One after another they turned and left the Peacestead, those

friends and brothers of the slain. One after another they turned

and went towards the city; crushed hearts, heavy footsteps, no word

amongst them, a shadow upon all. The shadow was in Asgard, too

--had walked through Frigga's hall and seated itself upon the

threshold of Gladsheim. Odin had just come out to look at it, and

Frigga stood by in mute despair as the Æsir came up.

"Loki did it! Loki did it!" they said at last in confused, hoarse

whispers, and they looked from one to another,--upon Odin, upon

Frigga, upon the shadow which they saw before them, and which

they felt within. "Loki did it! Loki, Loki!" they went on saying;

but it was no use repeating the name of Loki over and over

again when there was another name they were too sad to utter

which yet filled all their hearts--Baldur. Frigga said it first,

and then they all went to look at him lying down so peacefully on the

grass--dead, dead.

"Carry him to the funeral pyre!" said Odin, at length; and four

of the Æsir stooped down and lifted their dead brother.

With scarcely any sound they carried the body tenderly to the

seashore and laid it upon the deck of that majestic ship called

Ringhorn, which had been _his_. Then they stood round waiting to

see who would come to the funeral. Odin came, and on his shoulder?

sat his two ravens, whose croaking drew clouds down over the

Asa's face, for Thought and Memory sang one sad song that day.

Frigga came,--Frey, Gerda, Freyja, Thor, Hœnir, Bragi, and

Iduna. Heimdall came sweeping over the tops of the mountains on

Golden Mane, his swift, bright steed. Ægir the Old groaned from

under the deep, and sent his daughters up to mourn around the

dead. Frost-giants and mountain-giants came crowding round the

rimy shores of Jotunheim to look across the sea upon the funeral

of an Asa. Nanna came, Baldur's fair young wife; but when she

saw the dead body of her husband, her own heart broke with grief,

and the Æsir laid her beside him on the stately ship. After this

Odin stepped forward and placed a ring on the breast of his son,

whispering something at the same time in his ear; but when he and

the rest of the Æsir tried to push Ringhorn into the sea before

setting fire to it, they found that their hearts were so heavy they

could lift nothing. So they beckoned to the giantess Hyrrokin to

come over from Jötunheim and help them. She, with a single

push, set the ship floating, and then, whilst Thor stood up holding

Miölnir high in the air, Odin lighted the funeral pile of Baldur and

of Nanna.

So Ringhorn went out floating towards the deep, and the funeral

fire burnt on. Its broad red flame burst forth towards heaven; but

when the smoke would have gone upward too, the winds came

sobbing and carried it away.

PART IV

HELHEIM

When at last the ship Ringhorn had floated out so far to sea that

it looked like a dull red lamp on the horizon, Frigga turned round

and said, "Does any one of you, my children, wish to perform a

noble action and win my love forever?"

"I do," cried Hermod, before any one else had time to open his

lips.

"Go then, Hermod," answered Frigga, "saddle Sleipnir with all

speed and ride down to Helheim; there seek out Hela, the stern

mistress of the dead, and entreat her to send our beloved back to us

once more."

Hermod was gone in the twinkling of an eye, not in at the mouth

of the earth and through the steep cavern down which Odin went

to the dead Vala's grave; he chose another way, though not a better

one; for, go to Helheim how you will, the best is but a downward

road, and so Hermod found it--downward, slanting, slippery, dark,

and very cold. At last he came to the Giallar Bru--that sounding

river which flows between the living and the dead, and the bridge

over which is paved with stones of glittering gold. Hermod was

surprised to see gold in such a place; but as he rode over the bridge,

and looked down carefully at the stones, he saw that they were only

tears which had been shed round the beds of the dying--only tears,

and yet they made the way seem brighter. But when Hermod

reached the other end of the bridge, he found the courageous woman

who, for ages and ages, had been sitting there to watch the dead go

by, and she stopped him, saying:

"What a noise you make! Who are you? Yesterday five troops

of dead men went over the Giallar Bridge and did not shake it

so much as you have done. Besides," she added, looking more

closely at Hermod, "you are not a dead man at all. Your lips are

neither cold not blue. Why, then, do you ride on the way to

Helheim?"

"I seek Baldur," answered Hermod. "Tell me, have you seen

him pass?"

"Baldur," she said, "has ridden over the bridge; but there below,

towards the north, lies the way to the Abodes of Death."

So Hermod went on the way until he came to the barred gates

of Helheim itself. There he alighted, tightened his saddle-girths,

remounted, clapped both spurs to his horse, and cleared the gate by

one tremendous leap. Then Hermod found himself in a place where

no living man had ever been before--the City of the Dead. Perhaps

you think there is a great silence there, but you are mistaken.

Hermod thought he had never in his life heard so much noise; for

the echoes of all words were speaking together--words, some newly

uttered and some ages old; but the dead men did not hear who flitted

up and down the dark streets, for their ears had been stunned

and become cold long since. Hermod rode on through the city until

he came to the palace of Hela, which stood in the midst. Precipice

was its threshold, the entrance hall, Wide Storm, and yet Hermod

was not too much afraid to seek the innermost rooms; so he went

on to the banqueting hall, where Hela sat at the head of her table

and served her newest guests. Baldur, alas! sat at her right hand,

and on her left his pale young wife. When Hela saw Hermod coming

up the hall she smiled grimly, but beckoned to him at the same

time to sit down, and told him that he might sup that night with

her. It was a strange supper for a living man to sit down to.

Hunger was the table; Starvation, Hela's knife; Delay, her man;

Slowness, her maid; and Burning Thirst, her wine. After supper

Hela led the way to the sleeping apartments. "You see," she said,

turning to Hermod, "I am very anxious about the comfort of my

guests. Here are beds of unrest provided for all, hung with curtains

of weariness, and look how all the walls are furnished with

despair."

So saying she strode away, leaving Hermod and Baldur together.

The whole night they sat on those unquiet couches and talked.

Hermod could speak of nothing but the past, and as he looked

anxiously round the room his eyes became dim with tears. But

Baldur seemed to see a light far off, and he spoke of what was to

come.

The next morning Hermod went to Hela, and entreated her to let

Baldur return to Asgard. He even offered to take his place in Helhelm

if she pleased; but Hela only laughed at this and said: "You talk a

great deal about Baldur, and boast how much every one loves him; I

will prove now if what you have told me be true. Let everything on

earth, living or dead, weep for Baldur, and he shall go home again;

but if one thing only refuse to weep, then let Helheim hold its own;

he shall not go."

"Every one will weep willingly," said Hermod, as he mounted

Sleipnir and rode towards the entrance of the city. Baldur went

with him as far as the gate and began to send messages to all his

friends in Asgard, but Hermod would not listen to many of them.

"You will so soon come back to us," he said, "there is no use

in sending messages."

So Hermod darted homewards, and Baldur watched him through

the bars of Helheim's gateway as he flew along.

"Not soon, not soon," said the dead Asa; but still he saw the light

far off, and thought of what was to come.

PART V

WEEPING

"Well, Hermod, what did she say?" asked the AEsir from the

top of the hill as they saw him coming; "make haste and tell us

what she said." And Hermod came up.

"Oh! is that all?" they cried, as soon as he had delivered his

message. "Nothing can be more easy," and then they all hurried

off to tell Frigga. She was weeping already, and in five minutes

there was not a tearless eye in Asgard.

"But this is not enough," said Odin; "the whole earth must

know of our grief that it may weep with us."

Then the father of the AEsir called to him his messenger maidens

--the beautiful Valkyrior--and sent them out into all worlds with

these three words on their lips, "Baldur is dead!" But the words

were so dreadful that at first the messenger maidens could only

whisper them in low tones as they went along, "Baldur is dead!"

The dull, sad sounds flowed back on Asgard like a new river of

grief, and it seemed to the AEsir as if they now wept for the first

time-"Baldur is dead!"

"What is that the Valkyrior are saying?" asked the men and

women in all the country round, and when they heard rightly, men

left their labor and lay down to weep--women dropped the buckets

they were carrying to the well, and, leaning their faces over them,

filled them with tears. The children crowded upon the doorsteps,

or sat down at the corners of the streets, crying as if their own

mothers were dead.

The Valkyrior passed on. "Baldur is dead!" they said to the

empty fields; and straightway the grass and the wild field-flowers

shed tears.

"Baldur is dead!" said the messenger maidens to the rocks and

stones; and the very stones began to weep. "Baldur is dead!" the

Valkyrior cried; and even the old mammoth's bones, which had lain

for centuries under the hills, burst into tears, so that small rivers

gushed forth from every mountain's side. "Baldur is dead!" said

the messenger maidens as they swept over silent sands; and all the

shells wept pearls. "Baldur is dead!" they cried to the sea, and

to Jotunheim across the sea; and when the giants understood it,

even they wept, whilst the sea rained spray to heaven. After this

the Valkyrior stepped from one stone to another until they reached

a rock that stood alone in the middle of the sea; then, all together,

they bent forward over the edge of it, stooped down and peeped

over, that they might tell the monsters of the deep. "Baldur is

dead!" they said, and the sea monsters and the fish wept. Then the

messenger maidens looked at one another and said, "Surely our

work is done." So they twined their arms round one another's

waists, and set forth on the downward road to Helheim, there to

claim Baldur from among the dead.

After he had sent forth his messenger maidens, Odin had seated

himself on the top of Air Throne that he might see how the earth

received his message. At first he watched the Valkyrior as they

stepped forth north and south, and east and west; but soon the whole

earth's steaming tears rose up like a great cloud and hid everything

from him. Then he looked down through the cloud and said, "Are

you all weeping?" The Valkyrior heard the sound of his voice

as they went all together down the slippery road, and they turned

round, stretching out their arms towards Air Throne, their long hair

falling back, whilst, with choked voices and streaming eyes, they

answered, "The world weeps, Father Odin; the world and we."

After this they went on their way until they came to the end of

the cave Gnipa, where Garm was chained, and which yawned over

Niflheim. "The world weeps," they said one to another by way

of encouragement, for here the road was so dreadful; but just as

they were about to pass through the mouth of Gnipa they came

upon a haggard witch named Thaukt, who sat in the entrance with

her back to them, and her face toward the abyss. "Baldur is dead!

Weep, weep!" said the messenger maidens, as they tried to pass

her; but Thaukt made answer:

"What she doth hold,

Let Hela keep;

For naught care I,

Though the world weep,

O'er Baldur's bale.

Live he or die

With tearless eye,

Old Thaukt shall wail."

And with these words leaped into Niflheim with a yell of triumph.

"Surely that cry was the cry of Loki," said one of the maidens;

but another pointed towards the city of Helheim, and there they

saw the stern face of Hela looking over the wall.

"One has not wept," said the grim Queen, "and Helheim holds

its own." So saying she motioned the maidens away with her long,

cold hand.

