dazzling to the eye and bewildering to the brain. Occasionally a
gentle splash or ripple alongside, or a smart tap on the bottom of the
boat, warned us how thick the concourse was that had gathered below.
Until that weariness which no terror is proof against set in, sleep was
impossible, nor could we keep our anxious gaze from that glowing inferno
beneath, where one would have thought all the population of Tartarus
were holding high revel. Mercifully, at last we sank into a fitful
slumber, though fully aware of the great danger of our position. One
upward rush of any of those ravening monsters, happening to strike the
frail shell of our boat, and a few fleeting seconds would have sufficed
for our obliteration as if we had never been.

But the terrible night passed away, and once more we saw the tender,
iridescent light stream into that abode of dread. As the day
strengthened, we were able to see what was going on below, and a grim
vision it presented. The water was literally alive with sharks of
enormous size, tearing with never-ceasing energy at the huge carcass of
the whale lying on the bottom, who had met his fate in a singular but
not unheard-of way. At that last titanic effort of his he had rushed
downward with such terrific force that, striking his head on the bottom,
he had broken his neck. I felt very grieved that we had lost the chance
of securing him; but it was perfectly certain that before we could get
help to raise him, all that would be left on his skeleton would be quite
valueless to us. So with such patience as we could command, we waited
near the entrance until the receding ebb made it possible for us to
emerge once more into the blessed light of day.

Frank T. Bullen: "The Cruise of the Cachalot."


[Illustration: IN GEORGIAN BAY]




    From toil he wins his spirits light,
      From busy day the peaceful night,
    Rich, from the very want of wealth,
      In heaven's best treasures, peace and health.

Gray




THE GLOVE AND THE LIONS


    King Francis was a hearty king, and loved
      a royal sport,
    And one day, as his lions strove, sat
      looking on the court;
    The nobles filled the benches round, the
      ladies by their side,
    And 'mongst them Count de Lorge, with one
      he hoped to make his bride;
    And truly 'twas a gallant thing to see that
      crowning show,
    Valour and love, and a king above, and the
      royal beasts below.

    Ramped and roared the lions, with horrid
      laughing jaws;
    They bit, they glared, gave blows like beams,
      a wind went with their paws.
    With wallowing might and stifled roar, they
      rolled one on another,
    Till all the pit, with sand and mane, was in
      a thunderous smother;
    The bloody foam above the bars came whizzing
      through the air;
    Said Francis, then, "Good gentlemen, we're
      better here than there!"

    De Lorge's love o'erheard the King, a
      beauteous, lively dame,
    With smiling lips, and sharp bright eyes,
      which always seemed the same:
    She thought, "The Count, my lover, is as
      brave as brave can be;
    He surely would do desperate things to show
      his love of me!
    King, ladies, lover, all look on; the chance
      is wond'rous fine;
    I'll drop my glove to prove his love; great
      glory will be mine!"

    She dropped her glove to prove his love: then
      looked on him and smiled;
    He bowed and in a moment leaped among the
      lions wild:
    The leap was quick; return was quick; he soon
      regained his place;
    Then threw the glove, but not with love, right
      in the lady's face!
    "In truth!" cried Francis, "rightly done!" and
      he rose from where he sat:
    "No love," quoth he, "but vanity, sets love a
      task like that!"

Leigh Hunt




THREE SCENES IN THE TYROL


You are standing on a narrow, thread-like road, which has barely room to
draw itself along between the rocky bank of the River Inn, and the base
of a frowning buttress of the Solstein, which towers many hundred feet
perpendicularly above you. You throw your head far back and look up; and
there you have a vision of a plumed hunter, lofty and chivalrous in his
bearing, who is bounding heedlessly on after a chamois to the very verge
of a precipice. Mark!--he loses his footing--he rolls helplessly from
rock to rock! There is a pause in his headlong course. What is it that
arrests him? Ah! he puts forth his mighty strength, and clings, hand and
foot, with the grip of despair, to a narrow ledge of rock, and there he
hangs over the abyss! It is the Emperor Maximilian! The Abbot of Wiltau
comes forth from his cell, sees an imperial destiny suspended between
heaven and earth, and, crossing himself with awe, bids prayers be put up
for the welfare of a passing soul.

Hark! there is a wild cry ringing through the upper air! Ha! Zyps of
Zirl, thou hunted and hunting outlaw, art thou out upon the heights at
this fearful moment? Watch the hardy mountaineer! He binds his
_crampons_ on his feet,--he is making his perilous way towards his
failing Emperor;--now bounding like a hunted chamois; now creeping like
an insect; now clinging like a root of ivy; now dropping like a
squirrel:--he reaches the fainting monarch just as he relaxes his grasp
on the jutting rock. Courage, Kaiser!--there is a hunter's hand for
thee, a hunter's iron-shod foot to guide thee to safety. Look! They
clamber up the face of the rock, on points and ledges where scarce the
small hoof of the chamois might find a hold; and the peasant-folk still
maintain that an angel came down to their master's rescue. We will,
however, refer the marvellous escape to the interposing hand of a
pitying Providence.

Zyps, the outlaw, becomes Count Hallooer von Hohenfeldsen--"Lord of the
wild cry of the lofty rock;" and in the old pension-list of the proud
house of Hapsburg may still be seen an entry to this effect: that
sixteen florins were paid annually to one "Zyps of Zirl." As you look up
from the base of the Martinswand, you may, with pains, distinguish a
cross, which has been planted on the narrow ledge where the Emperor was
rescued by the outlaw.

There is another vision, an imperial one also. The night is dark and
wild. Gusty winds come howling down from the mountain passes, driving
sheets of blinding rain before them, and whirling them round in hissing
eddies. At intervals the clouds are rent asunder, and the moon takes a
hurried look at the world below. What does _she_ see? and what do _we_
hear? for there are other sounds stirring besides the ravings of the
tempest, in that wild cleft of the mountains, which guard Innsbruck, on
the Carinthian side.

There is a hurried tramp of feet, a crowding and crushing up through the
steep and narrow gorge, a mutter of suppressed voices, a fitful glancing
of torches, which now flare up bravely enough, now wither in a moment
before the derisive laugh of the storm. At the head of the melee there
is a litter borne on the shoulders of a set of sure-footed hunters of
the hills; and around this litter is clustered a moving constellation of
lamps, which are anxiously shielded from the rude wrath of the tempest.
A group of stately figures, wrapped in rich military cloaks, with helms
glistening in the torch-light, and plumes streaming on the wind,
struggle onward beside the litter.

And who is this reclining there, his teeth firmly set to imprison the
stifled groan of physical anguish? He is but fifty-three years of age,
but the lines of premature decay are ploughed deep along brow and cheek,
while his yellow locks are silvered and crisped with care. Who can
mistake that full, expansive forehead, that aquiline nose, that cold,
stern blue eye, and that heavy, obstinate, Austrian underlip, for other
than those of the mighty Emperor Charles V? And can this suffering
invalid, flying from foes who are almost on the heels of his attendants,
jolted over craggy passes in midnight darkness, buffeted by the tempest,
and withered by the sneer of adverse fortune--_can_ this be the Emperor
of Germany, King of Spain, Lord of the Netherlands, of Naples, of
Lombardy, and the proud chief of the golden Western World? Yes, Charles,
thou art reading a stern lesson by that fitful torch-light; but thy
strong will is yet unbent, and thy stern nature yet unsoftened.

And who is the swift "avenger of blood" who is following close as a
sleuth-hound on thy track? It is Maurice of Saxony--a match for thee in
boldness of daring, and in strength of will. But Charles wins the
midnight race; and yet, instead of bowing before Him whose
"long-suffering would lead to repentance," he ascribes his escape to the
"star of Austria," ever in the ascendant, and mutters his favourite
saying, "Myself, and the lucky moment."

One more scene: it is the year 1809. Bonaparte has decreed in the secret
council chamber, where his own will is his sole adviser, that the Tyrol
shall be cleared of its troublesome nest of warrior-hunters. Ten
thousand French and Bavarian soldiers have penetrated as far as the
Upper Innthal, and are boldly pushing on towards Prutz.

