David that the town of Keilah was being harassed by plundering bands of
Philistines. As the town evidently did not belong to Judah at this
time, Saul did not move a finger to protect it, although the enemy had
shut up the citizens within their own walls and were robbing the loaded
threshing floors outside. David deliberated long and prayerfully,
together with the priest Abiathar, who was one of his followers,
deciding whether he might successfully attack the bands who were
robbing Keilah. His men were rather fearful of the enterprise, but when
Abiathar decided in favour of it, David's band at once marched over the
highlands of Judah, and surprised and defeated the Philistines with
great loss, and took much booty. David even established himself in the
town, but when Saul discovered that fact, he called out all the forces
of Israel, and prepared to besiege David, full of fiendish joy that the
prey he had so long sought was in his hands at last, for the capture of
four hundred men in a fortress however strong, could only be for his
large army, a question of time. All this became known to David, who was
warned by Abiathar that the inhabitants of Keilah would be compelled
for their own safety to give him up to Saul, and his four hundred men
only saved themselves by a hasty flight breaking up into detachments,
and fleeing wherever they could go, while David with only a handful of
his army, made his way once again into the hospitable wilderness which
stretches from the hills of Judah to the shores of the Dead Sea, and
there he hid in secret places among the crags and tangled brush, while
with fiendish perseverance, Saul sought him every day. But every day
God saved him from capture, yet as the days passed he became weary and
discouraged in heart. Then in a lonely hour there came a rare joy to
David--Jonathan, his friend, stood beside him with outstretched hands
and beaming eyes, joy expressed on every line of his sensitive,
delicate face.
David has no words ready for such a joyous moment--he is no longer the
brave warrior--leader of men. He throws his arms about Jonathan's neck,
and tears come,--yes, tears,--and Jonathan too, is unnerved, but there
is no time to lose, they may be discovered any moment and that will
mean death for at least one of them. Jonathan is the first to speak,
clasping David's hand closely.
"Fear not," he says in a clear, calm voice, "the hand of Saul, my
father, shall not find thee, and thou shalt be King over Israel, and I
shall be next unto thee, and that also my father knoweth."
So spoke Jonathan, and the words came from his heart, for knowing as he
did of all the courageous acts of David, and of all the diplomacy he
had used to help others as well as himself, Jonathan's heart told him
that his friend was truly worthy to be King of Israel rather than he,
the rightful heir to the throne, and with deepest love and admiration
in his eyes and voice, and at peril of his life, should he be found
with David, he told David this, and David's eyes shone with joy and
pride in his friend's appreciation, and his hand-clasp grew firmer, and
there was deep, intense silence while the two friends thought of past
and future, and looked into each other's eyes as comrades look who
trust and understand.
Then, Jonathan renewed his covenant of friendship for David, and of
loyalty to his descendants for ever, and David began to give his
answering promise, but he could not finish the words because of a great
sob which burst from him. And Jonathan could say no words of comfort,
for his soul was full of misery too, because he must so soon part from
David. Then David who was quick to see and feel Jonathan's pain, turned
away, and hastily, with a mighty effort controlled his misery, that his
friend might not see sorrow on his face, and with one last look
Jonathan turned and silently went from the forest, out into the larger
world and back into the less free life that was his at the Court of his
father. Back to his own duty which he never shirked, went Jonathan, and
to David remained only the fulfilling of that renewed covenant of
comradeship. And fulfil it he did.
In the following months Saul still sought daily to kill him, but daily
failed to do so, and instead David had an opportunity to capture and
kill Saul, when he came upon him by night sleeping, with his spear
stuck in the ground at his head, and surrounded by Abner and his people
who were sleeping too. Think what a temptation that was for David to
resist! But even though it would have freed his life of a dangerous
enemy and raised him to the throne, David would not yield to it, for he
said:
"Who can stretch forth his hand against the Lord's anointed and be
guiltless? The Lord shall smite him, or his day will come to die, or he
will descend into the battle and perish, but God forbid that I should
stretch my hand against him."