Then the Valkyrior turned and fled up the steep way to the foot

of Odin's throne, like a pale snowdrift that flies before the storm.

THE HERO STORY

SIR WILLIAM WALLACE

Walter Scott

I told you, my dear Hugh, that Edward I of England had reduced Scotland

almost entirely to the condition of a conquered country, although he

had obtained possession of the kingdom less by his bravery, than by

cunningly taking advantage of the disputes and divisions that followed

amongst the Scots themselves after the death of Alexander III.

The English, however, had in point of fact obtained possession of the

country, and governed it with much rigor. The Lord High Justice Ormesby

called all men to account, who would not take the oath of allegiance to

King Edward. Many of the Scots refused this, as what the English king

had no right to demand from them. Such persons were called into the

courts of justice, fined, deprived of their estates, and otherwise

severely punished. Then Hugh Cressingham, the English treasurer,

tormented the Scottish nation, by collecting money from them under

various pretexts. The Scots were always a poor people, and their native

kings had treated them with much kindness, and seldom required them to

pay any taxes. They were, therefore, extremely enraged at finding

themselves obliged to pay to the English treasurer much larger sums of

money than their own good kings had ever demanded from them; and they

became exceedingly dissatisfied.

Besides these modes of oppression, the English soldiers, who, I told

you, had been placed in garrison in the different castles of Scotland,

thought themselves masters of the country, treated the Scots with great

contempt, took from them by main force whatever they had a fancy to,

and if the owners offered to resist, abused them, beat and wounded, and

sometimes killed them; for which acts of violence the English officers

did not check or punish their soldiers. Scotland was, therefore, in

great distress, and the inhabitants, exceedingly enraged, only wanted

some leader to command them, to rise up in a body against the English

or _Southern_ men, as they called them, and recover the liberty

and independence of their country, which had been destroyed by Edward

the First.

Such a leader arose in the person of WILLIAM WALLACE, whose name is

still so often mentioned in Scotland. It is a great pity we do not know

exactly the history of this brave man; for at the time when he lived,

every one was so busy fighting, that there was no person to write down

the history of what took place; and afterwards, when there was more

leisure for composition, the truths that were collected were greatly

mingled with falsehood. What I shall tell you of him is generally

believed to be true.

William Wallace was none of the high nobles of Scotland, but the son of

a private gentleman, called Wallace of Ellerslie, in Renfrewshire, near

Paisley. He was very tall and handsome, and one of the strongest and

bravest men that ever lived. He had a very fine countenance, with a

quantity of fair hair, and was particularly dexterous in the use of all

weapons which were then employed in battle. Wallace, like all Scotsmen

of high spirit, had looked with great indignation upon the usurpation

of the crown by Edward, and upon the insolencies which the English

soldiers committed on his countrymen. It is said, that when he was very

young, he went a-fishing for sport in the river of Irvine, near Ayr. He

had caught a good many trouts, which were carried by a boy, who

attended him with a fishing-basket, as is usual with anglers. Two or

three English soldiers, who belonged to the garrison of Ayr, came up to

Wallace, and insisted, with their usual insolence, on taking the fish

from the boy. Wallace was contented to allow them a part of the trouts,

but he refused to part with the whole basketful. The soldiers insisted,

and from words came to blows. Wallace had no better weapon than the

butt-end of his fishing-rod; but he struck the foremost of the

Englishmen so hard under the ear with it that he killed him on the spot;

and getting possession of the slain man's sword, he fought with so much

fury that he put the others to flight, and brought home his fish safe

and sound. The English governor of Ayr sought for him, to punish him

with death for this action; but Wallace lay concealed among the hills

and great woods till the matter was forgotten, and then appeared in

another part of the country. He is said to have had other adventures of

the same kind, in which he gallantly defended himself, sometimes when

alone, sometimes with very few companions, against superior numbers of

the English, until at last his name became generally known as a terror

to them.

But the action which occasioned his finally rising in arms, is believed

to have happened in the town of Lanark. Wallace was at this time married

to a lady of that place, and residing there with his wife. It chanced,

as he walked in the market place, dressed in a green garment, with a

rich dagger by his side, that an Englishman came up and insulted him on

account of his finery, saying, a Scotsman had no business to wear so

gay a dress, or carry so handsome a weapon. It soon came to a quarrel,

as on many former occasions; and Wallace, having killed the Englishman,

fled to his own house, which was speedily assaulted by all the English

soldiers. While they were endeavoring to force their way in at the

front of the house, Wallace escaped by a back door, and got in safety

to a rugged and rocky glen, near Lanark, called the Cartland crags, all

covered with bushes and trees, and full of high precipices, where he

knew he should be safe from the pursuit of the English soldiers.

[Footnote: In the western face of the chasm of Cartland Crags, a few

yards above the new bridge, a cave in the rock is pointed out by

tradition as having been the hiding-place of Wallace.] In the meantime,

the governor of Lanark, whose name was Hazelrigg, burned Wallace's

house, and put his wife and servants to death; and by committing this

cruelty increased to the highest pitch, as you may well believe, the

hatred which the champion had always borne against the English usurper.

Hazelrigg also proclaimed Wallace an outlaw, and offered a reward to

any one who should bring him to an English garrison, alive or dead.

On the other hand, Wallace soon collected a body of men, outlawed like

himself, or willing to become so, rather than any longer endure the

oppression of the English. One of his earliest expeditions was directed

against Hazelrigg, whom he killed, and thus avenged the death of his

wife. He fought skirmishes with the soldiers who were sent against him,

and often defeated them; and in time became so well known and so

formidable, that multitudes began to resort to his standard, until at

length he was at the head of a considerable army, with which he

proposed to restore his country to independence.

About this time is said to have taken place a memorable event, which

the Scottish people called the "Barns of Ayr." It is alleged that the

English governor of Ayr had invited the greater part of the Scottish

nobility and gentry in the western parts to meet him at some large

buildings called the Barns of Ayr, for the purpose of friendly

conference upon the affairs of the nation. But the English earl

entertained the treacherous purpose of putting the Scottish gentlemen

to death. The English soldiers had halters with running nooses ready

prepared, and hung upon the beams which supported the roof; and, as the

Scottish gentlemen were admitted by two and two at a time, the nooses

were thrown over their heads, and they were pulled up by the neck, and

thus hanged or strangled to death. Among those who were slain in this

base and treacherous manner was, it is said, Sir Reginald Crawford,

Sheriff of the county of Ayr, and uncle to William Wallace.

When Wallace heard of what had befallen he was dreadfully enraged, and

collecting his men in a wood near the town of Ayr, he resolved to be

revenged on the authors of this great crime. The English in the

meanwhile made much feasting, and when they had eaten and drunk

plentifully, they lay down to sleep in the same large barns in which

they had murdered the Scottish gentlemen. But Wallace, learning that

they kept no guard or watch, not suspecting there were any enemies so

near them, directed a woman who knew the place, to mark with chalk the

doors of the lodgings where the Englishmen lay. Then he sent a party of

men, who, with strong ropes, made all the doors so fast on the outside,

that those within could not open them. On the outside the Scots had

prepared heaps of straw, to which they set fire, and the barns of Ayr,

being themselves made of wood, were soon burning in a bright flame.

Then the English were awakened, and endeavored to get out to save their

lives. But the doors, as I told you, were secured on the outside, and

bound fast with ropes; and, besides, the blazing houses were surrounded

by the Scots, who forced those who got out to run back into the fire,

or else put them to death on the spot; and thus great numbers perished

miserably. Many of the English were lodged in a convent, but they had

no better fortune than the others; for the prior of the convent caused

all the friars to arm themselves, and, attacking the English guests,

they put most of them to the sword. This was called the "Friar of Ayr's

blessing." We cannot tell if this story of the "Barns of Ayr" be

exactly true; but it is probable there is some foundation for it, as it

is universally believed in that country.

Thus Wallace's party grew daily stronger and stronger, and many of the

Scottish nobles joined with him. Among these were Sir William Douglas,

the Lord of Douglas-dale, and the head of a great family often

mentioned in Scottish history. There was also Sir John the Grahame,

who became Wallace's bosom friend and greatest confidant. Many of

these great noblemen, however, deserted the cause of the country on

the approach of John de Warenne, Earl of Surrey, the English

governor, at the head of a numerous and well-appointed army. They

thought that Wallace would be unable to withstand the attack of so

many disciplined soldiers, and hastened to submit themselves to the

English, for fear of losing their estates. Wallace, however, remained

undismayed, and at the head of a considerable army. He had taken up

his camp upon the northern side of the river Forth, near the town of

Stirling. The river was there crossed by a long wooden bridge, about

a mile above the spot where the present bridge is situated.

The English general approached the banks of the river on the southern

side. He sent two clergymen to offer a pardon to Wallace and his

followers, on condition that they should lay down their arms. But such

was not the purpose of the high-minded champion of Scotland.

"Go back to Warenne," said Wallace, "and tell him we value not the

pardon of the king of England. We are not here for the purpose of

treating of peace, but of abiding battle, and restoring freedom to our

country. Let the English come on;--we defy them to their very beards!"

The English, upon hearing this haughty answer, called loudly to be led

to the attack. Their leader, Sir Richard Lundin, a Scottish knight,

who had gone over to the enemy at Irvine, hesitated, for he was a

skillful soldier, and he saw that, to approach the Scottish army, his

troops must pass over the long, narrow wooden bridge; so that those

who should get over first might be attacked by Wallace with all his

forces, before those who remained behind could possibly come to their

assistance. He therefore inclined to delay the battle. But Cressingham

the treasurer, who was ignorant and presumptuous, insisted that it was

their duty to fight, and put an end to the war at once; and Lundin

gave way to his opinion, although Cressingham, being a churchman,

could not be so good a judge of what was fitting as he himself, an

experienced officer.

The English army began to cross the bridge, Cressingham leading the

van, or foremost division of the army; for, in those military days,

even clergymen wore armor and fought in battle. That took place which

Lundin had foreseen. Wallace suffered a considerable part of the

English army to pass the bridge, without offering any opposition; but

when about one half were over, and the bridge was crowded with those

who were following, he charged those who had crossed with his whole

strength, slew a very great number, and drove the rest into the river

Forth, where the greater part were drowned. The remainder of the

English army, who were left on the southern bank of the river, fled in

great confusion, having first set fire to the wooden bridge that the

Scots might not pursue them. Cressingham was killed in the very

beginning of the battle; and the Scots detested him so much, that they

flayed the skin from his dead body, and kept pieces of it, in memory

of the revenge they had taken upon the English treasurer. Some say

they made saddle girths of this same skin; a purpose for which I do

not think it could be very fit. It must be owned to have been a

dishonorable thing of the Scots to insult thus the dead body of their

enemy, and shows that they must have been then a ferocious and

barbarous people.