But the mountain-walls of this profound valley are closing gloomily
together, as if they would forbid even the indignant river to force its
wild way betwixt them. _Is_ there a path through the frowning gorge
other than that rocky way which is fiercely held by the current? Yes,
there is a narrow road, painfully grooved by the hand of man out of the
mountain side, now running along like a gallery, now dropping down to
the brink of the stream. But the glittering array winds on. There is the
heavy tread of the foot-soldiers, the trampling of horse, the dull
rumble of the guns, the waving and flapping of the colours, and the
angry remonstrance of the Inn. But all else is still as a midnight
sleep, except, indeed, when the eagles of the crag, startled from their
eyries, raise their shrill cry as they spread their living wings above
the gilded eagles of France.

Suddenly a voice is heard far up amid the mists of the heights--not the
eagle's cry _this_ time--not the freak of a wayward echo--but human
words, which say "_Shall we begin?_" Silence! It is a host that holds
its breath and listens. Was it a spirit of the upper air parleying with
its kind? If so, it has its answer countersigned across the dark gulf.
"_Noch nicht!_"--"_Not yet!_" The whole invading army pause: there is a
wavering and writhing in the glittering serpent-length of that mighty
force which is helplessly uncoiled along the base of the mountain. But
hark! the voice of the hills is heard again, and it says "_Now!_"

_Now_, then, descends the wild avalanche of destruction, and all is
tumult, dismay, and death. The very crags of the mountain side, loosened
in preparation, come bounding, thundering down. Trunks and roots of pine
trees, gathering speed on their headlong way, are launched down upon the
powerless foe, mingled with the deadly hail of the Tyrolese rifles. And
this fearful storm descends along the whole line at once. No marvel that
two-thirds of all that brilliant invading army are crushed to death
along the grooved pathway, or are tumbled, horse and man, into the
choked and swollen river.

Enough of horrors! Who would willingly linger on the hideous details of
such a scene? Sorrowful that man should come, with his evil ambitions
and his fierce revenges, to stain and to spoil such wonders of beauty as
the hand of the Creator has here moulded. Sorrowful that man, in league
with the serpent, should writhe into such scenes as these, and poison
them with the virus of sin.

Richter




    Who loves not Knowledge? Who shall rail
      Against her beauty? May she mix
      With men and prosper! Who shall fix
    Her pillars? Let her work prevail.
     ... Let her know her place;
    She is the second, not the first,
    A higher hand must make her mild,
      If all be not in vain; and guide
      Her footsteps, moving side by side
    With wisdom, like the younger child.

Tennyson




MARSTON MOOR

(A Cavalier Song)


    To horse! to horse! Sir Nicholas, the clarion's
      note is high!
    To horse! to horse! Sir Nicholas, the big drum
      makes reply!
    Ere this hath Lucas marched, with his gallant
      cavaliers,
    And the bray of Rupert's trumpets grows fainter
      in our ears.
    To horse! to horse! Sir Nicholas! White Guy is
      at the door,
    And the raven whets his beak o'er the field of
      Marston Moor.

    Up rose the Lady Alice, from her brief and
      broken prayer,
    And she brought a silken banner down the narrow
      turret-stair,
    Oh! many were the tears that those radiant eyes
      had shed,
    As she traced the bright word "Glory" in the
      gay and glancing thread;
    And mournful was the smile which o'er those
      lovely features ran
    As she said, "It is your lady's gift, unfurl
      it in the van!"

    "It shall flutter, noble wench, where the best
      and boldest ride,
    Midst the steel-clad files of Skippon, the
      black dragoons of Pride;
    The recreant heart of Fairfax shall feel a
      sicklier qualm,
    And the rebel lips of Oliver give out a
      louder psalm,
    When they see my lady's gewgaw flaunt proudly
      on their wing,
    And hear her loyal soldier's shout, 'For God
      and for the King.'"

    'Tis noon. The ranks are broken, along the
      royal line
    They fly, the braggarts of the court! the
      bullies of the Rhine!
    Stout Langdale's cheer is heard no more, and
      Astley's helm is down,
    And Rupert sheathes his rapier, with a curse
      and with a frown,
    And cold Newcastle mutters, as he follows in
      their flight,
    "The German boor had better far have supped in
      York to-night."

    The knight is left alone, his steel-cap cleft
      in twain,
    His good buff jerkin crimsoned o'er with many
      a gory stain;
    Yet still he waves his banner, and cries amid
      the rout,
    "For Church and King, fair gentlemen! spur on,
      and fight it out!"
    And now he wards a Roundhead's pike, and now he
      hums a stave,
    And now he quotes a stage-play, and now he
      fells a knave.

    God aid thee now, Sir Nicholas! thou hast no
      thought of fear;
    God aid thee now, Sir Nicholas! for fearful odds
      are here!
    The rebels hem thee in, and at every cut and
      thrust,
    "Down, down," they cry, "with Belial! down with
      him to the dust."
    "I would," quoth grim old Oliver, "that Belial's
      trusty sword
    This day were doing battle for the Saints and
      for the Lord!"

    The Lady Alice sits with her maidens in her
      bower,
    The gray-haired warder watches from the castle's
      topmost tower;
    "What news? what news, old Hubert?"--"The battle's
      lost and won;
    The royal troops are melting, like mists before
      the sun!
    And a wounded man approaches;--I'm blind, and
      cannot see,
    Yet sure I am that sturdy step my master's step
      must be!"

    "I've brought thee back thy banner, wench, from
      as rude and red a fray,
    As e'er was proof of soldier's thew or theme for
      minstrel's lay!
    Here, Hubert, bring the silver bowl, and liquor
      quantum suff.,
    I'll make a shift to drain it yet, ere I part with
      boots and buff;--
    Though Guy through many a gaping wound is breathing
      forth his life,
    And I come to thee a landless man, my fond and
      faithful wife!

    "Sweet! we will fill our money-bags, and freight
      a ship for France,
    And mourn in merry Paris for this poor land's
      mischance:
    For if the worst befall me, why, better axe
      and rope,
    Than life with Lenthal for a king, and Peters
      for a pope!
    Alas! alas! my gallant Guy!--curse on the
      crop-eared boor,
    Who sent me with my standard, on foot from
      Marston Moor!"


W. M. Praed




LONDON


The huge city perhaps never impressed the imagination more than when
approaching it by night on the top of a coach you saw its numberless
lights flaring, as Tennyson says "like a dreary dawn." The most
impressive approach is now by the river through the infinitude of docks,
quays, and shipping. London is not a city, but a province of brick and
stone. Hardly even from the top of St. Paul's or of the Monument can
anything like a view of the city as a whole be obtained. It is
indispensable, however, to make one or the other of those ascents when a
clear day can be found, not so much because the view is fine, as because
you will get a sensation of vastness and multitude not easily to be
forgotten. There is or was, not long ago, a point on the ridge that
connects Hampstead with Highgate from which, as you looked over London
to the Surrey Hills beyond, the modern Babylon presented something like
the aspect of a city. The ancient Babylon may have vied with London in
circumference, but the greater part of its area was occupied by open
spaces; the modern Babylon is a dense mass of humanity. London with its
suburbs has five millions of inhabitants, and still it grows. It grows
through the passion which seems to be seizing mankind everywhere, on
this continent as well as in Europe, for emigration from the country
into the town, not only as the centre of wealth and employment, but as
the centre of excitement, and, as the people fondly fancy, of enjoyment.
The Empire and the commercial relations of England draw representatives
of trading communities or subject races from all parts of the globe, and
the faces and costumes of the Hindoo, the Parsi, the Lascar, and the
ubiquitous Chinaman, mingle in the motley crowd with the merchants of
Europe and America. The streets of London are, in this respect, to the
modern, what the great Place of Tyre must have been to the ancient
world. But pile Carthage on Tyre, Venice on Carthage, Amsterdam on
Venice, and you will not make the equal, or anything near the equal, of
London. Here is the great mart of the world, to which the best and
richest products are brought from every land and clime, so that if you
have put money in your purse you may command every object of utility or
fancy which grows or is made anywhere, without going beyond the circuit
of the great cosmopolitan city. Parisian, German, Russian, Hindoo,
Japanese, Chinese industry is as much at your service here, if you have
the all-compelling talisman in your pocket, as in Paris, Berlin, St.
Petersburg, Benares, Yokohama or Pekin. That London is the great
distributing centre of the world is shown by the fleets of the carrying
trade of which the countless masts rise along her wharves and in her
docks. She is also the bank of the world. But we are reminded of the
vicissitudes of commerce and the precarious tenure by which its empire
is held when we consider that the bank of the world in the middle of the
last century was Amsterdam.