And never did he raise his hand against Saul, though still Saul pursued
him with relentless hatred, but still David escaped from his hand, and
he and his band of followers became daily more famous for their deeds
of valour, and for the brave warfare they waged against their enemies.
War again broke out between the Israelites and the Philistines. David
and his men who were not now with either army, but who had just
captured the Amalekites and taken from them large booty, were rejoicing
over this victory, when joy was turned to sorrow. News was brought to
David that both Saul and Jonathan had fallen in battle against the
Philistines at Gilboa.
Jonathan gone from him! Jonathan, his friend, gone beyond his sight for
ever! David refused to believe this until he who brought the sad
tidings had again and again given proof of its truth. Then David gave
way to his grief, and he and all his men who sorrowed with him, wept
and mourned and fasted until evening, for Saul, the king, and for
Jonathan, his son, and David mourned as one who cannot be comforted.
Although David had known only too well the truth about Saul's great
weakness, and had feared him as his most dangerous enemy, still to him
was Saul always the King of Israel, mighty in strength of character,
and in all the pomp and power of a nation's ruler; still the king of a
shepherd boy's dreams and also he was the father of Jonathan, and
because of David's childhood's ideal of Saul, the king, and because of
his great grief for Jonathan his friend, David, who was now the King of
Israel, expressed his true feelings in this wonderful poem in memory of
Saul, and of Jonathan his friend:
The beauty of Israel is slain upon thy high places
How are the mighty fallen!
Tell it not in Gath
Publish it not in the streets of Askelon,
Lest the daughters of the Philistines rejoice
Lest the daughters of the uncircumcised triumph,
Ye mountains of Gelboa, let there be no dew,
Neither let there be rain upon you!
For there the shield of the mighty was vilely cast away,
The shield of Saul, the anointed of the Lord.
From the blood of the slain,
From the fat of the mighty,
The bow of Jonathan turned not back
And the sword of Saul returned not empty,
Jonathan and Saul
Were lovely and pleasant in their lives
And in their deaths they were not divided;
They were swifter than eagles,
They were stronger than lions,
Ye daughters of Israel, weep over Saul,
Who clothed you in scarlet, with other delights,
Who put on ornaments of gold on your apparel,
How are the mighty fallen in the midst of the battle!
O Jonathan, thou wast slain
I am distressed for thee, my brother Jonathan!
Very pleasant hast thou been unto me,
Thy love to me was wonderful,
Passing the love of women,
How are the mighty fallen,
And the weapons of war perished!
LOUIS SEVENTEENTH:
The Boy King Who Never Reigned
It was the early morning of a bright June day, and the famous gardens
surrounding the palace at Versailles were gay with bloom and heavy with
scents as rare as was the morning. King Louis Sixteenth of France
looked from a window out over the terraces in their vari-coloured
beauty, and saw among the blossoms, a little figure busy with spade and
rake, and although the King's heart was heavy with sorrow because of
the death of his elder son, the Dauphin, as the eldest son of the King
of France, and heir to the throne, was always called, yet he was filled
too with pride as he looked out at the little Louis Charles, to whom
only three short hours before had descended the titles and honours
which had belonged to his brother.
The King's long and earnest glance at the little Dauphin attracted the
child's attention, and dropping his tools, he waved frantically towards
the window, crying out:
"Papa, see the beautiful flowers. I am pleased with myself. I shall
deserve mamma's first kiss to-day, I shall have a bouquet for her
dressing-table. May I come and show it to you?"
The king bowed his head in answer and smiled a sad smile as he turned
to the queen, Marie Antoinette, who even then stood beside him, weeping
bitterly for the other son who had gone from her for ever.