The remains of Surrey's great army fled out of Scotland after this

defeat; and the Scots, taking arms on all sides, attacked the castles

in which the English soldiers continued to shelter themselves, and

took most of them by force or stratagem. Many wonderful stories are

told of Wallace's exploits on these occasions; some of which are no

doubt true, while others are either invented, or very much

exaggerated. It seems certain, however, that he defeated the English

in several combats, chased them almost entirely out of Scotland,

regained the towns and castles of which they had possessed themselves,

and recovered for a time the complete freedom of the country. He even

marched into England, and laid Cumberland and Northumberland waste,

where the Scottish soldiers, in revenge for the mischief which the

English had done in their country, committed great cruelties. Wallace

did not approve of their killing the people who were not in arms, and

he endeavored to protect the clergymen and others, who were not able

to defend themselves. "Remain with me," he said to the priests of

Hexham, a large town in Northumberland, "for I cannot protect you from

my soldiers when you are out of my presence." The troops who followed

Wallace received no pay, because he had no money to give them; and

that was one great reason why he could not keep them under restraint,

or prevent their doing much harm to the defenseless country people. He

remained in England more than three weeks, and did a great deal of

mischief to the country.

Indeed, it appears that, though Wallace disapproved of slaying

priests, women, and children, he partook of the ferocity of the times

so much, as to put to death without quarter all whom he found in arms.

In the north of Scotland the English had placed a garrison in the

strong Castle of Dunnottar, which, built on a large and precipitous

rock, overhangs the raging sea. Though the place is almost

inaccessible, Wallace and his followers found their way into the

castle, while the garrison in great terror fled into the church or

chapel, which was built on the very verge of the precipice. This did

not save them, for Wallace caused the church to be set on fire. The

terrified garrison, involved in the flames, ran some of them upon the

points of the Scottish swords, while others threw themselves from the

precipice into the sea and swam along to the cliffs, where they hung

like sea-fowl, screaming in vain for mercy and assistance.

The followers of Wallace were frightened at this dreadful scene, and

falling on their knees before the priests who chanced to be in the

army, they asked forgiveness for having committed so much slaughter

within the limits of a church dedicated to the service of God. But

Wallace had so deep a sense of the injuries which the English had done

to his country that he only laughed at the contrition of his soldiers.

"I will absolve you all myself," he said. "Are you Scottish soldiers,

and do you repent for a trifle like this, which is not half what the

invaders deserved at our hands?" So deep-seated was Wallace's feeling

of national resentment that it seems to have overcome, in such

instances, the scruples of a temper which was naturally humane.

Edward I was in Flanders when all these events took place. You may

suppose he was very angry when he learned that Scotland, which he

thought completely subdued, had risen into a great insurrection

against him, defeated his armies, killed his treasurer, chased his

soldiers out of their country, and invaded England with a great force.

He came back from Flanders in a mighty rage, and determined not to

leave that rebellious country until it was finally conquered, for

which purpose he assembled a very fine army, and marched into

Scotland.

In the meantime the Scots prepared to defend themselves, and chose

Wallace to be Governor, or Protector, of the kingdom, because they had

no king at the time. He was now titled Sir William Wallace, Protector,

or Governor, of the Scottish nation. But although Wallace, as we have

seen, was the best soldier and bravest man in Scotland, and therefore

the most fit to be placed in command at this critical period, when the

king of England was coming against them with such great forces, yet

the nobles of Scotland envied him this important situation, because he

was not a man born in high rank, or enjoying a large estate. So great

was their jealousy of Sir William Wallace, that many of these great

barons did not seem very willing to bring forward their forces, or

fight against the English, because they would not have a man of

inferior condition to be general. This was base and mean conduct, and

it was attended with great disasters to Scotland. [Footnote: "These

mean and selfish jealousies were increased by the terror, of Edward's

military renown, and in many by the fear of losing their English

estates; so that at the very time when an honest love of liberty, and

a simultaneous spirit of resistance, could alone have saved Scotland,

its nobility deserted it at its utmost need, and refused to act with

the only man whose military talents and prosperity were equal to the

emergency."--TYTLER'S _History of Scotland._] Yet,

notwithstanding this unwillingness of the great nobility to support

him, Wallace assembled a large army; for the middling, but especially

the lower classes, were very much attached to him. He marched boldly

against the King of England, and met him near the town of Falkirk.

Most of the Scottish army were on foot, because, as I already told

you, in those days only the nobility and great men of Scotland fought

on horseback. The English king, on the contrary, had a very large body

of the finest cavalry in the world, Normans and English, all clothed

in complete armor. He had also the celebrated archers of England, each

of whom was said to carry twelve Scotsmen's lives under his girdle;

because every archer had twelve arrows stuck in his belt, and was

expected to kill a man with every arrow.

The Scots had some good archers from the Forest of Ettrick, who fought

under command of Sir John Stewart of Bonkill; but they were not nearly

equal in number to the English. The greater part of the Scottish army

were on foot, armed with long spears; they were placed thick and close

together, and laid all their spears so close, point over point, that

it seemed as difficult to break through them, as through the wall of a

strong castle. When the two armies were drawn up facing each other,

Wallace said to his soldiers, "I have brought you to the ring, let me

see how you can dance;" meaning, I have brought you to the decisive

field of battle, let me see how bravely you can fight.

The English made the attack. King Edward, though he saw the close

ranks, and undaunted appearance, of the Scottish infantry, resolved

nevertheless to try whether he could not ride them down with his fine

cavalry. He therefore gave his horsemen orders to advance. They

charged accordingly, at full gallop. It must have been a terrible

thing to have seen these fine horses riding as hard as they could

against the long lances, which were held out by the Scots to keep them

back; and a dreadful cry arose when they came against each other.

The first line of cavalry was commanded by the Earl Marshal of

England, whose progress was checked by a morass. The second line of

English horse was commanded by Antony Beck, the Bishop of Durham, who,

nevertheless, wore armor, and fought like a lay baron. He wheeled

round the morass; but when he saw the deep and firm order of the

Scots, his heart failed, and he proposed to Sir Ralph Basset of

Drayton, who commanded under him, to halt till Edward himself brought

up the reserve. "Go say your mass, bishop," answered Basset

contemptuously, and advanced at full gallop with the second line.

However, the Scots stood their ground with their long spears; many of

the foremost of the English horses were thrown down, and the riders

were killed as they lay rolling, unable to rise, owing to the weight

of their heavy armor. But the Scottish horse did not come to the

assistance of their infantry, but on the contrary, fled away from the

battle. It is supposed that this was owing to the treachery or ill-

will of the nobility, who were jealous of Wallace. But it must be

considered that the Scottish cavalry were few in number; and that they

had much worse arms, and weaker horses, than their enemies. The

English cavalry attempted again and again to disperse the deep and

solid ranks in which Wallace had stationed his foot soldiers. But they

were repeatedly beaten off with loss, nor could they make their way

through that wood of spears, as it is called by one of the English

historians. King Edward then commanded his archers to advance; and

these approaching within arrow-shot of the Scottish ranks, poured on

them such close and dreadful volleys of arrows, that it was impossible

to sustain the discharge. It happened at the same time, that Sir John

Stewart was killed by a fall from his horse; and the archers of

Ettrick Forest, whom he was bringing forward to oppose those of King

Edward, were slain in great numbers around him. Their bodies were

afterwards distinguished among the slain, as being the tallest and

handsomest men of the army.

The Scottish spearmen being thus thrown into some degree of confusion,

by the loss of those who were slain by the arrows of the English, the

heavy cavalry of Edward again charged with more success than formerly,

and broke through the ranks, which were already disordered. Sir John

Grahame, Wallace's great friend and companion, was slain, with many

other brave soldiers; and the Scots, having lost a very great number

of men, were at length obliged to take to flight.

This fatal battle was fought upon the 22d of July, 1298: Sir John the

Grahame lies buried in the churchyard of Falkirk. A tombstone was laid

over him, which has been three times renewed since his death. The

inscription bears, "That Sir John the Grahame, equally remarkable for

wisdom and courage, and the faithful friend of Wallace, being slain in

battle by the English, lies buried in this place." A large oak tree in

the adjoining forests was long shown as marking the spot where Wallace

slept before the battle, or, as others said, in which he hid himself

after the defeat. Nearly forty years ago, Grandpa saw some of its

roots; but the body of the tree was even then entirely decayed, and

there is not now, and has not been for many years, the least vestige

of it to be seen.

After this fatal defeat of Falkirk, Sir William Wallace seems to have

resigned his office of Governor of Scotland. Several nobles were named

guardians in his place, and continued to make resistance to the

English armies; and they gained some advantages, particularly near

Roslin, where a body of Scots, commanded by John Comyn of Badenoch,

who was one of the guardians of the kingdom, and another distinguished

commander, called Simon Fraser, defeated three armies, or detachments,

of English in one day.

Nevertheless, the king of England possessed so much wealth, and so

many means of raising soldiers, that he sent army after army into the

poor oppressed country of Scotland, and obliged all its nobles and

great men, one after another, to submit themselves once more to his

yoke. Sir William Wallace, alone, or with a very small band of

followers, refused either to acknowledge the usurper Edward, or to lay

down his arms. He continued to maintain himself among the woods and

mountains of his native country for no less than seven years after his

defeat at Falkirk, and for more than one year after all the other

defenders of Scottish liberty had laid down their arms. Many

proclamations were sent out against him by the English, and a great

reward was set upon his head; for Edward did not think he could have

any secure possession of his usurped kingdom of Scotland while Wallace

lived. At length he was taken prisoner; and, shame it is to say, a

Scotsman, called Sir John Menteith, was the person by whom he was

seized and delivered to the English. It is generally said that he was

made prisoner at Robroyston, near Glasgow; and the tradition of the

country bears, that the signal made for rushing upon him and taking

him at unawares, was, when one of his pretended friends, who betrayed

him, should turn a loaf, which was placed upon the table, with its

bottom or flat side uppermost. And in after times it was reckoned ill-

breeding to turn a loaf in that manner, if there was a person named

Menteith in company; since it was as much as to remind him, that his

namesake had betrayed Sir William Wallace, the Champion of Scotland.

Whether Sir John Menteith was actually the person by whom Wallace was

betrayed, is not perfectly certain. He was, however, the individual by

whom the patriot was made prisoner, and delivered up to the English,

for which his name and his memory have been long loaded with disgrace.

Edward, having thus obtained possession of the person whom he

considered as the greatest obstacle to his complete conquest of

Scotland, resolved to make Wallace an example to all Scottish patriots

who should in future venture to oppose his ambitious projects. He

caused this gallant defender of his country to be brought to trial in

Westminster hall, before the English judges, and produced him there,

crowned in mockery, with a green garland, because they said he had

been king of outlaws and robbers among the Scottish woods. Wallace was

accused of having been a traitor to the English crown; to which he

answered, "I could not be a traitor to Edward, for I was never his

subject." He was then charged with having taken and burnt towns and

castles, with having killed many men and done much violence. He

replied, with the same calm resolution, "that it was true he had

killed very many Englishmen, but it was because they had come to

subdue and oppress his native country of Scotland; and far from

repenting what he had done, he declared he was only sorry that he had

not put to death many more of them."