The first and perhaps the greatest marvel of London is the commissariat.
How can the five millions be regularly supplied with food, and
everything needful to life, even with such things as milk and those
kinds of fruit which can hardly be left beyond a day? Here again we see
reason for concluding that though there may be fraud and scamping in the
industrial world, genuine production, faithful service, disciplined
energy, and skill in organization cannot wholly have departed from the
earth. London is not only well fed, but well supplied with water and
well drained. Vastly and densely peopled as it is, it is a healthy city.
Yet the limit of practicable extension seems to be nearly reached. It
becomes a question how the increasing multitude shall be supplied not
only with food and water but with air.

There is something very impressive in the roar of the vast city. It is a
sound of a Niagara of human life. It ceases not except during the hour
or two before dawn, when the last carriages have rolled away from the
balls and the market carts have hardly begun to come in. Only in
returning from a very late ball is the visitor likely to have a chance
of seeing what Wordsworth saw from Westminster Bridge:

    "Earth has not anything to show more fair;
    Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
    A sight so touching in its majesty;
    This City now doth, like a garment, wear
    The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,
    Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
    Open unto the fields, and to the sky;
    All bright and glittering in the open air.
    Never did sun more beautifully steep
    In his first splendour, valley, rock or hill;
    Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!
    The river glideth at his own sweet will:
    Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;
    And all that mighty heart is lying still!"

Goldwin Smith: "A Trip to England."




HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS FROM GHENT TO AIX


    I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and he;
    I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three;
    "Good speed!" cried the watch, as the gate-bolts undrew;
    "Speed!" echoed the wall to us galloping through;
    Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest,
    And into the midnight we galloped abreast.

    Not a word to each other; we kept the great pace
    Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place;
    I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight,
    Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right,
    Rebuckled the cheek-strap, chained slacker the bit,
    Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit.

    'Twas moonset at starting; but while we drew near
    Lokeren, the cocks crew, and twilight dawned clear;
    At Boom, a great yellow star came out to see;
    At Dueffeld, 'twas morning as plain as could be;
    And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half-chime,
    So, Joris broke silence with, "Yet there is time!"

    At Aershot, up leaped of a sudden the sun,
    And against him the cattle stood black every one,
    To stare thro' the mist at us galloping past,
    And I saw my stout galloper Roland at last,
    With resolute shoulders, each butting away
    The haze, as some bluff river headland its spray:

    And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back
    For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track;
    And one eye's black intelligence--ever that glance
    O'er its white edge at me, his own master, askance!
    And the thick heavy spume-flakes which aye and anon
    His fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on.

    By Hasselt, Dirck groaned; and cried Joris, "Stay spur!
    Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault's not in her,
    We'll remember at Aix"--for one heard the quick wheeze
    Of her chest, saw the stretched neck, and staggering knees,
    And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank,
    As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank.

    So we were left galloping, Joris and I,
    Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky;
    The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh,
    'Neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like chaff;
    Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white,
    And "Gallop," gasped Joris, "for Aix is in sight!"

    "How they'll greet us!"--and all in a moment his roan
    Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone;
    And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight
    Of the news, which alone could save Aix from her fate,
    With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim,
    And with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim.

    Then I cast loose my buff-coat, each holster let fall,
    Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all,
    Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear,
    Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse without peer;
    Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or good,
    Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood!

    And all I remember is,--friends flocking round,
    As I sat with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground;
    And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine,
    As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine,
    Which (the burgesses voted by common consent)
    Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent.

Browning




AN INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP


    You know, we French stormed Ratisbon:
      A mile or so away,
    On a little mound, Napoleon
      Stood on our storming-day;
    With neck out-thrust, you fancy how,
      Legs wide, arms locked behind,
    As if to balance the prone brow
      Oppressive with its mind.

    Just as perhaps he mused "My plans
      That soar, to earth may fall,
    Let once my army-leader Lannes
      Waver at yonder wall,"--
    Out 'twixt the battery-smokes there flew
      A rider, bound on bound
    Full-galloping; nor bridle drew
      Until he reached the mound.

    Then off there flung in smiling joy,
      And held himself erect
    By just his horse's mane, a boy:
      You scarcely could suspect--
    (So tight he kept his lips compressed,
      Scarce any blood came through)
    You looked twice ere you saw his breast
      Was all but shot in two.

    "Well," cried he, "Emperor, by God's grace
      We've got you Ratisbon!
    The Marshal's in the market-place,
      And you'll be there anon
    To see your flag-bird flap his vans
      Where I, to heart's desire,
    Perched him!" The chief's eye flashed; his plans
      Soared up again like fire.

    The chief's eye flashed; but presently
      Softened itself, as sheathes
    A film the mother-eagle's eye
      When her bruised eaglet breathes;
    "You're wounded!" "Nay," the soldier's pride
      Touched to the quick, he said:
    "I'm killed, Sire!" And his chief beside,
      Smiling the boy fell dead.

Browning




    I made them lay their hands in mine and swear
    To reverence the King, as if he were
    Their conscience, and their conscience as their King,
    To ride abroad redressing human wrongs,
    To speak no slander, no, nor listen to it.

Tennyson




BRITISH COLONIAL AND NAVAL POWER


The sagacity of England is in nothing more clearly shown than in the
foresight with which she has provided against the emergency of war. Let
it come when it may, it will not find her unprepared. So thickly are her
colonies and naval stations scattered over the face of the Earth, that
her war-ships can speedily reach every commercial centre on the globe.

There is that great centre of commerce, the Mediterranean Sea. It was a
great centre long ago, when the Phoenician traversed it, and, passing
through the Pillars of Hercules, sped on his way to the distant, and
then savage, Britain. It was a great centre when Rome and Carthage
wrestled in a death-grapple for its possession. But at the present day
England is as much at home on the Mediterranean as if it were one of her
own Canadian lakes.

Nor is it simply the number of the British colonies, or the evenness
with which they are distributed, that challenges our admiration. The
positions which these colonies occupy, and their natural military
strength, are quite as important facts. There is not a sea or a gulf in
the world, which has any real commercial importance, but England has a
stronghold on its shores. And wherever the continents tending southward
come to points, around which the commerce of nations must sweep, there
is a British settlement; and the cross of St. George salutes you as you
are wafted by. There is hardly a little desolate, rocky island or
peninsula, formed apparently by Nature for a fortress, and nothing else,
but the British flag floats securely over it.

These are literal facts. Take, for example, the great Overland Route
from Europe to Asia. Despite its name, its real highway is on the waters
of the Mediterranean and Red Seas. It has three gates--three only.
England holds the key to every one of these gates. Count
them--Gibraltar, Malta, Aden. But she commands the entrance to the Red
Sea, not by one, but by several strongholds. Midway in the narrow strait
is the black, bare rock of Perim, sterile, precipitous, a perfect
counterpart of Gibraltar; and on either side, between it and the
mainland, are the ship-channels which connect the Red Sea with the great
Indian Ocean. This rock England holds.

A little farther out is the peninsula of Aden, another Gibraltar, as
rocky, as sterile, and as precipitous, connected with the mainland by a
narrow strait, and having a harbour safe in all winds, and a central
coal depot. This England bought in 1839. And to complete her security,
she has purchased from some petty sultan the neighbouring islands of
Socotra and Kouri, giving, as it were, a retaining fee, so that, though
she does not need them herself, no rival power may ever possess them.

As we sail a little farther on, we come to the China Sea. What a beaten
track of commerce is this! What wealth of comfort and luxury is wafted
over it by every breeze!--the teas of China; the silks of farther India;
the spices of the East. The ships of every clime and nation swarm on its
waters--the stately barques of England, France, and Holland; the swift
ships of America; and mingled with them, in picturesque confusion, the
clumsy junk of the Chinaman, and the slender, darting canoe of the
Malaysian islanders.

At the lower end of the China Sea, where it narrows into Malacca Strait,
England holds the little island of Singapore--a spot of no use to her
whatever, except as a commercial depot, but of inestimable value for
that; a spot which, under her fostering care, is growing up to take its
place among the great emporiums of the world. Half-way up the sea she
holds the island of Labuan, whose chief worth is this, that beneath its
surface and that of the neighbouring mainland there lie inexhaustible
treasures of coal, which are likely to yield wealth and power to the
hand that controls them. At the upper end of the sea she holds
Hong-Kong, a hot, unhealthy island, but an invaluable base from which to
threaten and control the neighbouring waters.