So absorbed was King Louis in his attempt to comfort her, that he
forgot the new little Dauphin, until the door opened softly, and he saw
the small figure standing just inside the door, holding tightly in his
hand a bouquet of violets and roses. Charming in his childish grace and
beauty was little Louis as he stood there, watching his father and then
his mother, with grave concern at their evident sadness, and quickly he
held up his flowers to his mother and said with sweet grace:
"Mamma, I have picked you some flowers from my garden."
Still Marie Antoinette could not speak, but the king caught the child
up in his arms, saying:
"Marie, he too is our son. He is the Dauphin of France."
Slowly Marie Antoinette turned, clasped his bright, lovely face in her
two hands, and stooping, kissed him tenderly on his forehead.
"I had forgotten," she said. "God bless and protect you, Dauphin of
France. I only pray that the storm clouds which now darken our sky may
be long past, when you ascend the throne of your fathers!"
Little Louis' forehead was wrinkled with perplexity.
"But, mamma," he asked timidly--"why is it you all call me Dauphin
to-day, when I am just your little Louis, who is called the Duke of
Normandy?"
"My son," said the King, solemnly, "each day differs from the last, and
this new day has brought you a new name and a new position. Your poor
dear brother has left us for ever. He has gone to God, and you are now
in his place, the Dauphin of France."
"And is that why mamma is crying, and will Louis never come back?"
"No, dear, he will never come back, and so your mamma is grieving."
Quickly little Louis' arms went around her neck.
"Oh," he cried, "poor, dear mamma! I don't see how anyone can leave
you, and not come back? _I_ will never leave you, never, never!"
"God grant it!" sighed the queen, pressing him tenderly to her. "May He
grant it--oh, my precious child!" and then with his face close to hers,
and a little hand held tight in the big one of his father, whose arm
was around them both, Louis continued:
"If it is mine now, please tell me what it means--that name, the
Dauphin."
The king answered:
"My son, this is what it means. You are now the eldest son of the King
of France, and some day you will be the king, and to you belong now the
titles and honours that were your brother's. Do you understand?"
Instead of showing appreciation, Louis' blue eyes looked entreatingly
at the Queen, and his lips quivered.
"Mamma," he whispered, "I like being Duke of Normandy best. Will you
love me any better if I am called the Dauphin?"
"No, dear child," answered the Queen tenderly, "I shall not love you
better, but you are no longer the Duke of Normandy. You are the Dauphin
now, the future King of France!" A sob choked the words as Marie
Antoinette turned hastily away to hide her grief, and in doing so, she
put her foot on the flowers which little Louis had brought her. His
face clouded as he saw this, then with a bright smile he looked into
the Queen's face, saying quickly:
"Mamma, I wish you always walked on flowers I picked for you."
Without a word Marie Antoinette turned, and clasping him in her arms,
was comforted. Then, reminded of state duties to be done, she was about
to release him when he whispered:
"Did my poor dear brother only leave me his title? Oh, mamma, I do not
want it. But there is something of his that I _do_ want to have very,
very much now that I am the Dauphin."
The King looked bewildered, but the Queen smiled through her tears.
"I think I can guess what it is," she said, "see if I can, little
Louis," and putting him down, she softly left the room, and when she
came back there ran and frisked about her, jumping for joy of
comradeship, a tiny black dog who rushed up to Louis, and jumped on him
over and over again, and the child clasped it in his arms, while the
dog put its paws on Louis' shoulders and licked his rosy cheeks with
frantic affection.
"Now, my Louis," asked the Queen, "did I guess right? Wasn't that what
you wanted so much?"
"Oh, yes it was! It was!" exclaimed the boy, his eyes shining with joy.
"Is he really mine now? Does he belong to my inheritance?"
The Queen could not answer, but the King spoke sadly.
"Yes, my son, he belongs to your inheritance."
The Dauphin shouted with joy.