Notwithstanding that Wallace's defense was a good one, both in law and

in common sense, (for surely every one has not only a right to fight

in defense of his native country, but is bound in duty to do so,) the

English judges condemned him to be executed. So this brave patriot was

dragged upon a sledge to the place of execution, where his head was

struck off, and his body divided into four quarters, which, according

to the cruel custom of the time, were exposed upon spikes of iron on

London Bridge, and were termed the limbs of a traitor.

No doubt King Edward thought, that by exercising this great severity

towards so distinguished a patriot as Sir William Wallace, he should

terrify all the Scots into obedience, and so be able in future to

reign over their country without resistance. But though Edward was a

powerful, a brave, and a wise king, and though he took the most

cautious, as well as the most strict measures, to preserve the

obedience of Scotland, yet his claim being founded on injustice and

usurpation, was not permitted by Providence to be lished in security

or peace. Sir William Wallace, that immortal supporter of the

independence of his country, was no sooner deprived of his life, in

the cruel and unjust manner I have told you, than other patriots arose

to assert the cause of Scottish liberty.

THE REPRODUCTION

THE TEMPEST

Charles and Mary Lamb

There was a certain island in the sea, the only inhabitants of

which were an old man, whose name was Prospero, and his daughter

Miranda, a very beautiful young lady. She came to this island

so young, that she had no memory of having seen any other human

face than her father's.

They lived in a cave or cell, made out of a rock; it was divided

into several apartments, one of which Prospero called his study;

there he kept his books, which chiefly treated of magic, a study

at that time much affected by all learned men; and the knowledge of

this art he found very useful to him; for being thrown by a strange

chance upon this island, which had been enchanted by a witch

called Sycorax, who died there a short time before his arrival,

Prospero, by virtue of his art, released many good spirits that

Sycorax had imprisoned in the bodies of large trees, because they

had refused to execute her wicked demands. These gentle spirits

were ever after obedient to the will of Prospero. Of these Ariel was

the chief.

The lively little sprite Ariel had nothing mischievous in his

nature, except that he took rather too much pleasure in tormenting

an ugly monster called Caliban, for he owed him a grudge,

because he was the son of his old enemy Sycorax. This Caliban,

Prospero found in the woods, a strange misshapen thing, far less

human in form than an ape; he took him home to his cell, and

taught him to speak; and Prospero would have been very kind to

him, but the bad nature which Caliban inherited from his mother

Sycorax would not let him learn anything good or useful: therefore

he was employed like a slave, to fetch wood and do the most laborious

offices; and Ariel had the charge of compelling him to these

services.

When Caliban was lazy and neglected his work, Ariel (who was invisible

to all eyes but Prospero's) would come slyly and pinch him,

and sometimes tumble him down in the mire; and then Ariel, in the

likeness of an ape, would make mouths at him. Then swiftly changing

his shape, in the likeness of a hedgehog, he would lie tumbling

in Caliban's way, who feared the hedgehog's sharp quills would

prick his bare feet. With a variety of such like vexatious tricks

Ariel would often torment him, whenever Caliban neglected the work

which Prospero commanded him to do.

Having these powerful spirits obedient to his will, Prospero could

by their means command the winds, and the waves of the sea. By his

orders they raised a violent storm, in the midst of which, and

struggling with the wild sea-waves that every moment threatened

to swallow it up, he showed his daughter a fine large ship, which

he told her was full of living beings like themselves. "O my dear

father," said she, "if by your art you have raised this dreadful

storm, have pity on their sad distress. See! the vessel will be

dashed to pieces. Poor souls! they will all perish. If I had power,

I would sink the ship beneath the earth, rather than the good ship

should be destroyed, with all the precious souls within her.

"Be not so amazed, daughter Miranda," said Prospero; "there is

no harm done. I have so ordered it that no person in the ship shall

receive any hurt. What I have done has been in care of you, my

dear child. You are ignorant who you are, or where you came from,

and you know no more of me, but that I am your father, and live

in this poor cave. Can you remember a time before you came to

this cell? I think you cannot, for you were not then three years of

age."

"Certainly I can, sir," replied Miranda.

"By what?" asked Prospero; "by any other house or person?

Tell me what you can remember, my child."

Miranda said, "It seems to me like the recollection of a dream.

But had I not once four or five women who attended upon me?"

Prospero answered, "You had, and more. How is it that this still

lives in your mind? Do you remember how you came here?"

"No, sir," said Miranda, "I remember nothing more."

"Twelve years ago, Miranda," continued Prospero, "I was duke

of Milan, and you were a princess, and my only heir. I had a

younger brother, whose name was Antonio, to whom I trusted

everything; and as I was fond of retirement and deep study, I

commonly left the management of my state affairs to your uncle,

my false brother (for so indeed he proved). I, neglecting all

worldly ends, buried among my books, did dedicate my whole time

to the bettering of my mind. My brother Antonio being thus in

possession of my power, began to think himself the duke indeed.

The opportunity I gave him of making himself popular among my

subjects awakened in his bad nature a proud ambition to deprive

me of my dukedom: this he soon effected with the aid of the king

of Naples, a powerful prince, who was my enemy."

"Wherefore," said Miranda, "did they not that hour destroy us?"

"My child," answered her father, "they durst not, so dear

was the love that my people bore me. Antonio carried us on board

a ship, and when we were some leagues out at sea he forced us

into a small boat, without either tackle, sail, or mast; there

he left us, as he thought, to perish. But a kind lord of my

court, one Gonzalo, who loved me, had privately placed in the

boat, water, provisions, apparel, and some books which I prize

above my dukedom."

"O my father," said Miranda, "what a trouble must I have been

to you then!"

"No, my love," said Prospero, "you were a little cherub that did

preserve me. Your innocent smiles made me to bear up against my

misfortunes. Our food lasted until we landed on this desert

island, since which time my chief delight has been in teaching

you, Miranda, and well have you profited by my instructions."

"Heaven thank you, my dear father," said Miranda. "Now

pray tell me, sir, your reason for raising this sea storm!"

"Know then," said her father, "that by means of this storm, my

enemies, the king of Naples and my cruel brother, are cast ashore

upon this island."

Having so said, Prospero gently touched his daughter with his

magic wand, and she fell fast asleep; for the spirit Ariel just

then presented himself before his master, to give an account of

the tempest, and how he had disposed of the ship's company; and

though the spirits were always invisible to Miranda, Prospero did

not choose that she should hear him holding converse (as would

seem to her) with the empty air.

"Well, my brave spirit," said Prospero to Ariel, "how have you

performed your task?"

Ariel gave a lively description of the storm, and of the terrors

of the mariners; and how the king's son, Ferdinand, was the first

who leaped into the sea; and his father thought he saw this dear

son swallowed up by the waves and lost. "But he is safe," said

Ariel, "in a corner of the isle, sitting with his arms folded,

sadly lamenting the loss of the king his father, whom he concludes

drowned. Not a hair of his head is injured, and his princely

garments, though drenched in the sea-waves, look fresher than

before."

"That's my delicate Ariel," said Prospero. "Bring him hither: my

daughter must see this young prince. Where is the king, and my

brother?"

"I left them," answered Ariel, "searching for Ferdinand, whom

they have little hopes of finding, thinking they saw him perish. Of

the ship's crew, not one is missing; though each one thinks himself

the only one saved: and the ship, though invisible to them, is safe in

the harbor."

"Ariel," said Prospero, "thy charge is faithfully performed: but

there is more work yet."

"Is there more work?" said Ariel. "Let me remind you, master,

you have promised me my liberty. I pray, remember, I have

done you worthy service, told you no lies, made no mistakes,

served you without grudge or grumbling."

"How now!" said Prospero. "You do not recollect what a

torment I freed you from. Have you forgot the wicked witch Sycorax,

who with age and envy was almost bent double? Where was

she born? Speak; tell me."

"Sir, in Algiers," said Ariel.

"O was she so?" said Prospero. "I must recount what you

have been, which I find you do not remember. This bad witch,

Sycorax, for her witchcrafts, too terrible to enter human hearing,

was banished from Algiers, and here left by sailors; and because

you were a spirit too delicate to execute her wicked commands, she

shut you up in a tree, where I found you howling. This torment,

remember, I did free you from."

"Pardon me, dear master," said Ariel, ashamed to seem ungrateful;

"I will obey your commands."

"Do so," said Prospero, "and I will set you free." He then

gave orders what further he would have him do; and away went

Ariel, first to where he had left Ferdinand, and found him still

sitting on the grass in the same melancholy position.

"O my young gentleman!" said Ariel, when he saw him, "I

will soon move you. You must be brought, I find, for the Lady

Miranda to have a sight of your pretty person. Come, sir, follow

me."

He then began singing,--

"Full fathom five thy father lies;

Of his bones are coral made;

Those are pearls that were his eyes:

Nothing of him that doth fade,

But doth suffer a sea-change

Into something rich and strange,

Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell:

Hark, now I hear them, ding-dong-bell."

This strange news of his lost father soon roused the prince from

the stupid fit into which he had fallen. He followed in amazement

the sound of Ariel's voice, till it led him to Prospero and Miranda,

who were sitting under the shade of a large tree. Now Miranda

had never seen a man before, except her own father.

"Miranda," said Prospero, "tell me what you are looking at yonder."

"O father!" said Miranda, in a strange surprise, "surely that

is a spirit. Lord! how it looks about! Believe me sir, it is a

beautiful creature. Is it not a spirit?"

"No, girl," answered the father; "it eats, and sleeps, and has

senses such as we have. This young man you see was in the ship.

He is somewhat altered by grief, or you might call him a handsome

person. He has lost his companions, and is wandering about to find

them."

Miranda, who thought all men had grave faces and gray beards

like her father, was delighted with the appearance of this beautiful

young prince; and Ferdinand, seeing such a lovely lady in this desert

place, and from the strange sounds he had heard, expecting nothing

but wonders, thought he was upon an enchanted island, and that

Miranda was the goddess of the place, and as such he began to

address her.

She timidly answered she was no goddess, but a simple maid, and

was going to give him an account of herself, when Prospero interrupted

her. He was well pleased to find they admired each other,

for he plainly perceived they had (as we say) fallen in love at first

sight; but to try Ferdinand's constancy, he resolved to throw some

difficulties in their way; therefore, advancing forward, he addressed

the prince with a stern air, telling him, he came to the island as a

spy, to take it from him who was the lord of it. "Follow me," said

he, "I will tie you neck and feet together. You shall drink seawater;

shell-fish, withered roots, and husks of acorns shall be your

food." "No," said Ferdinand, "I will resist such entertainment,

till I see a more powerful enemy," and drew his sword; but Prospero,

waving his magic wand, fixed him to the spot where he stood, so that

he had no power to move.