Even in the broad, and as yet comparatively untracked Pacific, she is
making silent advances towards dominion. The vast continent of
Australia, which she has secured, forms its south-western boundary. And
pushed out six hundred miles eastward from this lies New Zealand, like a
strong outpost, its shores so scooped and torn by the waves that it must
be a very paradise of commodious bays and safe havens for the mariner.
The soil, too, is of extraordinary fertility; and the climate, though
humid, deals kindly with the Englishman's constitution. Nor is this all;
for, advanced from it, north and south, like picket stations, are
Norfolk Island, and the Auckland group, both of which have good
harbours. And it requires no prophet's eye to see that, when England
needs posts farther eastward, she will find them among the green coral
islets that stud the Pacific.

Turn now your steps homeward, and pause a moment at the Bermudas, those
beautiful isles, with their fresh verdure--green gems in the ocean, with
air soft and balmy as Eden's was! They have their home uses too. They
furnish arrow-root for the sick, and ample supplies of vegetables
earlier than sterner climates will yield them. Is this all that can be
said? Reflect a little more deeply. These islands possess a great
military and naval depot; and a splendid harbour, landlocked, strongly
fortified, and difficult of access to strangers;--and all within a few
days' sail of the chief ports of the Atlantic shores of the New World.
England therefore retains them as a station on the road to her West
Indian possessions; and should America go to war with her, she would use
it as a base for offensive operations, where she might gather and whence
she might hurl upon any unprotected port all her gigantic naval and
military power.

"Atlantic Monthly."




ENGLAND, MY ENGLAND


    What have I done for you,
      England, my England?
    What is there I would not do,
      England, my own?
    With your glorious eyes austere,
    As the Lord were walking near,
    Whispering terrible things and dear
      As the Song on your bugles blown, England--
      Round the world on your bugles blown!

    Where shall the watchful sun,
      England, my England,
    Match the master-work you've done,
      England, my own?
    When shall he rejoice agen
    Such a breed of mighty men
    As come forward, one to ten,
      To the Song on your bugles blown, England--
      Down the years on your bugles blown?

    Ever the faith endures,
      England, my England:--
    "Take and break us: we are yours,
      England, my own!
    Life is good, and joy runs high
    Between English earth and sky:
    Death is death; but we shall die
      To the Song on your bugles blown, England--
    To the stars on your bugles blown!"

    They call you proud and hard,
      England, my England:
    You with worlds to watch and ward,
      England, my own!
    You whose mailed hand keeps the keys
    Of such teeming destinies,
    You could know nor dread nor ease
      Were the Song on your bugles blown, England--
      Round the Pit on your bugles blown!

    Mother of Ships whose might,
      England, my England,
    Is the fierce old Sea's delight,
      England, my own,
    Chosen daughter of the Lord,
    Spouse-in-Chief of the ancient Sword,
    There's the menace of the Word
      In the Song on your bugles blown, England--
      Out of heaven on your bugles blown!

W. E. Henley




A GOOD TIME GOING

(Charles Mackay, at the end of his American tour in 1859, was
entertained in Boston by the leading literary men. This poem, written
for the occasion, was read to speed the parting guest.)


    Brave singer of the coming time,
      Sweet minstrel of the joyous present,
    Crowned with the noblest wreath of rhyme,
      The holly-leaf of Ayrshire's peasant,[4]
    Good-bye! Good-bye!--Our hearts and hands,
      Our lips in honest Saxon phrases,
    Cry, God be with him, till he stands
      His feet among the English daisies!

    'Tis here we part;--for other eyes
      The busy deck, the fluttering streamer,
    The dripping arms that plunge and rise,
      The waves in foam, the ship in tremor,
    The kerchiefs waving from the pier,
      The cloudy pillar gliding o'er him,
    The deep blue desert, lone and drear,
      With heaven above and home before him!

    His home!--the Western giant smiles,
      And twirls the spotty globe to find it;--
    This little speck the British Isles?
      'Tis but a freckle,--never mind it!
    He laughs, and all his prairies roll,
      Each gurgling cataract roars and chuckles,
    And ridges stretched from pole to pole
      Heave till they crack their iron knuckles!

    But Memory blushes at the sneer,
      And Honour turns with frown defiant,
    And Freedom, leaning on her spear,
      Laughs louder than the laughing giant:
    "An islet is a world," she said,
      "When glory with its dust has blended,
    And Britain keeps her noble dead
      Till earth and seas and skies are rended!"

    Beneath each swinging forest-bough
      Some arm as stout in death reposes,--
    From wave-washed foot to heaven-kissed brow
      Her valour's life-blood runs in roses;
    Nay, let our brothers of the West
      Write smiling in their florid pages,
    One-half her soil has walked the rest
      In poets, heroes, martyrs, sages!

    Hugged in the clinging billow's clasp,
      From sea-weed fringe to mountain heather,
    The British oak with rooted grasp
      Her slender handful holds together; With
    cliffs of white and bowers of green,
      And Ocean narrowing to caress her,
    And hills and threaded streams between;--
      Our little mother isle, God bless her!

Oliver Wendell Holmes

FOOTNOTES:
[4] Robert Burns




GOD IS OUR REFUGE


    God is our refuge and strength,
      A very present help in trouble.
    Therefore will we not fear, though the earth do change,
      And though the mountains be moved in the heart of the seas;
    Though the waters thereof roar and be troubled,
      Though the mountains shake with the swelling thereof.
        THE LORD OF HOSTS IS WITH US;
        THE GOD OF JACOB IS OUR REFUGE.

    There is a river, the streams whereof make glad the city of God,
      The holy place of the tabernacles of the Most High.
    God is in the midst of her; she shall not be moved:
    God shall help her at the dawn of morning.
    The nations raged, the kingdoms were moved:
      He uttered his voice, the earth melted.
        THE LORD OF HOSTS IS WITH US;
        THE GOD OF JACOB IS OUR REFUGE.

    Come, behold the works of the LORD,
      What desolations he hath made in the earth.
    He maketh wars to cease unto the end of the earth;
      He breaketh the bow, and cutteth the spear in sunder;
      He burneth the chariots in the fire.
    Be still, and know that I am God:
    I will be exalted among the nations,
    I will be exalted in the earth.
        THE LORD OF HOSTS IS WITH US;
        THE GOD OF JACOB IS OUR REFUGE.

Psalm XLVI.




A good man out of the good treasure of the heart bringeth forth good
things: and an evil man out of the evil treasure bringeth forth evil
things. But I say unto you that every idle word that men shall speak,
they shall give account thereof in the day of judgment.

St. Matthew, XII.




INDIAN SUMMER


    By the purple haze that lies
      On the distant rocky height,
    By the deep blue of the skies,
      By the smoky amber light
    Through the forest arches streaming,
    Where Nature on her throne sits dreaming,
    And the sun is scarcely gleaming
    Through the cloudless snowy white,--
    Winter's lovely herald greets us,
    Ere the ice-crowned giant meets us.

    A mellow softness fills the air,--
      No breeze on wanton wings steals by
    To break the holy quiet there,
      Or make the waters fret and sigh,
    Or the yellow alders shiver,
    That bend to kiss the placid river,
    Flowing on and on forever;
      But the little waves are sleeping,
      O'er the pebbles slowly creeping,
      That last night were flashing, leaping,
    Driven by the restless breeze,
    In lines of foam beneath yon trees.

    Dressed in robes of gorgeous hue,
      Brown and gold with crimson blent.
    The forest to the waters blue
      Its own enchanting tints has lent;--
    In their dark depths, lifelike glowing,
      We see a second forest growing,
    Each pictured leaf and branch bestowing
      A fairy grace to that twin wood,
      Mirrored within the crystal flood.

    'Tis pleasant now in forest shades;
      The Indian hunter strings his bow,
    To track through dark entangling glades
      The antlered deer and bounding doe,
    Or launch at night the birch canoe,
    To spear the finny tribes that dwell
    On sandy bank, in weedy cell,
    Or pool, the fisher knows right well--
      Seen by the red and vivid glow
      Of pine torch at his vessel's bow.

    This dreamy Indian summer-day,
      Attunes the soul to tender sadness;
    We love--but joy not in the ray--
      It is not summer's fervid gladness,
    But a melancholy glory,
      Hovering softly round decay,
    Like swan that sings her own sad story,
      Ere she floats in death away.
    The day declines; what splendid dyes,
      In fleckered waves of crimson driven,
    Float o'er the saffron sea that lies
      Glowing within the western heaven!
      Oh, it is a peerless even!