"He is mine! He is mine!" and as he held the little dog close to him,
the picture was a pretty one, the boy with his round rosy face, dimpled
chin and deep blue eyes shaded by long, dark lashes, with his high
forehead, and heavy golden hair, all the delicacy of his colouring and
features thrown into relief by the dark blue velvet of his suit, all
the charm of his expressive face shone in his joy over the new treasure
which he was clasping tight. What to the little Dauphin was the silver
star embroidered on his left shoulder, which showed his princely rank
and removed him from the rank and file of other boys? What was a crown,
a title--even the throne itself? They were less than nothing to him in
comparison with the little dog nestling in his arms and licking his
face, and while the King and Queen watched the pretty picture they
sighed for the simple joys of childhood, and Marie Antoinette, looking
into her husband's face murmured:
"God keep him in His care!"
Although the little Louis' new title was of such small value to him,
yet the possession of it changed the whole of his life, and as soon as
he became the Dauphin, his education and training were of the gravest
importance, for he would some day rule in his father's place.
Accordingly, every possible advantage that could be given him was
secured, and while his father saw to it that he should have enough
out-of-door exercise to keep him sturdy and strong, his mother
superintended his lessons, as well as those of his sister, Therese.
Although Marie Antoinette was young and pleasure-loving and was often
called frivolous because of the spontaneous gaiety into which her
nature often led her, yet she was a devoted mother, and every morning
at ten o'clock, Therese, the Dauphin, and their teachers went to the
queen's rooms, and there learned and recited lessons.
The little Dauphin was a brilliant scholar and said such bright things
that all the courtiers took great pleasure in asking him questions,
that they might hear his answers. One day while saying his lessons, he
began to hiss loudly, for which his mother reproved him.
"I was only hissing at myself," he said, "because I just said my lesson
so badly."
On the evening before the queen's birthday the king told the Dauphin
that he would buy him a handsome bouquet to give his mother for a
birthday present, but that he wanted him to write a letter of
congratulation to go with it. To his surprise the Dauphin did not show
as much pleasure as he expected at this and finally on questioning him
he discovered the truth.
"I have got a beautiful everlasting in my garden," Louis said, "I want
to give it to her, please, papa, it will be my bouquet and my letter
all together, for when I give it to mamma I shall say, 'I hope mamma,
that you will be like this flower.'"
The idea was so pretty and the boy so eager, that he had his way, and
King Louis' pride in this clever child was great.
He was no prig, no saintly child, this little King Louis Seventeenth to
be, he was just a sensitive, affectionate boy, whose winning manner and
charm of person attracted all to him, and made him an especial pet of
the older people from whose conversation he gathered much information
which they never thought he understood.
One day when playing in the garden, full of excited vigour, he was just
going to rush through a hedge of roses, when an attendant stopped him
and warned him, saying:
"Monseigneur, one of those thorns might blind you or tear your face."
But the Dauphin persisted, and when halfway through the hedge, called
back:
"Thorny paths lead to glory"--a phrase so ominous of the poor little
Dauphin's future that it has ever been remembered as one of the most
remarkable of his sayings.
For some time, the Dauphin who was quick to respond to joy or sadness
in those around him noticed many signs of distress, not only in the
faces of his father and mother, but in those of others whom he saw
daily, and many an hour when no one knew it, his childish mind spent in
wondering about the situation, trying to understand the heated words he
heard, the tears he saw, and sometimes he would creep up to Marie
Antoinette and pat her smooth cheek reassuringly, and kiss her
lovingly, and though this comforted, it added to the pain of the Queen,
who feared for the happiness of the future King of France.
The Reign of Terror was at hand. The Revolutionists, fierce and strong
in their murderous frenzy had risen, risen to kill monarchs and
monarchy. Louis Sixteenth was on the throne--therefore Louis Sixteenth
must go; Marie Antoinette was his wife; she had danced, and spent money
like water while they, the people had needed bread, so they said--and
Marie Antoinette must go. Little Louis was heir to the throne--that
throne whose power must be overthrown, and so Louis the Dauphin must
go.