Miranda hung upon her father, saying, "Why are you so ungentle?

Have pity, sir; I will be his surety. This is the second man

I ever saw, and to me he seems a true one."

"Silence," said the father, "one word more will make me chide

you, girl! What! an advocate for an impostor! You think there

are no more such fine men, having seen only him and Caliban.

I tell you, foolish girl, most men as far excel this as he does

Caliban." This he said to prove his daughter's constancy; and she

replied," My affections are most humble. I have no wish to see

a goodlier man."

"Come on, young man," said Prospero to the prince, "you have

no power to disobey me."

"I have not, indeed," answered Ferdinand; and not knowing that

it was by magic that he was deprived of all power of resistance, he

was astonished to find himself so strangely compelled to follow

Prospero: looking back on Miranda as long as he could see her, he said,

as he went after Prospero into the cave, "My spirits are all bound

up, as if I were in a dream; but this man's threats, and the weakness

which I feel, would seem light to me if from my prison I

might once a day behold this fair maid."

Prospero kept Ferdinand not long confined within his cell: he

soon brought out his prisoner, and set him a severe task to perform,

taking care to let his daughter know the hard labor he had imposed

on him, and then pretending to go into his study, he secretly

watched them both.

Prospero had commanded Ferdinand to pile up some heavy logs

of wood. King's sons not being much used to laborious work,

Miranda soon after found her lover almost dying with fatigue.

"Alas!" said she, "do not work so hard; my father is at his

studies, he is safe for these three hours; pray rest yourself."

"O my dear lady!" said Ferdinand, "I dare not. I must finish

my task before I take any rest."

"If you will sit down," said Miranda, "I will carry your logs the

while." But this Ferdinand would by no means agree to. Instead

of a help Miranda became a hindrance, for they began a long

conversation, so that the business of log-carrying went on very

slowly.

Prospero, who had enjoined Ferdinand this task merely as a trial

of his love, was not at his books, as his daughter supposed, but

was standing by them invisible, to overhear what they said.

Ferdinand inquired her name, which she told, saying it was

against her father's express command she did so.

Prospero only smiled, at this first instance of his daughter's

disobedience, for having by his magic art caused his daughter to

fall in love so suddenly, he was not angry that she showed her

love by forgetting to obey his commands. And he listened well

pleased to a long speech of Ferdinand's, in which he professed

to love her above all the ladies he ever saw.

In answer to his praises of her beauty, which he said exceeded all

the women in the world, she replied, "I do not remember the face

of any woman, nor have I seen any more men than you, my good

friend, and my dear father. How features are abroad, I know not;

but, believe me, sir, I would not wish any companion in the world

but you, nor can my imagination form any shape but yours that I

could like. But, sir, I fear I talk to you too freely, and that

my father's precepts I forget."

At this Prospero smiled, and nodded his head, as much as to

say, "This goes on exactly as I could wish; my girl will be queen

of Naples."

And then Ferdinand, in another fine long speech (for young

princes speak in courtly phrases), told the innocent Miranda he was

heir to the crown of Naples, and that she should be his queen.

"Ah! sir," said she, "I am a fool to weep at what I am glad of.

I will answer you in plain and holy innocence. I am your wife if

you will marry me."

Prospero prevented Ferdinand's thanks by appearing visible before

them.

"Fear nothing, my child," said he, "I have overheard and

approve of all you have said. And, Ferdinand, if I have too severely

used you, I will make you rich amends by giving you my daughter.

All your vexations were but trials of your love, and you have

nobly stood the test. Then as my gift, which your true love has

worthily purchased, take my daughter, and do not smile that I boast

she is above all praise." He then, telling them that he had business

that required his presence, desired that they would sit down and

talk together until he returned; and this command Miranda seemed

not at all disposed to disobey.

When Prospero left them, he called his spirit Ariel, who quickly

appeared before him, eager to relate what he had done with Prospero's

brother and the king of Naples. Ariel said he had left them

almost out of their senses with fear, at the strange things he had

caused them to see and hear. When fatigued with wandering about,

and famished for want of food, he had suddenly set before them

a delicious banquet, and then, just as they were going to eat, he

appeared visible before them in the shape of a harpy, a voracious

monster with wings, and the feast vanished away. Then, to their

utter amazement, this seeming harpy spoke to them, reminding them

of their cruelty in driving Prospero from his dukedom, and leaving

him and his infant daughter to perish in the sea, saying, that

for this cause these terrors were suffered to afflict them.

The king of Naples and Antonio the false brother repented

the injustice they had done to Prospero; and Ariel told his master

that he was certain their penitence was sincere, and that he, though

a spirit, could not but pity them.

"Then bring them hither, Ariel," said Prospero: "if you, who

are but a spirit, feel for their distress, shall not I, who am a

human being like themselves, have compassion on them? Bring them

quickly, my dainty Ariel."

Ariel soon returned with the king, Antonio, and old Gonzalo in

their train, who had followed him, wondering at the wild music

he played in the air to draw them on to his master's presence.

This Gonzalo was the same who had so kindly provided Prospero

formerly with books and provisions, when his wicked brother left

him, as he thought, to perish in an open boat in the sea.

Grief and terror had so stupefied their senses that they did not

know Prospero. He first discovered himself to the good old Gonzalo,

calling him the preserver of his life; and then his brother and

the king knew that he was the injured Prospero.

Antonio, with tears and sad words of sorrow and true repentance,

implored his brother's forgiveness; and the king expressed his

sincere remorse for having assisted Antonio to depose his brother,

and Prospero forgave them; and, upon their engaging to restore his

dukedom, he said to the king of Naples, "I have a gift in store

for you, too;" and opening a door, showed him his son Ferdinand

playing at chess with Miranda.

Nothing could exceed the joy of the father and the son at this

unexpected meeting, for they each thought the other drowned in

the storm.

"O wonder!" said Miranda, "what noble creatures these are!

It must surely be a brave world that has such people in it."

The king of Naples was almost as much astonished at the beauty

and excellent graces of the young Miranda as his son had been.

"Who is this maid?" said he; "she seems the goddess that has

parted us, and brought us thus together." "No, sir," answered

Ferdinand, smiling to find his father had fallen into the same

mistake that he had done when he first saw Miranda, "she is a mortal,

but by immortal Providence she is mine; I chose her when I could

not ask you, my father, for your consent, not thinking you were

alive. She is the daughter to this Prospero, who is the famous duke

of Milan, of whose renown I have heard so much, but never saw him

till now; of him I have received a new life; he has made himself

to me a second father, giving me this dear lady."

"Then I must be her father," said the king; "but oh! how oddly

will it sound, that I must ask my child forgiveness."

"No more of that," said Prospero: "let us not remember our

troubles past, since they so happily have ended." And then Prospero

embraced his brother, and again assured him of his forgiveness;

and said that a wise, overruling Providence had permitted that

he should be driven from his poor dukedom of Milan, that his

daughter might inherit the crown of Naples, for that by their

meeting in this desert island, it had happened that the king's son

had loved Miranda.

These kind words which Prospero spoke, meaning to comfort his

brother, so rilled Antonio with shame and remorse that he wept

and was unable to speak; and the kind old Gonzalo wept to see

this joyful reconciliation, and prayed for blessings on the young

couple.

Prospero now told them that their ship was safe in the harbor,

and the sailors all on board her, and that he and his daughter

would accompany them home the next morning. "In the meantime,"

says he, "partake of such refreshments as my poor cave affords;

and for your evening's entertainment I will relate the history

of my life from my first landing in this desert island." He then

called for Caliban to prepare some food, and set the cave in order;

and the company were astonished at the uncouth form and the savage

appearance of this ugly monster, who (Prospero said) was the

only attendant he had to wait upon him.

Before Prospero left the island, he dismissed Ariel from his service,

to the great joy of that lively little spirit, who, though he had

been a faithful servant to his master, was always longing to enjoy

his free liberty, to wander uncontrolled in the air, like a wild bird,

under green trees, among pleasant fruits and sweet-smelling flowers.

"My quaint Ariel," said Prospero to the little sprite when he

made him free, "I shall miss you; yet you shall have your freedom."

"Thank you, my dear master," said Ariel; "but give me leave to attend

your ship home with prosperous gales, before you bid farewell to the

assistance of your faithful spirit; and then, master, when I am free,

how merrily shall I live!" Here Ariel sung this pretty song:

"Where the bee sucks, there sack I;

In a cowslip's bell I lie;

There I couch when owls do cry.

On the bat's back I do fly

After summer merrily.

Merrily, merrily shall I live now,

Under the blossom that hangs on the bough."

Prospero then buried deep in the earth his magical books and

wand, for he was resolved never more to make use of the magic

art And having thus overcome his enemies, and being reconciled

to his brother and the king of Naples, nothing now remained to

complete his happiness but to revisit his native land, to take possession

of his dukedom, and to witness the happy nuptials of his

daughter Miranda and Prince Ferdinand, which the king said should

be instantly celebrated with great splendor on their return to Naples.

At which place, under the safe convoy of the spirit Ariel, they, after

a pleasant voyage, soon arrived.

DIDACTIC STORIES

THE PURPLE JAR

Maria Edgeworth

Rosamond, a little girl of about seven years old, was walking with

her mother in the streets of London. As she passed along, she

looked in at the windows of several shops, and she saw a great

variety of different sorts of things, of which she did not know the

use, or even the names. She wished to stop to look at them; but

there was a great number of people in the streets, and a great many

carts and carriages and wheelbarrows, and she was afraid to let go

her mother's hand.

"Oh! mother, how happy I should be," said she, as she passed a

toy-shop, "if I had all these pretty things!"

"What, all! Do you wish for them all, Rosamond?"

"Yes, mamma, all."

As she spoke, they came to a milliner's shop; the windows were

hung with ribbons, and lace, and festoons of artificial flowers.

"Oh! mamma, what beautiful roses! Won't you buy some of

them?"

"No, my dear."

"Why?"

"Because I don't want them, my dear."

They went a little farther, and they came to another shop, which

caught Rosamond's eye. It was a jeweler's shop; and there were a

great many pretty baubles, ranged in drawers behind glass.

"Mamma, you'll buy some of these?"

"Which of them, Rosamond?"

"Which? I don't know which; but any of them, for they are all

pretty."

"Yes, they are all pretty; but of what use would they be to

me?"

"Use! Oh, I'm sure you could find some use or other, if you

would only buy them first."

"But I would rather find out the use first."

Rosamond was very sorry that her mother wanted nothing. Presently,

however, they came to a shop, which appeared to her far

more beautiful than the rest. It was a chemist's shop; but she did

not know that.

"Oh, mother! oh!" cried she, pulling her mother's hand.

"Look! look! blue, green, red, yellow, and purple! Oh, mamma,

what beautiful things! Won't you buy some of these?"