    See, the broad red sun has set,
    But his rays are quivering yet
    Through Nature's vale of violet
      Streaming bright o'er lake and hill,
      But earth and forest lie so still,
      It sendeth to the heart a chill;
    We start to check the rising tear--
    'Tis beauty sleeping on her bier.

Susanna Moodie




    So live, that when thy summons comes to join
    The innumerable caravan which moves
    To that mysterious realm, where each shall take
    His chamber in the silent halls of death,
    Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,
    Scourged to his dungeon, but sustained and soothed
    By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave,
    Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch
    About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.

Bryant




THE SKYLARK


          Bird of the wilderness,
          Blithesome and cumberless,
    Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea!
          Emblem of happiness,
          Blest is thy dwelling-place--
    Oh, to abide in the desert with thee!

          Wild is thy lay and loud,
          Far in the downy cloud;
    Love gives it energy, love gave it birth.
          Where, on thy dewy wing,
          Where art thou journeying?
    Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth.

          O'er fell and fountain sheen,
          O'er moor and mountain green,
    O'er the red streamer that heralds the day,
          Over the cloudlet dim,
          Over the rainbow's rim,
    Musical cherub, soar, singing away!

          Then, when the gloaming comes,
          Low in the heather blooms,
    Sweet will thy welcome, and bed of love be!
          Emblem of happiness,
          Blest is thy dwelling-place--
    Oh, to abide in the desert with thee!

James Hogg




WHAT IS WAR


What is war? I believe that half the people that talk about war have not
the slightest idea what it is. In a short sentence it may be summed up
to be the combination and concentration of all the horrors, atrocities,
crimes, and sufferings of which human nature on this globe is capable.

If you go into war now, you will have more banners to decorate your
cathedrals and churches. Englishmen will fight now as well as they ever
did; and there is ample power to back them, if the country can be but
sufficiently excited and deluded. You may raise up great generals. You
may have another Wellington, and another Nelson, too; for this country
can grow men capable of every enterprise. Then there may be titles, and
pensions, and marble monuments to eternize the men who have thus become
great;--but what becomes of you, and your country, and your children?

You profess to be a Christian nation. You make it your boast
even--though boasting is somewhat out of place in such questions--you
make it your boast that you are a Christian people, and that you draw
your rule of doctrine and practice, as from a well pure and undefiled,
from the lively oracles of God, and from the direct revelation of the
Omnipotent. You have even conceived the magnificent project of
illuminating the whole earth, even to its remotest and darkest recesses,
by the dissemination of the volume of the New Testament, in whose every
page are written for ever the words of peace. Within the limits of this
island alone, every Sabbath-day, twenty thousand, yes, far more than
twenty thousand temples are thrown open, in which devout men and women
assemble to worship Him who is the "Prince of Peace."

Is this a reality? or is your Christianity a romance, and your
profession a dream? No; I am sure that your Christianity is not a
romance, and I am equally sure that your profession is not a dream. It
is because I believe this that I appeal to you with confidence, and that
I have hope and faith in the future. I believe that we shall see, and at
no very distant time, sound economic principles spreading much more
widely amongst the people; a sense of justice growing up in a soil which
hitherto has been deemed unfruitful; and--which will be better than
all--the churches of the United Kingdom, the churches of Britain,
awaking as it were from their slumbers, and girding up their loins to
more glorious work, when they shall not only accept and believe in the
prophecy, but labour earnestly for its fulfilment, that there shall come
a time--a blessed time--a time which shall last for ever--when "nation
shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war any
more."

John Bright




THE HOMES OF ENGLAND


    The stately homes of England!
      How beautiful they stand,
    Amidst their tall ancestral trees,
      O'er all the pleasant land!
    The deer across their greensward bound,
      Through shade and sunny gleam:
    And the swan glides past them with the sound
      Of some rejoicing stream.

    The merry homes of England!
      Around their hearths by night,
    What gladsome looks of household love
      Meet in the ruddy light!
    There woman's voice flows forth in song,
      Or childhood's tale is told,
    Or lips move tunefully along
      Some glorious page of old.

    The blessed homes of England!
      How softly on their bowers
    Is laid the holy quietness
      That breathes from Sabbath hours!
    Solemn, yet sweet, the church-bell's chime
      Floats through their woods at morn;
    All other sounds, in that still time,
      Of breeze and leaf are born.

    The cottage homes of England!
      By thousands on her plains,
    They are smiling o'er the silvery brooks,
      And round the hamlet fanes.
    Through glowing orchards forth they peep,
      Each from its nook of leaves;
    And fearless there the lowly sleep,
      As the bird beneath the eaves.

    The free, fair homes of England!
      Long, long, in hut and hall,
    May hearts of native proof be reared
      To guard each hallowed wall!
    And green for ever be the groves,
      And bright the flowery sod,
    Where first the child's glad spirit loves
      Its country and its God!

Felicia Hemans



TO A WATER-FOWL


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

            Vainly the fowler's eye
    Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong,
    As, darkly seen against the crimson sky,
            Thy figure floats along.

            Seek'st thou the plashy brink
    Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide,
    Or where the rocking billows rise and sink
            On the chafed ocean side?

            There is a Power whose care
    Teaches thy way along that pathless coast,--
    The desert and illimitable air,--
            Lone wandering, but not lost.

            All day thy wings have fanned,
    At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere,
    Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land,
            Though the dark night is near.

            And soon that toil shall end;
    Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest,
    And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend,
            Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest.

            Thou'rt gone; the abyss of heaven
    Hath swallowed up thy form; yet, on my heart
    Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given,
            And shall not soon depart.

            He who, from zone to zone,
    Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,
    In the long way that I must tread alone,
            Will lead my steps aright.

Bryant




THE FASCINATION OF LIGHT


The strange fascination of light takes hold of all animated creatures,
and commands a subtle devotion that cannot be set forth in a confession
of faith. The delight of a boy in a bonfire is a breath of the heaven
that is about us in our infancy. Though it be but a heap of rubbish,
revealed by the removal of the mantle of snow, lighting up with
flickering, changing glow a rectangular door yard, the children stand
and gaze into the dancing flame, their vast, distorted, ghostlike
shadows lost in the night, their faces reflecting every evanescent
glare, and their spirits charmed by the same spell that took form in the
fire-worship of their ancestors. How they delight in stirring up the
embers and sending up a fountain spray of sparks! What joy in seeing the
big sticks break into glowing coals, darting out new tongues of flame to
lick up the escaping embers!

Fire is one of nature's universal fascinations. The wildest and most
wary animals approach and gaze at it in the night, and though it
sometimes warns them off, it always holds them by a spell. The night
migrating birds perish in scores against the plate-glass of coast
lighthouses, swerving from the control of the all-powerful migratory
instinct toward the fascinating glare that is their destruction. It is
not sportsmanlike to hang a lantern in the marsh and shoot the duck that
gather under it. But the night, the silent marsh, and the lantern have
charms that the sportsman, with his legal and mechanical paraphernalia,
can never understand. Fish are devoted fire-worshippers, and that boy
who has never speared by a jack-light is an object of compassion.

The earth and the waters under the earth have no more fascinating sight
than the gray, silent form of a pike, moving and motionless in the
shallow water, a shadow more tangible than himself thrown by a
jack-light on the mottled yellow rocks and sands of the bottom. A
passing breath of wind, even the slightest motion of the punt, breaks
every shadow and indentation into myriad fleeting ripples and waves of
light, transforming the slender, silent fish into a sheaf of wriggling
glimmers. With the stilling of the surface, the waiting pike and all the
shadows and lights of the bottom grow once more still and distinct.
There floats the greatest cannibal of the fishes, paying his devotion
to the flame, and above him stands the greatest cannibal of all created
beings, pointing his deadly spear.

There is no moon. The stars cannot penetrate the thickening clouds. The
bay is still and its shores invisible, the distant light of a farmhouse
only serving to intensify the lonely silence. The savage joy of that
moment repays the boy for all his laborious preparations. He brought two
boards down the river from the mill, and toiled at them with all the
tools in the woodshed till the ends and edges were made smooth. He
collected lumber from all available sources for the ends and bottom,
fastening them on with a miscellaneous collection of nails and springs.
Then he patiently picked an old piece of tarred rope into oakum, and
caulked it into the seams with a sharpened gate-hinge. He notched a pine
tree, gathered the gum and boiled it into pitch to make the joints
tight. That extraordinary pair of oars he sawed, chopped, and whittled
from an old plank. The spear is a family relic which he dug up and
fitted with a white-ash pole, and the anchor is a long stone, tied by
the slack of a clothes-line. The jack is a basket made of old
pail-hoops, and fastened to an upright stick to hold the burning pine
knot. Yet we wonder why it is always the country boy who succeeds in the
city!

