the service. So long as you keep in the entrance, I shall not come
in." They fell back a few paces, and he stepped within the door, but,
finding the whole place thronged with people, he paused on the
threshold, and asked, "What is it that these people fear?" One general
answer broke forth, "The armed men in the cloister." As he turned and
said, "I shall go out to them," he heard the clash of arms behind. The
knights had just forced their way into the cloister, and were now (as
would appear from their being thus seen through the open door)
advancing along its southern side. They were in mail, which covered
their faces up to their eyes, and carried their swords drawn. Three
had hatchets. Fitzurse, with the ax he had taken from the carpenters,
was foremost, shouting as he came, "Here, here, king's men!"
Immediately behind him followed Robert Fitzranulph, with three other
knights; and a motley group--some their own followers, some from the
town--with weapons, though not in armor, brought up the rear. At this
sight, so unwonted in the peaceful cloisters of Canterbury, not
probably beheld since the time when the monastery had been sacked by
the Danes, the monks within, regardless of all remonstrances, shut the
door of the cathedral, and proceeded to barricade it with iron bars. A
loud knocking was heard from the band without, who, having vainly
endeavored to prevent the entrance of the knights into the cloister,
now rushed before them to take refuge in the church. Becket, who had
stepped some paces into the cathedral, but was resisting the
solicitations of those immediately about him to move up into the choir
for safety, darted back, calling aloud as he went, "Away, you cowards!
By virtue of your obedience I command you not to shut the door--the
church must not be turned into a castle." With his own hands he thrust
them away from the door, opened it himself, and catching hold of the
excluded monks, dragged them into the building, exclaiming, "Come in,
come in--faster, faster!"
[Illustration:
From a Photograph. Engraved by Charles Meeder.
Canterbury Cathedral.
]
The knights, who had been checked for a moment by the sight of the
closed door, on seeing it unexpectedly thrown open, rushed into the
church. It was, we must remember, about five o'clock in a winter
evening; the shades of night were gathering, and were deepened into a
still darker gloom within the high and massive walls of the vast
cathedral, which was only illuminated here and there by the solitary
lamps burning before the altars. The twilight, lengthening from the
shortest day a fortnight before, was but just sufficient to reveal the
outline of objects.
In the dim twilight they could just discern a group of figures
mounting the steps of the eastern staircase. One of the knights called
out to them, "Stay." Another, "Where is Thomas Becket, traitor to the
king?" No answer was returned. None could have been expected by any
one who remembered the indignant silence with which Becket had swept
by when the same words had been applied by Randulf of Broc at
Northampton. Fitzurse rushed forward, and, stumbling against one of
the monks on the lower step, still not able to distinguish clearly in
the darkness, exclaimed, "Where is the Archbishop?" Instantly the
answer came: "Reginald, here I am, no traitor, but the archbishop and
priest of God; what do you wish?" and from the fourth step, which he
had reached in his ascent, with a slight motion of his head--noticed
apparently as his peculiar manner in moments of excitement--Becket
descended to the transept. Attired, we are told, in his white rochet,
with a cloak and hood thrown over his shoulders, he thus suddenly
confronted his assailants. Fitzurse sprang back two or three paces,
and Becket passing by him took up his station between the central
pillar and the massive wall which still forms the southwest corner of
what was then the chapel of St. Benedict. Here they gathered round
him, with the cry, "Absolve the bishops whom you have excommunicated."
"I cannot do other than I have done," he replied, and turning to
Fitzurse, he added, "Reginald, you have received many favors at my
hands; why do you come into my church armed?" Fitzurse planted the ax
against his breast, and returned for answer, "You shall die--I will
tear out your heart." Another, perhaps in kindness, struck him between
the shoulders with the flat of his sword, exclaiming, "Fly; you are a
dead man." "I am ready to die," replied the primate, "for God and the
Church; but I warn you, I curse you in the name of God Almighty, if
you do not let my men escape."
The well-known horror which in that age was felt at an act of
sacrilege, together with the sight of the crowds who were rushing in
from the town through the nave, turned their efforts for the next few
moments to carrying him out of the church. Fitzurse threw down the ax,
and tried to drag him out by the collar of his long cloak, calling,
"Come with us--you are our prisoner." "I will not fly, you detestable
fellow," was Becket's reply, roused to his usual vehemence, and
wrenching the cloak out of Fitzurse's grasp. The three knights
struggled violently to put him on Tracy's shoulders. Becket set his
back against the pillar, and resisted with all his might, whilst Grim,
vehemently remonstrating, threw his arms around him to aid his
efforts. In the scuffle, Becket fastened upon Tracy, shook him by his
coat of mail, and exerting his great strength flung him down on the
pavement. It was hopeless to carry on the attempt to remove him. And
in the final struggle which now began, Fitzurse, as before, took the
lead. He approached with his drawn sword, and waving it over his head,
cried, "Strike, strike!" but merely dashed off his cap. Tracy sprang
forward and struck a more decided blow.