Still her mother answered as before, "What use would they be to

me, Rosamond?"

"You might put flowers in them, mamma, and they would look

so pretty on the chimney-piece. I wish I had one of them."

"You have a flower-vase," said her mother; "and that is not for

flowers."

"But I could use it for a flower-vase, mamma, you know."

"Perhaps if you were to see it nearer, if you were to examine it,

you might be disappointed."

"No, indeed; I'm sure I should not. I should like it exceedingly."

Rosamond kept her head turned to look at the purple vase till she

could see it no longer.

"Then, mother," said she, after a pause, "perhaps you have no

money."

"Yes, I have."

"Dear me! if I had money, I would buy roses, and boxes, and

purple flower-pots, and everything." Rosamond was obliged to

pause in the midst of her speech.

"Oh, mamma, would you stop a minute for me? I have got a

stone in my shoe; it hurts me very much."

"How comes there to be a stone in your shoe?"

"Because of this great hole, mamma--it comes in there: my

shoes are quite worn out; I wish you'd be so very good as to give me

another pair."

"Nay, Rosamond, but I have not money enough to buy shoes,

and flower-pots, and boxes, and everything."

Rosamond thought that was a great pity. But now her foot, which

had been hurt by the stone, began to give her so much pain that she

was obliged to hop every other step, and she could think of nothing

else. They came to a shoemaker's shop soon afterwards.

"There! there! mamma, there are shoes--there are little shoes

that would just fit me; and you know shoes would be really of use

to me."

"Yes, so they would, Rosamond. Come in."

She followed her mother into the shop.

Mr. Sole, the shoemaker, had a great many customers, and his

shop was full, so they were obliged to wait.

"Well, Rosamond," said her mother, "you don't think this shop

so pretty as the rest?"

"No, not nearly; it's black and dark, and there are nothing but

shoes all round; and besides, there's a very disagreeable smell."

"That smell is the smell of new leather."

"Is it? Oh!" said Rosamond, looking round, "there is a pair

of little shoes; they'll just fit me, I'm sure."

"Perhaps they might, but you cannot be sure till you have tried

them on, any more than you can be quite sure that you should like

the purple vase _exceedingly_, till you have examined it more

attentively."

"Why, I don't know about the shoes, certainly, till I've tried; but,

mamma, I'm quite sure I should like the flower-pot."

"Well, which would you rather have, that jar, or a pair of shoes?

I will buy either for you."

"Dear mamma, thank you--but if you could buy both?"

"No, not both."

"Then the jar, if you please."

"But I should tell you that I shall not give you another pair of

shoes this month."

"This month! that's a very long time indeed. You can't think

how these hurt me. I believe I'd better have the new shoes--but

yet, that purple flower-pot--Oh, indeed, mamma, these shoes are

not so very, very bad; I think I might wear them a little longer;

and the month will soon be over: I can make them last to the end of

the month, can't I? Don't you think so, mamma?"

"Nay, my dear, I want you to think for yourself: you will have

time enough to consider about it whilst I speak to Mr. Sole about my

boots."

Mr. Sole was by this time at leisure; and whilst her mother was

speaking to him, Rosamond stood in profound meditation, with one

shoe on, and the other in her hand.

"Well, my dear, have you decided?"

"Mamma!--yes--I believe. If you please--I should like the

flower-pot; that is, if you won't think me very silly, mamma."

"Why, as to that, I can't promise you, Rosamond; but when you

are to judge for yourself, you should choose what will make you the

happiest; and then it would not signify who thought you silly."

"Then, mamma, if that's all, I'm sure the flower-pot would make

me the happiest," said she, putting on her old shoe again; "so I

choose the flower-pot."

"Very well, you shall have it: clasp your shoe and come home."

Rosamond clasped her shoe, and ran after her mother: it was not

long before the shoe came down at the heel, and many times was she

obliged to stop, to take the stones out of her shoe, and often was

she obliged to hop with pain; but still the thoughts of the purple

flower-pot prevailed, and she persisted in her choice.

When they came to the shop with the large window, Rosamond

felt her joy redouble, upon hearing her mother desire the servant,

who was with them, to buy the purple jar, and bring it home. He

had other commissions, so he did not return with them. Rosamond,

as soon as she got in, ran to gather all her own flowers, which she

had in a corner of her mother's garden.

"I'm afraid they'll be dead before the flower-pot comes, Rosamond,"

said her mother to her, when she was coming in with the

flowers in her lap.

"No, indeed, mamma, it will come home very soon, I dare say;

and shan't I be very happy putting them into the purple flower-pot?"

"I hope so, my dear."

The servant was much longer returning home than Rosamond had expected;

but at length he came, and brought with him the long-wished-for jar.

The moment it was set down upon the table, Rosamond ran up with an

exclamation of joy.

"I may have it now, mamma?"

"Yes, my dear, it is yours."

Rosamond poured the flowers from her lap upon the carpet, and

seized the purple flower-pot. "Oh, dear mother!" cried she, as

soon as she had taken off the top, "but there's something dark in it

--it smells very disagreeable: what is in it? I didn't want this

black stuff."

"Nor I neither, my dear."

"But what shall I do with it, mamma?"

"That I cannot tell."

"But it will be of no use to me, mamma."

"That I can't help."

"But I must pour it out, and fill the flower-pot with water."

"That's as you please, my dear."

"Will you lend me a bowl to pour it into, mamma?"

"That was more than I promised you, my dear; but I will lend

you a bowl."

The bowl was produced, and Rosamond proceeded to empty the

purple vase. But what was her surprise and disappointment, when it

was entirely empty, to find that it was no longer a _purple_ vase!

It was a plain white glass jar, which had appeared to have that

beautiful color merely from the liquor with which it had been filled.

Little Rosamond burst into tears.

"Why should you cry, my dear?" said her mother; "it will be

of as much use to you now as ever for a flower-vase."

"But it won't look so pretty on the chimney-piece. I am sure, if I

had known that it was not really purple, I should not have wished

to have it so much."

"But didn't I tell you that you had not examined it, and that

perhaps you would be disappointed?"

"And so I am disappointed indeed. I wish I had believed you

beforehand. Now I had much rather have the shoes, for I shall not

be able to walk all this month: even walking home that little way

hurt me exceedingly. Mamma, I'll give you the flower-pot back

again, and that purple stuff and all, if you'll only give me the

shoes."

"No, Rosamond, you must abide by your own choice; and now the

best thing you can possibly do is to bear your disappointment with

good-humor."

"I will bear it as well as I can," said Rosamond, wiping her eyes,

and she began slowly and sorrowfully to fill the vase with flowers.

But Rosamond's disappointment did not end here: many were the

difficulties and distresses into which her imprudent choice brought

her before the end of the month. Every day her shoes grew worse

and worse, till at last she could neither run, dance, jump, nor walk

in them. Whenever Rosamond was called to see anything, she was

pulling up her shoes at the heels, and was sure to be too late. Whenever

her mother was going out to walk, she could not take Rosamond

with her, for Rosamond had no soles to her shoes; and at

length, on the very last day of the month, it happened that her father

proposed to take her and her brother to a glass-house which she had

long wished to see. She was very happy; but, when she was quite

ready, had her hat and gloves on, and was making haste downstairs

to her brother and father, who were waiting at the hall door for her,

the shoe dropped off; she put it on again in a great hurry; but, as

she was going across the hall, her father turned round.

"Why are you walking slipshod? no one must walk slipshod with

me. Why, Rosamond," said he, looking at her shoes with disgust,

"I thought that you were always neat. Go, I cannot take you with

me."

Rosamond colored and retired. "Oh, mamma," said she, as she

took off her hat, "how I wish that I had chosen the shoes! they

would have been of so much more use to me than that jar: however,

I am sure--no, not quite sure--but I hope I shall be wiser another

time."

DIFFERENCE AND AGREEMENT; OR, SUNDAY MORNING

Dr. John Aiken and Mrs. Anna Letitia Barbauld

It was Sunday morning. All the bells were ringing for church,

and the streets were filled with people moving in all directions.

Here, numbers of well-dressed persons and a long train of charity

children were thronging in at the wide doors of a large, handsome

church. There, a smaller number, almost equally gay in dress, were

entering an elegant meeting-house. Up one alley, a Roman Catholic

congregation was turning into their retired chapel, every one crossing

himself with a finger dipped in holy water, as he went in. The

opposite side of the street was covered with a train of Quakers,

distinguished by their plain and neat attire and sedate aspect, who

walked without ceremony into a room as plain as themselves, and

took their seats, the men on one side, and the women on the other,

in silence. A spacious building was filled with an overflowing

crowd of Methodists, most of them meanly habited, but decent and

serious in demeanor; while a small society of Baptists in the

neighborhood quietly occupied their humble place of assembly.

Presently the different services began. The churches resounded

with the solemn organ, and with the indistinct murmurs of a large

body of people following the minister in responsive prayers. From

the meeting were heard the slow psalm, and the single voice of

the leader of their devotions. The Roman Catholic chapel was enlivened

by strains of music, the tinkling of a small bell, and a perpetual

change of service and ceremonial. A profound silence and

unvarying look and posture announced the self-recollection and mental

devotion of the Quakers.

Mr. Ambrose led his son Edwin round all these different assemblies

as a spectator. Edwin viewed everything with great attention,

and was often impatient to inquire of his father the meaning of

what he saw; but Mr. Ambrose would not suffer him to disturb

any of the congregations even by a whisper. When they had gone

through the whole, Edwin found a great number of questions to put

to his father, who explained everything to him in the best manner

he could. At length says Edwin:

"But why cannot all these people agree to go to the same place,

and worship God the same way?"

"And why should they agree?" replied his father. "Do not you

see that people differ in a hundred other things? Do they all dress

alike, and eat and drink alike, and keep the same hours, and use the

same diversions?"

"Ay--but those are things in which they have a right to do as

they please."

"And they have a right, too, to worship God as they please. It

is their own business, and concerns none but themselves."

"But has not God ordered particular ways of worshiping him?"

"He has directed the mind and spirit with which he is to be worshiped,

but not the particular form and manner. That is left for

every one to choose, according as suits his temper and opinions. All

these people like their own way best, and why should they leave it

for the choice of another? Religion is one of the things in which

_mankind were made to differ_."

The several congregations now began to be dismissed, and the street was

again overspread with persons of all the different sects, going

promiscuously to their respective homes. It chanced that a poor man

fell down in the street in a fit of apoplexy, and lay for dead. His

wife and children stood round him crying and lamenting in the bitterest

distress. The beholders immediately flocked round, and, with looks and

expressions of the warmest compassion, gave their help. A Churchman

raised the man from the ground by lifting him under the arms, while a

Dissenter held his head and wiped his face with his handkerchief. A

Roman Catholic lady took out her smelling-bottle, and assiduously

applied it to his nose. A Methodist ran for a doctor. A Quaker

supported and comforted the woman; and a Baptist took care of the

children.