Will he too, be lured by the seductive glimmer? Will he turn away from
the conquest of nature and embark in the conquest of his fellow-mortals?
Will he go to a resort for his fishing and a preserve for his shooting?
Will that bunch of hair protruding from under his hat be worn thin and
gray in scrambling after the delights of the vain and the covetous? Will
he devote his superb strength of body and mind to outstripping and
circumventing his fellows in the pursuit of that transient glimmer, that
all-alluring _ignis fatuus_ which the Babylon world calls success?

S. T. Wood




DAFFODILS


    I wandered lonely as a cloud
    That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
    When all at once I saw a crowd,
    A host of golden daffodils;
    Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
    Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

    Continuous as the stars that shine
    And twinkle on the milky way,
    They stretched in never-ending line
    Along the margin of the bay;
    Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
    Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

    The waves beside them danced; but they
    Outdid the sparkling waves in glee;
    A poet could not but be gay,
    In such a jocund company;
    I gazed--and gazed--but little thought
    What wealth the show to me had brought:

    For oft, when on my couch I lie
    In vacant or in pensive mood,
    They flash upon that inward eye
    Which is the bliss of solitude;
    And then my heart with pleasure fills,
    And dances with the daffodils.

Wordsworth




If thine enemy be hungry, give him bread to eat; and if he be thirsty
give him water to drink; for thou shalt heap coals of fire upon his
head, and the Lord shall reward thee.

Proverbs, XXV.




TO THE DANDELION


    Dear common flower, that grow'st beside the way,
    Fringing the dusty road with harmless gold,
        First pledge of blithesome May,
    Which children pluck, and, full of pride, uphold,
    High-hearted buccaneers, o'erjoyed that they
        An Eldorado in the grass have found,
    Which not the rich earth's ample round
    May match in wealth--thou art more dear to me
    Than all the prouder summer-blooms that be.

Lowell




TRUE GREATNESS


On the evening of the twenty-second of May, 1509, two figures were
seated at the wide doorway of a handsome house in Florence. Lillo, a boy
of fifteen, sat on the ground, with his back against the angle of the
door-post, and his long legs stretched out, while he held a large book
open on his knee, and occasionally made a dash with his hand at an
inquisitive fly, with an air of interest stronger than that excited by
the finely-printed copy of Petrarch which he kept open at one place, as
if he were learning something by heart.

Romola sat nearly opposite Lillo, but she was not observing him. Her
hands were crossed on her lap, and her eyes were fixed absently on the
distant mountains: she was evidently unconscious of anything around her.
An eager life had left its marks upon her: the finely-moulded cheek had
sunk a little, the golden crown was less massive; but there was a
placidity on Romola's face which had never belonged to it in youth. It
is but once that we can know our worst sorrows, and Romola had known
them while life was new.

Absorbed in this way, she was not at first aware that Lillo had ceased
to look at his book, and was watching her with a slightly impatient air,
which meant that he wanted to talk to her, but was not quite sure
whether she would like that entertainment just now. But persevering
looks make themselves felt at last. Romola did presently turn away her
eyes from the distance and met Lillo's impatient dark gaze with a
brighter and brighter smile. He shuffled along the floor, still keeping
the book on his lap, till he got close to her and lodged his chin on
her knee.

"What is it, Lillo?" said Romola, pulling his hair back from his brow.
Lillo was a handsome lad, but his features were turning out to be more
massive and less regular than his father's. The blood of the Tuscan
peasant was in his veins.

"Mamma Romola, what am I to be?" he said, well contented that there was
a prospect of talking till it would be too late to con Petrarch any
longer.

"What should you like to be, Lillo? You might be a scholar. My father
was a scholar, you know, and taught me a great deal. That is the reason
why I can teach you."

"Yes," said Lillo, rather hesitatingly. "But he is old and blind in the
picture. Did he get a great deal of glory?"

"Not much, Lillo. The world was not always very kind to him, and he saw
meaner men than himself put into higher places because they could
flatter and say what was false. And then his dear son thought it right
to leave him and become a monk; and after that, my father, being blind
and lonely, felt unable to do the things that would have made his
learning of greater use to men, so that he might still have lived in
his works after he was in his grave."

"I should not like that sort of life," said Lillo, "I should like to be
something that would make me a great man, and very happy
besides--something that would not hinder me from having a good deal of
pleasure."

"That is not easy, my Lillo. It is only a poor sort of happiness that
could ever come by caring very much about our own narrow pleasures. We
can have the highest happiness, such as goes along with being a great
man, only by having wide thoughts, and much feeling for the rest of the
world as well as ourselves; and this sort of happiness often brings so
much pain with it, that we can tell it from pain only by its being what
we would choose before everything, because our souls see it is good.
There are so many things wrong and difficult in the world, that no man
can be great--he can hardly keep himself from wickedness--unless he
gives up thinking much about pleasure or rewards, and gets strength to
endure what is hard and painful. My father had the greatness that
belongs to integrity; he chose poverty and obscurity rather than
falsehood. And so, my Lillo, if you mean to act nobly and seek to know
the best things God has put within reach of men, you must learn to fix
your mind on that end, and not on what will happen to you because of it.
And remember, if you were to choose something lower, and make it the
rule of your life to seek your own pleasure and escape from what is
disagreeable, calamity might come just the same; and it would be
calamity falling on a base mind, which is the one form of sorrow that
has no balm in it, and that may well make a man say, 'It would have been
better for me if I had never been born.' I will tell you something,
Lillo."

Romola paused for a moment. She had taken Lillo's cheeks between her
hands, and his young eyes were meeting hers.

"There was a man to whom I was very near, so that I could see a great
deal of his life, who made almost everyone fond of him, for he was
young, and clever, and beautiful, and his manners to all were gentle and
kind. I believe, when I first knew him, he never thought of doing
anything cruel or base. But because he tried to slip away from
everything that was unpleasant, and cared for nothing else so much as
his own safety, he came at last to commit some of the basest deeds--such
as make men infamous. He denied his father, and left him to misery; he
betrayed every trust that was reposed in him, that he might keep himself
safe and get rich and prosperous. Yet calamity overtook him."

George Eliot: "Romola."




THE PRIVATE OF THE BUFFS


    Last night among his fellows rough
      He jested, quaffed, and swore:
    A drunken private of the Buffs,
      Who never looked before.
    To-day, beneath the foeman's frown,
      He stands in Elgin's place,
    Ambassador from Britain's crown,
      And type of all her race.

    Poor, reckless, rude, low-born, untaught,
      Bewildered and alone,
    A heart, with English instinct fraught,
      He yet can call his own.
    Ay! tear his body limb from limb;
      Bring cord, or axe, or flame!--
    He only knows that not through him
      Shall England come to shame.

    Far Kentish hopfields round him seemed
      Like dreams to come and go;
    Bright leagues of cherry-blossom gleamed
      One sheet of living snow:
    The smoke above his father's door
      In gray, soft eddyings hung:--
    Must he then watch it rise no more,
      Doomed by himself, so young?

    Yes, Honour calls!--with strength like steel
      He put the vision by:
    Let dusky Indians whine and kneel;
      An English lad must die!
    And thus, with eyes that would not shrink,
      With knee to man unbent,
    Unfaltering on its dreadful brink
      To his red grave he went.

    Vain, mightiest fleets of iron framed;
      Vain, those all-shattering guns;
    Unless proud England keep, untamed,
      The strong heart of her sons!
    So, let his name through Europe ring--
      A man of mean estate
    Who died, as firm as Sparta's king,
      Because his soul was great.