The blood from the first blow was trickling down his face in a thin
streak; he wiped it with his arm, and when he saw the stain, he said,
"Into thy hands, O Lord, I commend my spirit." At the third blow, he
sank on his knees--his arms falling, but his hands still joined as if
in prayer. With his face turned towards the altar of St. Benedict, he
murmured in a low voice, "For the name of Jesus, and the defense of
the Church, I am willing to die." Without moving hand or foot, he
fell flat on his face as he spoke. In this posture he received a
tremendous blow, aimed with such violence that the scalp or crown of
the head was severed from the skull. "Let us go--let us go," said Hugh
of Horsea, "the traitor is dead; he will rise no more."
* * * * *
The life of Thomas Becket, and his tragic death, have furnished themes
for many noble contributions to English literature. Arthur Penrhyn
Stanley, Dean of Westminster, has written of him, in a very impartial
and trustworthy manner, in his "Historical Memoirs of Canterbury" from
which the above extract is taken. The poet Tennyson, late in life,
composed a tragedy entitled "Becket" which portrays in a vivid,
poetical manner the most striking scenes in the career of the great
archbishop. James Anthony Froude, in "Short Stories on Great
Subjects," has written a charming and instructive essay on the "Life
and Times of Thomas Becket"; and Professor Freeman has presented us
with a similar historical study in his "Saint Thomas of Canterbury."
It may also be observed that Chaucer's immortal work, "The Canterbury
Tales," depends for its connecting thread upon the once general custom
of making pilgrimages to the tomb of Becket.
[Illustration: Dean Stanley.]
THE PILGRIMS. (1620.)
Methinks I see one solitary, adventurous vessel, the "Mayflower," of a
forlorn hope, freighted with the prospects of a future state, and bound
across the unknown sea. I behold it pursuing, with a thousand
misgivings, the uncertain, the tedious voyage. Suns rise and set, and
weeks and months pass, and winter surprises them on the deep, but brings
them not the sight of the wished-for shore. I see them now, scantily
supplied with provisions, crowded almost to suffocation, in their
ill-stored prison, delayed by calms, pursuing a circuitous route,--and
now, driven in fury before the raging tempest, on the high and giddy
waves. The awful voice of the storm brawls through the rigging.
[Illustration: Edward Everett.]
The laboring masts seem straining from their base; the dismal sound of
the pumps is heard; the ship leaps, as it were, madly, from billow to
billow; the ocean breaks, and settles with engulfing floods over the
floating deck, and beats with deadening, shivering weight, against the
staggering vessel.
I see them escape from these perils, pursuing their all but desperate
undertaking, and landed at last, after a five months' passage, on the
ice-clad rocks of Plymouth,--weak and weary from the voyage, poorly
armed, scantily provisioned, without shelter, without means,
surrounded by hostile tribes.
Shut now the volume of history, and tell me, on any principle of human
probability, what shall be the fate of this handful of adventurers?
Tell me, man of military science, in how many months were they all
swept off by the thirty savage tribes, enumerated within the early
limits of New England?
Tell me, politician, how long did a shadow of a colony on which your
conventions and treaties had not smiled, languish on the distant
coast? Student of history, compare for me the baffled projects, the
deserted settlements, the abandoned adventures of other times, and
find the parallel of this.
Was it the winter's storm, beating upon the houseless heads of women
and children? was it hard labor and spare meals? was it disease? was
it the tomahawk? was it the deep malady of a blighted hope, a ruined
enterprise, and a broken heart, aching in its last moments at the
recollection of the loved and left, beyond the sea? was it some, or
all of these united, that hurried this forsaken company to their
melancholy fate?
And is it possible, that neither of these causes, that not all
combined, were able to blast this bud of hope? Is it possible, that
from a beginning so feeble, so frail, so worthy not so much of
admiration as of pity, there has gone forth a progress so steady, a
growth so wonderful, an expansion so ample, a reality so important, a
promise, yet to be fulfilled, so glorious?
--_Edward Everett._
[Illustration:
From the Painting by A. W. Bayes. Engraved by E. Heinemann.
The Departure of the Mayflower.
]
THE LANDING OF THE PILGRIMS.
(1620.)
The breaking waves dashed high
On a stern and rock-bound coast,
And the trees against a stormy sky,
Their giant branches tossed.
And the heavy night hung dark
The hills and waters o'er,
When a band of exiles moored their bark
On the wild New England shore.
Not as the conqueror comes,
They, the true-hearted, came;
Not with the roll of the stirring drums,
And the trumpet that sings of fame.