Edwin and his father were among the spectators. "Here," said

Mr. Ambrose, "is a thing in which _mankind were made to agree_."

EYES, AND NO EYES; OR, THE ART OF SEEING

Dr. John Aiken and Mrs. Anna Letitia Barbauld

"Well, Robert, where have you been walking this afternoon?"

said Mr. Andrews to one of his pupils at the close of a holiday.

_R_. I have been, sir, to Broom Heath, and so around by the

windmill upon Camp Mount, and home through the meadows by the

river side.

_Mr. A_. Well, that's a pleasant round.

_R_. I thought it very dull, sir; I scarcely met with a single

person. I had rather by half have gone along the turnpike road.

_Mr. A_. Why, if seeing men and horses is your object, you would,

indeed, be better entertained on the high road. But did you see William?

_R_. We set out together, but he lagged behind in the lane, so I

walked on, and left him.

_Mr. A_. That was a pity. He would have been company for

you.

_R_. O, he is so tedious, always stopping to look at this thing

and that! I had rather walk alone. I dare say he is not got home

yet.

_Mr. A_. Here he comes. Well, William, where have you been?

_W_. O, sir, the pleasantest walk! I went all over Broom Heath,

and so up to the mill at the top of the hill, and then down among

the green meadows by the side of the river.

_Mr. A_. Why, that is just the round Robert has been taking, and

he complains of its dullness, and prefers the high road.

_W_. I wonder at that. I am sure I hardly took a step that did

not delight me, and I brought home my handkerchief full of

curiosities.

_Mr. A_. Suppose, then, you give us some account of what amused

you so much. I fancy it will be as new to Robert as to me.

_W_. I will, sir. The lane leading to the heath, you know, is

close and sandy, so I did not mind it much, but made the best of my

way. However, I spied a curious thing enough in the hedge. It was an

old crab-tree, out of which grew a great bunch of something green,

quite different from the tree itself. Here is a branch of it.

_Mr. A_. Ah! this is mistletoe, a plant of great fame for the

use made of it by the Druids of old in their religious rites and

incantations. It bears a very slimy white berry, of which birdlime

may be made, whence its Latin name of _viscus_, It is one of

those plants which do not grow in the ground by a root of their own,

but fix themselves upon other plants; whence they have been humorously

styled parasitical, as being hangers-on or dependants. It was the

mistletoe of the oak that the Druids particularly honored.

_W_. A little further on I saw a green woodpecker fly to a tree,

and run up the trunk like a cat.

_Mr. A_. That was to seek for insects in the bark, on which they

live. They bore holes with their strong bills for that purpose, and

do much damage to the trees by it.

_W_. What beautiful birds they are!

_Mr. A_. Yes; they have been called from their color and size,

the English parrot.

_W_. When I got upon the open heath, how charming it was! The

air seemed so fresh, and the prospect on every side so free and

unbounded! Then it was all covered with gay flowers, many of which

I had never observed before. There were at least three kinds of

heath (I have got them in my handkerchief here), and gorse, and

broom, and bell-flower, and many others of all colors, that I will

beg you presently to tell me the names of.

_Mr. A_. That I will readily.

_W_. I saw, too, several birds that were new to me. There was

a pretty grayish one, of the size of a lark, that was hopping about

some great stones; and when he flew he showed a great deal of white

above his tail.

_Mr. A_. That was a wheat-ear. They are reckoned very delicious

birds to eat, and frequent the open downs in Sussex, and some other

counties, in great numbers.

_W_. There was a flock of lapwings upon a marshy part of the

heath, that amused me much. As I came near them, some of them

kept flying round and round just over my head, and crying "pewit"

so distinctly one might almost fancy they spoke. I thought I should

have caught one of them, for he flew as if one of his wings was

broken, and often tumbled close to the ground; but, as I came near,

he always made a shift to get away.

_Mr. A_. Ha, ha! you were finely taken in, then! This was all an

artifice of the bird's to entice you away from its nest; for they

build upon the bare ground, and their nests would easily be observed,

did they not draw off the attention of intruders by their loud

cries and counterfeit lameness.

_W_. I wish I had known that, for he led me a long chase, often

over shoes in water. However, it was the cause of my falling in with

an old man and a boy who were cutting and piling up turf for fuel,

and I had a good deal of talk with them about the manner of preparing

the turf, and the price it sells at. They gave me, too, a

creature I never saw before,--a young viper, which they had just

killed, together with its dam. I have seen several common snakes,

but this is thicker in proportion and of a darker color than they are.

_Mr. A_. True. Vipers frequent those turfy boggy grounds, and I

have known several turf-cutters bitten by them.

_W_. They are very venomous, are they not?

_Mr. A_. Enough so to make their wounds painful and dangerous,

though they seldom prove fatal.

_W_. Well--I then took my course up to the windmill on the

mount. I climbed up the steps of the mill in order to get a better

view of the country round. What an extensive prospect! I counted

fifteen church steeples, and I saw several gentlemen's houses peeping

out from the midst of green woods and plantations; and I could

trace the windings of the river all along the low grounds, till it was

lost behind a ridge of hills. But I'll tell you what I mean to do,

sir, if you will give me leave.

_Mr. A_. What is that?

_W_. I will go again, and take with me Carey's county map, by

which I shall probably be able to make out most of the places.

_Mr. A_. You shall have it, and I will go with you, and take my

pocket spying-glass.

_W_. I shall be very glad of that. Well--a thought struck me,

that as the hill is called Camp Mount, there might probably be some

remains of ditches and mounds with which I have read that camps

were surrounded. And I really believe I discovered something of

that sort running round one side of the mount.

_Mr. A_. Very likely you might. I know antiquaries have described

such remains as existing there, which some suppose to be

Roman, others Danish. We will examine them further, when we

go.

_W_. From the hill I went straight down to the meadows below,

and walked on the side of a brook that runs into the river. It was

all bordered with reeds and flags, and tall flowering plants, quite

different from those I had seen on the heath. As I was getting

down the bank co reach one of them, I heard something plunge into

the water near me. It was a large water-rat, and I saw it swim

over to the other side, and go into its hole. There were a great

many large dragon-flies all about the stream. I caught one of the

finest, and have him here in a leaf. But how I longed to catch a

bird that I saw hovering over the water, and every now and then

darting down into it! It was all over a mixture of the most beautiful

green and blue, with some orange color. It was somewhat less

than a thrush, and had a large head and bill, and a short tail.

_Mr. A_. I can tell you what that bird was--a kingfisher, the

celebrated halcyon of the ancients, about which so many tales are

told. It lives on fish, which it catches in the manner you saw. It

builds in holes in the banks, and is a shy, retired bird, never to be

seen far from the stream where it inhabits.

_W_. I must try to get another sight of him, for I never saw a bird

that pleased me so much. Well--I followed this little brook till

it entered the river, and then took the path that runs along the bank.

On the opposite side I observed several little birds running along the

shore, and making a piping noise. They were brown and white, and

about as big as a snipe.

_Mr. A_. I suppose they were sandpipers, one of the numerous

family of birds that get their living by wading among the shallows,

and picking up worms and insects.

W. There were a great many swallows, too, sporting upon the

surface of the water, that entertained me with their motions. Sometimes

they dashed into the stream; sometimes they pursued one another

so quick, that the eye could scarcely follow them. In one

place, where a high, steep sandbank rose directly above the river, I

observed many of them go in and out of holes with which the bank

was bored full.

_Mr. A_. Those were sand martins, the smallest of our species of

swallows. They are of a mouse-color above, and white beneath.

They make their nests and bring up their young in these holes, which

run a great depth, and by their situation are secure from all

plunderers.

_W_. A little further on I saw a man in a boat, who was catching

eels in an odd way. He had a long pole, with broad iron prongs at

the end, just like Neptune's trident, only there were five instead of

three. This he pushed straight down among the mud, in the deepest

parts of the river, and fetched up the eels, sticking between the

prongs.

_Mr. A_. I have seen this method. It is called spearing of eels.

_W_. While I was looking at him, a heron came flying over my

head, with his large flagging wings. He lit at the next turn of the

river, and I crept softly behind the bank to watch his motions. He

had waded into the water as far as his long legs would carry him,

and was standing with his neck drawn in, looking intently on the

stream. Presently he darted his long bill as quick as lightning into

the water, and drew out a fish, which he swallowed. I saw him

catch another in the same manner. He then took alarm at some

noise I made, and flew away slowly to a wood at some distance,

where he alighted.

_Mr. A_. Probably his nest was there, for herons build upon the

loftiest trees they can find, and sometimes in society together, like

rooks. Formerly, when these birds were valued for the amusement

of hawking, many gentlemen had their heronries, and a few are still

remaining.

_W_. I think they are the largest wild birds we have.

_Mr. A_. They are of a great length and spread of wing, but their

bodies are comparatively small.

_W_. I then turned homeward across the meadows, where I stopped

awhile to look at a large flock of starlings, which kept flying about

at no great distance. I could not tell at first what to make of them;

for they rose all together from the ground as thick as a swarm of

bees, and formed themselves into a kind of black cloud, hovering

over the field. After taking a short round, they settled again, and

presently rose again in the same manner. I dare say there were

hundreds of them.

_Mr. A_. Perhaps so; for in the fenny countries their flocks are

so numerous, as to break down whole acres of reeds by settling on

them. This disposition of starlings to fly in close swarms was observed

even by Homer, who compares the foe flying from one of his heroes to a

_cloud_ of stares retiring dismayed at the approach of the hawk.

_W_. After I had left the meadows, I crossed the corn-fields in

the way to our house, and passed close by a deep marle pit. Looking

into it, I saw in one of the sides a cluster of what I took to be

shells; and upon going down, I picked up a clod of marle, which

was quite full of them; but how sea-shells could get there, I cannot

imagine.

_Mr. A_. I do not wonder at your surprise, since many philosophers

have been much perplexed to account for the same appearance. It is not

uncommon to find great quantities of shells and relics of marine

animals even in the bowels of high mountains, very remote from the sea.

They are certainly proofs that the earth was once in a very different

state from what it is at present; but in what manner and how long ago

these changes took place can only be guessed at.

_W_. I got to the high field next our house just as the sun was

setting, and I stood looking at it till it was quite lost. What a

glorious sight! The clouds were tinged purple and crimson and

yellow of all shades and hues, and the clear sky varied from blue to

a fine green at the horizon. But how large the sun appears just as it

sets! I think it seems twice as big as when it is overhead.

_Mr. A_. It does so; and you may probably have observed the

same apparent enlargement of the moon at its rising.

_W_. I have; but pray what is the reason of this?

_Mr. A_. It is an optical deception, depending upon principles

which I cannot well explain to you till you know more of that

branch of science. But what a number of new ideas this afternoon's

walk has afforded you! I do not wonder that you found it

amusing; it has been very instructive, too. Did _you_ see nothing

of all these sights, Robert?