F. H. Doyle




HONOURABLE TOIL


Two men I honour, and no third. First, the toilworn Craftsman, that,
with earth-made Implement, laboriously conquers the Earth, and makes her
man's. Venerable to me is the hard Hand; crooked, coarse; wherein,
notwithstanding, lies a cunning virtue, indefeasibly royal, as of the
Sceptre of this Planet. Venerable, too, is the rugged face, all
weather-tanned, besoiled, with its rude intelligence; for it is the face
of a Man living manlike. O, but the more venerable for thy rudeness, and
even because we must pity as well as love thee! Hardly-entreated
Brother! For us was thy back so bent, for us were thy straight limbs and
fingers so deformed: thou wert our Conscript, on whom the lot fell, and
fighting our battles wert so marred. For in thee, too, lay a god-created
Form, but it was not to be unfolded; encrusted must it stand with the
thick adhesions and defacements of Labour: and thy body, like thy soul,
was not to know freedom. Yet toil on, toil on: _thou_ art in thy duty,
be out of it who may; thou toilest for the altogether indispensable, for
daily bread.

A second man I honour, and still more highly: him who is seen toiling
for the spiritually indispensable; not daily bread, but the bread of
Life. Is not he, too, in his duty; endeavouring towards inward Harmony;
revealing this, by act or by word, through all his outward endeavours,
be they high or low? Highest of all, when his outward and his inward
endeavour are one; when we can name him Artist; not earthly Craftsman
only, but inspired Thinker, who with heaven-made Implement conquers
Heaven for us! If the poor and humble toil that we have Food, must not
the high and glorious toil for him in return, that he have Light, have
Guidance, Freedom, Immortality?--These two, in all their degrees, I
honour: all else is chaff and dust, which let the wind blow whither it
listeth.

Unspeakably touching is it, however, when I find both dignities united;
and he, that must toil outwardly for the lowest of man's wants, is also
toiling inwardly for the highest. Sublimer in this world know I nothing
than a Peasant Saint, could such now anywhere be met with. Such a one
will take thee back to Nazareth itself; thou wilt see the splendour of
Heaven spring forth from the humblest depths of Earth, like a light
shining in great darkness.

Carlyle: "Sartor Resartus."




ON HIS BLINDNESS


    When I consider how my light is spent
      Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,
      And that one talent which is death to hide
      Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent
    To serve therewith my Maker, and present
      My true account, lest He returning chide;
      "Doth God exact day labour, light denied?"
      I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent
    That murmur, soon replies, "God doth not need
      Either man's work, or His own gifts. Who best
      Bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best: His state
    Is kingly; thousands at His bidding speed,
      And post o'er land and ocean without rest:
      They also serve who only stand and wait."

Milton




                So shall inferior eyes,
    That borrow their behaviour from the great,
    Grow great by your example and put on
    The dauntless spirit of resolution.

Shakespeare




MYSTERIOUS NIGHT


    Mysterious Night! When our first parent knew
      Thee from report divine, and heard thy name,
      Did he not tremble for this lovely frame,
    This glorious canopy of light and blue?
    Yet 'neath a curtain of translucent dew,
      Bathed in the rays of the great setting flame,
      Hesperus with the host of heaven came,
    And lo! Creation widened in man's view.
      Who could have thought such darkness lay concealed
    Within thy beams, O Sun! or who could find,
      Whilst flow'r and leaf and insect stood revealed,
    That to such countless orbs thou mad'st us blind!
      Why do we, then, shun Death with anxious strife?
      If Light can thus deceive, wherefore not Life?

Joseph Blanco White




    The Future hides in it
    Gladness and sorrow:
    We press still thorow;
    Nought that abides in it
    Daunting us--Onward!

Goethe




VITAI LAMPADA

(The Torch of Life)


    There's a breathless hush in the Close to-night--
      Ten to make and the match to win--
    A bumping pitch and a blinding light,
      An hour to play and the last man in.
    And it's not for the sake of a ribboned coat,
      Or the selfish hope of a season's fame,
    But his Captain's hand on his shoulder smote
      "Play up! play up! and play the game!"

    The sand of the desert is sodden red,--
      Red with the wreck of a square that broke;--
    The Gatling's jammed and the Colonel dead,
      And the regiment blind with dust and smoke.
    The river of death has brimmed his banks,
      And England's far, and Honour a name,
    But the voice of a school-boy rallies the ranks:
      "Play up! play up! and play the game!"

    This is the word that year by year,
      While in her place the school is set,
    Every one of her sons must hear,
      And none that hears it dare forget.
    This they all with a joyful mind
      Bear through life like a torch in flame,
    And falling, fling to the host behind--
      "Play up! play up! and play the game!"

Henry Newbolt




THE IRREPARABLE PAST

("And he cometh the third time, and saith unto them, Sleep on now, and
take your rest; it is enough, the hour is come; behold the Son of man is
betrayed into the hands of sinners. Rise up, let us go; lo, he that
betrayeth me is at hand." Mark, XIV. 41, 42)


The words of Christ are not like the words of other men. His sentences
do not end with the occasion which called them forth: every sentence of
Christ's is a deep principle of human life, and it is so with these
sentences. The principle contained in "Sleep on now" is this, that the
past is irreparable, and after a certain moment waking will do no good.
You may improve the future, the past is gone beyond recovery. As to all
that is gone by, so far as the hope of altering it goes, you may sleep
on and take your rest: there is no power in earth or heaven that can
undo what has once been done.

Let us proceed to give an illustration of this. This principle applies
to a misspent youth. The young are by God's Providence, exempted in a
great measure from anxiety; they are as the apostles were in relation to
their Master: their friends stand between them and the struggles of
existence. They are not called upon to think for themselves: the burden
is borne by others. They get their bread without knowing or caring how
it is paid for: they smile and laugh without a suspicion of the anxious
thoughts of day and night which a parent bears to enable them to smile.
So to speak, they are sleeping--and it is not a guilty sleep--while
another watches.

My young brethren--youth is one of the precious opportunities of
life--rich in blessing if you choose to make it so; but having in it the
materials of undying remorse if you suffer it to pass unimproved. Your
quiet Gethsemane is now. Do you know how you can imitate the apostles in
their fatal sleep? You can suffer your young days to pass idly and
uselessly away; you can live as if you had nothing to do but to enjoy
yourselves: you can let others think for you, and not try to become
thoughtful yourselves: till the business and difficulties of life come
upon you unprepared, and you find yourselves like men waking from sleep,
hurried, confused, scarcely able to stand, with all the faculties
bewildered, not knowing right from wrong, led headlong to evil, just
because you have not given yourselves in time to learn what is good. All
that is sleep.

And now let us mark it. You cannot repair that in after-life. Oh!
remember every period of human life has its own lesson, and you cannot
learn that lesson in the next period. The boy has one set of lessons to
learn, and the young man another, and the grown-up man another. Let us
consider one single instance. The boy has to learn docility, gentleness
of temper, reverence, submission. All those feelings which are to be
transferred afterwards in full cultivation to God, like plants nursed in
a hotbed and then planted out, are to be cultivated first in youth.
Afterwards, those habits which have been merely habits of obedience to
an earthly parent, are to become religious submission to a heavenly
parent. Our parents stand to us in the place of God. Veneration for our
parents is intended to become afterwards adoration for something higher.
Take that single instance; and now suppose that _that_ is not learned in
boyhood. Suppose that the boy sleeps to the duty of veneration, and
learns only flippancy, insubordination, and the habit of deceiving his
father,--can that, my young brethren, be repaired afterwards? Humanly
speaking not. Life is like the transition from class to class in a
school. The school-boy who has not learned arithmetic in the earlier
classes, cannot secure it when he comes to mechanics in the higher: each
section has its own sufficient work. He may be a good philosopher or a
good historian, but a bad arithmetician he remains for life; for he
cannot lay the foundation at the moment when he must be building the
superstructure. The regiment which has not perfected itself in its
manoeuvres on the parade ground, cannot learn them before the guns of
the enemy. And just in the same way, the young person who has slept his
youth away, and become idle, and selfish, and hard, cannot make up for
that afterwards. He may do something, he may be religious--yes; but he
cannot be what he might have been. There is a part of his heart which
will remain uncultivated to the end. The apostles could share their
Master's sufferings--they could not save him. Youth has its irreparable
past.

And therefore, my young brethren, let it be impressed upon
you,--now is a time, infinite in its value for eternity, which
will never return again. Sleep not; learn that there is a very solemn
work of heart which must be done while the stillness of the garden of
Gethsemane gives you time. Now, or Never. The treasures at your command
are infinite. Treasures of time--treasures of youth--treasures of
opportunity that grown-up men would sacrifice everything they have to
possess. Oh for ten years of youth back again with the added experience
of age! But it cannot be: they must be content to sleep on now and take
their rest.

Rev. F. W. Robertson: "Sermons."