Not as the flying come,
In silence and in fear;
They shook the depths of the desert gloom
With their hymns of lofty cheer.
Amidst the storm they sang,
And the stars heard, and the sea:
And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang
To the anthem of the free!
The ocean eagle soared
From his nest by the white wave's foam:
And the rocking pines of the forest roared,--
This was their welcome home!
There were men with hoary hair,
Amidst that pilgrim band;
Why had _they_ come to wither there,
Away from their childhood's land?
There was woman's fearless eye,
Lit by her deep love's truth;
There was manhood's brow serenely high,
And the fiery heart of youth.
What sought they thus afar?
Bright jewels of the mine?
The wealth of seas, the spoils of war?--
They sought a faith's pure shrine!
Ay! call it holy ground,
The soil where first they trod:
They have left unstained what there they found,
Freedom to worship God.
--_Felicia Hemans._
Patriots have toiled, and in their country's cause
Bled nobly; and their deeds, as they deserve
Receive proud recompense. We give in charge
Their names to the sweet lyre. The historic Muse,
Proud of the treasure, marches with it down
To latest times; and Sculpture, in her turn,
Gives bond in stone and ever-during brass
To guard them, and to immortalize her trust.
--_William Cowper._
THE ROBIN.
The robin is perhaps the best known of all our birds. The name is so
prominent in children's stories, in folklore, in poetry, and in
general literature, that even town children who have never seen the
bird know it by name; but to many grown people, even those who have
lived all their lives in the country, the robin is not familiar as a
winter bird. It is known to come and go, it is true, but is supposed
to be merely in transit, and just where the observer happens to be is
not its abiding place. This impression is due to lack of observation,
for the birds are as well disposed towards your thicket and cedar
trees as those of some far-off neighbor.
This crystal-clear, cold January day, with the mercury almost at zero,
I found the robins on the south hillside, and seldom have they shown
to better advantage. One was perched in a sapling beech to which the
leaves still clung. It chirped at times so that its companions could
hear it, and was answered by them, as well as by the nuthatches, a
tree creeper, some sparrows, and a winter wren.
It was a cozy, warm spot wherein these birds had gathered, which,
strangely enough, was filled with music even when every bird was mute.
This robin was half concealed among the crisp beech leaves, and
these--not the birds about them--were singing. The breeze caused them
to tremble violently, and their thin edges were as harp strings, the
wiry sound produced being smoothed by the crisp rattling caused by the
leaves' rapid contact with each other.
It was much like the click of butterflies' wings, but greatly
exaggerated. A simple sound, but a sweet, wholesome one that made me
think less of the winter's rigor and recalled the recent warm autumnal
days. They were singing leaves, and the robin watched them closely as
he stood near by, and chirped at times, as if to encourage them.
Altogether it made a pretty picture, one of those that human skill has
not yet transferred to a printed page; and our winter sunshine is full
of just such beauty.
How incomprehensible it is that any one should speak of the _few_
robins that venture to remain! Flocks of a hundred or more are not
uncommon in the depth of winter, and this recalls the fact that at
this time of year robins are never alone. It may appear so for a time,
but when the bird you are watching is ready to move on, his call will
be answered by others that you have not seen, and half a dozen at
least will fly off to new scenes.
This is often noticed on a much larger scale when we flush robins in a
field. They are generally widely scattered, and, go where you will,
there will be one or two hopping before you; but when one takes alarm,
the danger cry is heard by all, and a great flock will gather in the
air in an incredibly short time.
Robins are not lovers of frozen ground; they know where the earth
resists frost, down in the marshy meadows, and there they congregate
in the dreary midwinter afternoons, after spending the morning feeding
upon berries. I have seen them picking those of the cedar, poison ivy,
green brier, and even the seedy, withered fruit of the poke; but at
times this question of food supply must be a difficult problem to
solve, and then they leave us for a while, until pleasanter weather
prevails, when they venture back.
In April, when the chill of winter is no longer in its bones, the
robin becomes prominent, and the more so because of the noise it
makes. It sings fairly well, and early in the morning there is a world
of suggestiveness in the ringing notes. The song is loud, declamatory,
and acceptable more for the pleasant thoughts it occasions than for
the actual melody. We are always glad to hear the robins, but never
for the same reason that we listen to a wood thrush. Of course there
are exceptions.
With the close of the nesting season--and this extends well into the
summer--much of the attractiveness of the bird disappears. As
individual members of great loose flocks that fret the upper air with
an incessant chirping, they offer little to entertain us even when the
less hardy minstrels of the summer have sought their southern homes.
It is true that they add something to the picture of a dreamy October
afternoon when the mellow sunlight tips the wilted grasses with dull
gold. They restore for the time the summertide activity of the meadows
when with golden-winged woodpeckers they chase the crickets in the
close-cropped pastures, but they are soon forgotten if a song sparrow
sings or a wary hawk screams among the clouds. Robins are always
welcome, but never more so than when they chatter, on an April
morning, of the near future with its buds and blossoms.