_R_. I saw some of them, but I did not take particular notice of

them.

_Mr. A_. Why not?

_R_. I don't know. I did not care about them, and I made the

best of my way home.

_Mr. A_. That would have been right if you had been sent of a

message; but as you only walked for amusement, it would have been

wiser to have sought out as many sources of it as possible. But so

it is--one man walks through the world with his eyes open, and

another with them shut; and upon this difference depends all the

superiority of knowledge the one acquires above the other. I have

known sailors, who had been in all the quarters of the world, and

could tell you nothing but the signs of the tippling-houses they

frequented in different ports, and the price and quality of the liquor.

On the other hand, a Franklin could not cross the Channel, without

making some observations useful to mankind. While many a vacant,

thoughtless youth is whirled throughout Europe without gaining

a single idea worth crossing a street for, the observing eye and

inquiring mind find matter of improvement and delight in every

ramble in town or country. Do _you_, then, William, continue to

make use of your eyes; and _you_, Robert, learn that eyes were

given you to use.

ANIMAL SKETCHES AND STORIES

RAB AND HIS FRIENDS

John Brown

Four-and-thirty years ago, Bob Ainslie and I were coming up Infirmary

Street from the High School, our heads together, and our arms

intertwisted, as only lovers and boys know how, or why.

When we got to the top of the street, and turned north, we espied a

crowd at the Tron Church. "A dog-fight!" shouted Bob, and was off; and

so was I, both of us all but praying that it might not be over before

we got up! And is not this boy-nature? and human nature too? and don't

we all wish a house on fire not to be out before we see it? Dogs like

fighting; old Isaac says they "delight" in it, and for the best of all

reasons; and boys are not cruel because they like to see the fight.

They see three of the great cardinal virtues of dog or man--courage,

endurance, and skill--in intense action. This is very different from a

love of making dogs fight, and enjoying, and aggravating, and making

gain by their pluck. A boy--be he ever so fond himself of fighting, if

he be a good boy, hates and despises all this, but he would have run

off with Bob and me fast enough; it is a natural, and a not wicked

interest, that all boys and men have in witnessing intense energy in

action.

Does any curious and finely-ignorant woman wish to know how Bob's eye

at a glance announced a dog-fight to his brain? He did not, he could

not see the dogs fighting; it was a flash of an inference, a rapid

induction. The crowd round a couple of dogs fighting, is a crowd

masculine mainly, with an occasional active, compassionate woman

fluttering wildly round the outside, and using her tongue and her hands

freely upon the men, as so many "brutes"; it is a crowd annular,

compact, and mobile; a crowd centripetal, having its eyes and its heads

all bent downwards and inwards, to one common focus.

Well, Bob and I are up, and find it is not over: a small thoroughbred,

white bull-terrier is busy throttling a large shepherd's dog,

unaccustomed to war, but not to be trifled with. They are hard at it;

the scientific little fellow doing his work in great style, his

pastoral enemy fighting wildly, but with the sharpest of teeth and a

great courage. Science and breeding, however, soon had their own; the

Game Chicken, as the premature Bob called him, working his way up, took

his final grip of poor Yarrow's throat,--and he lay gasping and done

for. His master, a brown, handsome, big young shepherd from Tweedsmuir,

would have liked to have knocked down any man, would "drink up Esil, or

eat a crocodile," for that part, if he had a chance: it was no use

kicking the little dog; that would only make him hold the closer. Many

were the means shouted out in mouthfuls, of the best possible ways of

ending it. "Water!" but there was none near, and many cried for it who

might have got it from the well at Blackfriars Wynd. "Bite the tail!"

and a large, vague, benevolent, middle-aged man, more desirous than

wise, with some struggle got the bushy end of _Yarrow's_ tail into

his ample mouth, and bit it with all his might. This was more than

enough for the much-enduring, much perspiring shepherd, who, with a

gleam of joy over his broad visage, delivered a terrific facer upon our

large, vague, benevolent, middle-aged friend,--who went down like a

shot.

Still the Chicken holds; death not far off. "Snuff! a pinch of snuff!"

observed a calm, highly-dressed young buck, with an eyeglass in his

eye. "Snuff, indeed!" growled the angry crowd, affronted and glaring.

"Snuff, a pinch of snuff!" again observes the buck, but with more

urgency; whereon were produced several open boxes, and from a mull

which may have been at Culloden, he took a pinch, knelt down, and

presented it to the nose of the Chicken. The laws of physiology and of

snuff take their course; the Chicken sneezes, and Yarrow is free!

The young pastoral giant stalks off with Yarrow in his arms,--

comforting him.

But the Bull Terrier's blood is up, and his soul unsatisfied; he grips

the first dog he meets, and discovering she is not a dog, in Homeric

phrase, he makes a brief sort of amende, and is off. The boys, with Bob

and me at their head, are after him: down Niddry Street he goes, bent

on mischief; up the Cowgate like an arrow--Bob and I, and our small

men, panting behind.

There, under the single arch of the South Bridge, is a huge mastiff,

sauntering down the middle of the causeway, as if with his hands in his

pockets: he is old, gray, brindled, as big as a little Highland bull,

and has the Shakespearian dewlaps shaking as he goes.

The Chicken makes straight at him, and fastens on his throat. To our

astonishment, the great creature does nothing but stand still, hold

himself up, and roar--yes, roar; a long, serious, remonstrative roar.

How is this? Bob and I are up to them. _He is muzzled!_

The bailies had proclaimed a general muzzling, and his master, studying

strength and economy mainly, had encompassed his huge jaws in a homemade

apparatus, constructed out of the leather of some ancient

_breechin_. His mouth was open as far as it could; his lips curled

up in rage--a sort of terrible grin; his teeth gleaming, ready, from

out the darkness; the strap across his mouth tense as a bowstring; his

whole frame stiff with indignation and surprise; his roar asking us all

round, "Did you ever see the like of this?" He looked a statue of anger

and astonishment, done in Aberdeen granite.

We soon had a crowd: the Chicken held on. "A knife!" cried Bob; and a

cobbler gave him his knife: you know the kind of knife, worn away

obliquely to a point, and always keen. I put its edge to the tense

leather; it ran before it; and then!--one sudden jerk of that enormous

head, a sort of dirty mist about his mouth, no noise,--and the bright

and fierce little fellow is dropped, limp and dead. A solemn pause:

this was more than any of us had bargained for. I turned the little

fellow over, and saw he was quite dead: the mastiff had taken him by

the small of the back like a rat, and broken it.

He looked down at his victim appeased, ashamed, and amazed; snuffed him

all over; stared at him, and taking a sudden thought, turned round and

trotted off. Bob took the dead dog up, and said, "John, we'll bury him

after tea." "Yes," said I, and was off after the mastiff. He made up

the Cowgate at a rapid swing; he had forgotten some engagement. He

turned up the Candlemaker Row, and stopped at the Harrow Inn.

There was a carrier's cart ready to start, and a keen, thin, impatient,

black-a-vised little man, his hand at his gray horse's head, looking

about angrily for something. "Rab, ye thief!" said he, aiming a kick at

my great friend, who drew cringing up, and avoiding the heavy shoe with

more agility than dignity, and watching his master's eye, slunk

dismayed under the cart,--his ears down, and as much as he had of tail

down too.

What a man this must be--thought I--to whom my tremendous hero turns

tail! The carrier saw the muzzle hanging, cut and useless, from his

neck, and I eagerly told him the story, which Bob and I always thought,

and still think, Homer, or King David, or Sir Walter, alone were worthy

to rehearse. The severe little man was mitigated, and condescended to

say, "Rab, ma man, puir Rabbie,"--whereupon the stump of a tail rose

up, the ears were cocked, the eyes filled, and were comforted; the two

friends were reconciled. "Hupp!" and a stroke of the whip were given to

Jess; and off went the three.

Bob and I buried the Game Chicken that night (we had not much of a tea)

in the back-green of his house in Melville Street, No. 17, with

considerable gravity and silence; and being at the time in the Iliad,

and, like all boys, Trojans, we of course called him Hector.

* * * * *

Six years have passed,--a long time for a boy and a dog: Bob Ainslie is

off to the wars; I am a medical student, and clerk at Minto House

Hospital.

Rab I saw almost every week, on the Wednesday; and we had much pleasant

intimacy. I found the way to his heart by frequent scratching of his

huge head, and an occasional bone. When I did not notice him he would

plant himself straight before me, and stand wagging that bud of a tail,

and looking up, with his head a little to the one side. His master I

occasionally saw; he used to call me "Maister John," but was laconic as

any Spartan.

One fine October afternoon, I was leaving the hospital, when I saw the

large gate open, and in walked Rab, with that great and easy saunter of

his. He looked as if taking general possession of the place; like the

Duke of Wellington entering a subdued city, satiated with victory and

peace. After him came Jess, now white from age, with her cart; and in

it a woman carefully wrapped up,--the carrier leading the horse

anxiously, and looking back. When he saw me, James (for his name was

James Noble) made a curt and grotesque "boo," and said, "Maister John,

this is the mistress; she's got a trouble in her breest--some kind o'

an income we're thinkin'."

By this time I saw the woman's face; she was sitting on a sack filled

with straw, her husband's plaid round her, and his big-coat, with its

large white metal buttons, over her feet.

I never saw a more unforgetable face--pale, serious, _lonely_

[Footnote: It is not easy giving this look by one word; it was

expressive of her being so much of her life alone.] delicate, sweet,

without being at all what we call fine. She looked sixty, and had on a

mutch, white as snow, with its black ribbon; her silvery, smooth hair

setting off her dark-gray eyes--eyes such as one sees only twice or

thrice in a lifetime, full of suffering, full also of the overcoming of

it: her eyebrows

"Black brows, they say,

Become some women best, so that there be not

Too much hair there, _but in a semicircle,

Or a half-moon made with a pen."

--A Winter's Tale_

black and delicate, and her mouth firm, patient, and contented, which

few mouths ever are.

As I have said, I never saw a more beautiful countenance, or one more

subdued to settled quiet. "Ailie," said James, "this is Maister John,

the young doctor; Rab's freend, ye ken. We often speak aboot you,

doctor." She smiled, and made a movement, but said nothing; and

prepared to come down, putting her plaid aside and rising. Had Solomon,

in all his glory, been handing down the Queen of Sheba at his palace

gate, he could not have done it more daintily, more tenderly, more like

a gentleman, than did James the Howgate carrier, when he lifted down

Ailie his wife. The contrast of his small, swarthy, weather-beaten,

keen, worldly face to hers--pale, subdued, and beautiful--was something

wonderful. Rab looked on concerned and puzzled, but ready for anything

that might turn up,--were it to strangle the nurse, the porter, or even

me. Ailie and he seemed great friends.