A CHRISTMAS HYMN, 1837


    It was the calm and silent night:--
      Seven hundred years and fifty-three
    Had Rome been growing up to might,
      And now was Queen of land and sea!
    No sound was heard of clashing wars;
      Peace brooded o'er the hushed domain;
    Apollo, Pallas, Jove, and Mars
      Held undisturbed their ancient reign,
        In the solemn midnight
          Centuries ago!

    'Twas in the calm and silent night!
      The senator of haughty Rome
    Impatient urged his chariot's flight,
      From lordly revel rolling home!
    Triumphal arches gleaming swell
      His breast with thoughts of boundless sway;
    What recked the Roman what befell
      A paltry province far away,
        In the solemn midnight
          Centuries ago!

    Within that province far away
      Went plodding home a weary boor:
    A streak of light before him lay,
      Fallen through a half-shut stable door
    Across his path. He passed--for nought
      Told what was going on within;
    How keen the stars! his only thought;
      The air, how calm and cold and thin,
        In the solemn midnight
          Centuries ago!

    O strange indifference!--low and high
      Drowsed over common joys and cares:
    The earth was still--but knew not why;
      The world was listening--unawares;
    How calm a moment may precede
      One that shall thrill the world for ever!
    To that still moment none would heed,
      Man's doom was linked no more to sever
        In the solemn midnight
          Centuries ago!

    It is the calm and solemn night!
      A thousand bells ring out, and throw
    Their joyous peals abroad, and smite
      The darkness, charmed and holy _now_!
    The night that erst no name had worn,
      To it a happy name is given;
    For in that stable lay new-born
      The peaceful Prince of Earth and Heaven,
        In the solemn midnight
          Centuries ago.

A. Domett




THE QUARREL

  _Enter_ Brutus _and_ Cassius
Cas. That you have wrong'd me doth appear in this:
  You have condemn'd and noted Lucius Pella
  For taking bribes here of the Sardians;
  Wherein my letters, praying on his side,
  Because I knew the man, were slighted off.

Bru. You wrong'd yourself to write in such a case.

Cas. In such a time as this it is not meet
  That every nice offence should bear his comment.

Bru. Let me tell you, Cassius, you yourself
  Are much condemn'd to have an itching palm;
  To sell and mart your offices for gold
  To undeservers.

Cas.      I an itching palm!
  You know that you are Brutus that speak this,
  Or, by the gods, this speech were else your last.

Bru. The name of Cassius honours this corruption,
  And chastisement doth therefore hide his head.

Cas. Chastisement!

Bru. Remember March, the ides of March remember:
  Did not great Julius bleed for justice' sake?
  What villain touch'd his body, that did stab,
  And not for justice? What, shall one of us,
  That struck the foremost man of all this world
  But for supporting robbers, shall we now
  Contaminate our fingers with base bribes,
  And sell the mighty space of our large honours
  For so much trash as may be grasped thus?
  I had rather be a dog, and bay the moon,
  Than such a Roman.

Cas.     Brutus, bay not me;
  I'll not endure it: you forget yourself,
  To hedge me in; I am a soldier, I,
  Older in practice, abler than yourself
  To make conditions.

Bru.   Go to; you are not, Cassius.

Cas. I am.

Bru. I say you are not.

Cas. Urge me no more, I shall forget myself;
  Have mind upon your health, tempt me no farther.

Bru. Away, slight man!

Cas. Is't possible?

Bru.                       Hear me, for I will speak.
  Must I give way and room to your rash choler?
  Shall I be frighted when a madman stares?

Cas. O ye gods, ye gods! must I endure all this?

Bru. All this! ay, more: fret till your proud heart break;
  Go show your slaves how choleric you are,
  And make your bondmen tremble. Must I budge?
  Must I observe you? must I stand and crouch
  Under your testy humour? By the gods,
  You shall digest the venom of your spleen,
  Though it do split you; for, from this day forth,
  I'll use you for my mirth, yea, for my laughter,
  When you are waspish.

Cas.     Is it come to this?

Bru. You say you are a better soldier:
  Let it appear so; make your vaunting true,
  And it shall please me well: for mine own part,
  I shall be glad to learn of noble men.

Cas. You wrong me every way; you wrong me, Brutus;
  I said, an elder soldier, not a better:
  Did I say "better"?

Bru.      If you did, I care not.

Cas. When Caesar lived, he durst not thus have moved me.

Bru. Peace, peace! you durst not so have tempted him.

Cas. I durst not!

Bru. No.

Cas. What, durst not tempt him!

Bru.      For your life you durst not.

Cas. Do not presume too much upon my love;
  I may do that I shall be sorry for.

Bru. You have done that you should be sorry for.
  There is no terror, Cassius, in your threats,
  For I am arm'd so strong in honesty
  That they pass by me as the idle wind,
  Which I respect not. I did send to you
  For certain sums of gold, which you denied me:
  For I can raise no money by vile means:
  By heaven, I had rather coin my heart,
  And drop my blood for drachmas, than to wring
  From the hard hands of peasants their vile trash
  By any indirection: I did send
  To you for gold to pay my legions,
  Which you denied me: was that done like Cassius?
  Should I have answer'd Caius Cassius so?
  When Marcus Brutus grows so covetous,
  To lock such rascal counters from his friends,
  Be ready, gods, with all your thunderbolts;
  Dash him to pieces!

Cas.      I denied you not.

Bru. You did.

Cas. I did not: he was but a fool that brought
  My answer back. Brutus hath rived my heart:
  A friend should bear his friend's infirmities,
  But Brutus makes mine greater than they are.

Bru. I do not, till you practise them on me.

Cas. You love me not.

Bru.      I do not like your faults.

Cas. A friendly eye could never see such faults.

Bru. A flatterer's would not, though they do appear
  As huge as high Olympus.

Cas. Come, Antony, and young Octavius, come,
  Revenge yourselves alone on Cassius,
  For Cassius is aweary of the world;
  Hated by one he loves; braved by his brother;
  Check'd like a bondman; all his faults observ'd,
  Set in a note-book, learn'd, and conn'd by rote,
  To cast into my teeth. O, I could weep
  My spirit from mine eyes! There is my dagger,
  And here my naked breast; within, a heart
  Dearer than Plutus' mine, richer than gold;
  If that thou be'st a Roman, take it forth;
  I, that denied thee gold, will give my heart;
  Strike, as thou didst at Caesar; for, I know,
  When thou didst hate him worst, thou lovedst him better
  Than ever thou lovedst Cassius.

Bru.     Sheath your dagger:
  Be angry when you will, it shall have scope;
  Do what you will, dishonour shall be humour.
  O Cassius, you are yoked with a lamb
  That carries anger as the flint bears fire;
  Who, much enforced, shows a hasty spark,
  And straight is cold again.

Cas.      Hath Cassius lived
  To be but mirth and laughter to his Brutus,
When grief, and blood ill-temper'd, vexeth him?

Bru. When I spoke that I was ill-temper'd too.

Cas. Do you confess so much? Give me your hand.

Bru. And my heart too.

Cas.      O Brutus!

Bru.                        What's the matter?

Cas. Have not you love enough to bear with me,
  When that rash humour which my mother gave me,
  Makes me forgetful?

Bru.   Yes, Cassius; and, from henceforth,
  When you are over-earnest with your Brutus,
  He'll think your mother chides, and leave you so.

Shakespeare: "Julius Caesar," IV. 3




RECESSIONAL

(1897)


    God of our fathers, known of old,
      Lord of our far-flung battle-line,
    Beneath whose awful Hand we hold
      Dominion over palm and pine--
    Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
    Lest we forget--lest we forget!

    The tumult and the shouting dies;
      The captains and the kings depart:
    Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice,
      An humble and a contrite heart.
    Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
    Lest we forget--lest we forget!

    Far-called our navies melt away;
      On dune and headland sinks the fire:
    Lo, all our pomp of yesterday
      Is one with Nineveh and Tyre!
    Judge of the Nations, spare us yet,
    Lest we forget--lest we forget!

    If, drunk with sight of power, we loose
      Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe,
    Such boasting as the Gentiles use,
      Or lesser breeds without the Law--
    Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
    Lest we forget--lest we forget!

    For heathen heart that puts her trust
      In reeking tube and iron shard,
    All valiant dust that builds on dust,
      And guarding, calls not Thee to guard,
    For frantic boast and foolish word--
    Thy mercy on Thy People, Lord! Amen.

Kipling



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