--_From "Bird-Land Echoes," by Charles Conrad Abbott._
THE MOTIONS OF BIRDS.
A good ornithologist should be able to distinguish birds by their air
as well as by their colors and shape, on the wing as well as on the
ground; and in the bush as well as in the hand. For though it must not
be said that every species of bird has a manner peculiar to itself,
yet there is somewhat in most _genera_, at least, that at first sight
discriminates them, and enables a judicious observer to pronounce upon
them with some certainty.
Thus kites and buzzards sail round in circles with wings expanded and
motionless; and it is from their gliding manner that the former are
still called in the north of England gleads, from the Saxon verb
_glidan_, to glide. Hen harriers fly low over the meadows or fields of
corn, and beat the ground regularly like a pointer or setting dog.
Owls move in a buoyant manner, as if lighter than the air; they seem
to want ballast.
There is a peculiarity belonging to ravens that must draw the
attention even of the most incurious--they spend all their leisure
time in striking and cuffing each other on the wing in a kind of
playful skirmish; and, when they move from one place to another,
frequently turn on their backs with a loud croak, and seem to be
falling to the ground. When this odd gesture betides them, they are
scratching themselves with one foot, and thus lose the center of
gravity. Rooks sometimes dive and tumble in a frolicsome manner; crows
and daws swagger in their walk; woodpeckers fly with a wavy motion,
opening and closing their wings at every stroke, and so are always
rising or falling in curves. All of this genus use their tails, which
incline downward, as a support while they run up trees. Parrots, like
all other hooked-clawed birds, walk awkwardly, and make use of their
bill as a third foot, climbing and descending with ridiculous caution.
All the gallinæ parade and walk gracefully, and run nimbly, but fly
with difficulty, with an impetuous whirring, and in a straight line.
Magpies and jays flutter with powerless wings, and make no dispatch;
herons seem encumbered with too much sail for their light bodies, but
these vast hollow wings are necessary in carrying burdens, such as
large fishes, and the like; pigeons, and particularly the sort called
smiters, have a way of clashing their wings, the one against the
other, over their backs with a loud snap; another variety, called
tumblers, turn themselves over in the air.
The kingfisher darts along like an arrow; fern owls, or goatsuckers,
glance in the dusk over the tops of trees like a meteor; swallows
sweep over the surface of the ground and water, and distinguish
themselves by rapid turns and quick evolutions; swifts dash round in
circles; and the bank martin moves with frequent vacillations like a
butterfly.
Most small birds hop; but wagtails and larks walk, moving their legs
alternately. All the duck kind waddle; divers and auks walk as if
fettered, and stand erect, on their tails. Geese and cranes, and most
wild fowls, move in figured flights, often changing their position.
--_From "The Natural History of Selbourne," by Gilbert White._
THE ORIGIN OF RIVERS.
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 Missouri in the Rocky Mountains; and the
Amazon in the Andes of Peru.
[Illustration: John Tyndall.]
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. But you 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 can not end here. Whence comes the rain that 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 _vapor 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 vapor mingles with the cold air above the hot funnel,
it ceases to be vapor. 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 on the character of the
day. In moist 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 vapor. The _drier_ the air, and
the _hotter_ the air, the greater is the amount of cloud which can be
thus dissolved in it.
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 which
issues 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.
By tracing the course of a river, we find that both its beginning and
its ending are in the sea. All its water is derived from the sea, and to
the sea it returns its floods. But if we seek for its causes, we find
that its beginning and its ending are in the sun. For it is the fire of
the sun that produces the clouds from which the water of the river is
derived, and it is the same fire of the sun that dries up its stream.
--_Adapted from "Forms of Water in Clouds and Rivers,"
by John Tyndall._
ADDRESS OF ABRAHAM LINCOLN
AT THE DEDICATION OF GETTYSBURG CEMETERY, THE 19TH OF NOVEMBER, 1863.
Fourscore and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this
continent a new nation, conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the
proposition that all men are created equal. Now we are engaged in a
great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so
conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great
battlefield of the war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that
field as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives
that their nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that
we should do this.
[Illustration: Abraham Lincoln.]
But, in a larger sense, we can not dedicate, we can not consecrate, we
can not hallow this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who
struggled here, have consecrated it far above our power to add or
detract. The world will little note, nor long remember, what we say
here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us, the
living, rather to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they
who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to
be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us--that from these
honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they
gave the last full measure of devotion--that we here highly resolve that
these dead shall not have died in vain--that this nation, under God,
shall have a new birth of freedom--and that government of the people, by
the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.
THE AMERICAN FLAG.