The rulers of France had for generations proved so false to their trust
and to their kingly responsibility that the love of the people had at
last been changed into hate. Louis Fourteenth and Louis Fifteenth had
sinned so deeply against those whom their oath of office bound them to
protect, that now at last there was no feeling but revenge and hatred
in the hearts of the subjects of the King of France, and on the heads
of the reigning sovereigns, Louis Sixteenth and Marie Antoinette fell
the horrors of the Reign of Terror, which was now reaching a point
where only torture and bloodshed could appease the fiends who were
rapidly becoming all-powerful. It was claimed that the taxes collected
from the people for the expenses of war and government were being
misused for the extravagances and frivolities of the royal family. It
was even claimed that the people were starving for bread while the King
and Queen were living in luxury, and this because the fiends of the
revolution had caused all bake-shops to stop baking bread, so that the
cry of starvation might be raised among the people, who could then be
incited to storm the palace and demand bread of the royal family.
The very scum of civilisation, the dregs of the population of France,
were roused in fierce and unjust revolt against the royal family; yes,
in revolt and in power, and on a day of early October, 1789, a howling
mob of frenzied men, women and children swept up the peaceful avenues
of Versailles, shrieking their fiendish cries for vengeance on the
royal family, and then they invaded and took possession of the royal
apartments. Aghast at the outrages committed in the name of the French
people, the King and Queen tried in every way to restore the mob to
peace, but in vain. The leaders of the rebellion demanded the immediate
appearance in Paris, which was the seat of the revolution, of King
Louis and his family, where they could be closely watched by their
enemies, describing in alarming terms, the danger to his majesty if he
did not comply with the request. Accordingly, after hours of
indescribable horrors and humiliation and anguish, the king was obliged
to give his consent to the plan, and the royal family made ready for
their departure from Versailles. During their seven hours' journey to
Paris, they were followed by a rabble of such human fiends as had
invaded the palace at Versailles, and although throughout the whole
terrible trip, Marie Antoinette and the King bore themselves with sad
and dignified composure, yet the strain on them both was almost too
great to be borne. Through all the agony and excitement, the Dauphin
frightened though he was, seeing his mother's tears, tried to smile
courageously into her face, and to keep back words of complaint, and
the sight of his courage almost broke his mother's heart. What would
this all mean to him, the future king of France? Alas, poor little
Dauphin!
At last they reached the Tuileries, the royal palace in Paris, where no
French King had lived since Louis Fifteenth was a young man. There had
been no preparations made for the coming of the royal family. The
palace, so long uninhabited was in a state of dilapidation, and there
were no comforts in it, and very few necessities. But the travellers
were too much exhausted to heed anything but that they had reached a
temporary shelter and were relieved that death, which the day before
had seemed so imminent, had been, for the present, put aside.
Exhausted to the breaking point, Marie Antoinette slept soundly that
night, and on the next morning as she sipped her chocolate in a room
which had been hastily transformed into a sitting-room for her, she was
thinking sadly of life and its changes when the door opened and the
Dauphin ran in and flung himself into her arms.
"Oh, mamma," he cried, "please let us go back to our beautiful palace
at home. This big house frightens me with its shadows. Why have we come
here, mamma, when we have such a lovely palace and garden of our own?"
The queen sighed.
"My son," she said, "this palace belongs to us too, as well as
Versailles, and it is considered a beautiful palace. It is where the
great Louis Fourteenth lived, you know."
"Well, I don't like it at all and I wish we could go away," whispered
the Dauphin, casting a homesick look around the great bare room,
furnished so meagrely with faded furniture.
"I wish so too." The queen scarcely breathed the words, but the
sensitive child's ears caught them, and he answered eagerly.
"Then why do we have to stay? I thought a queen could always do what
she wanted to do."
In answer the poor, sore-hearted queen burst into tears, whereupon the
Dauphin's tutor tried to take the child from her, saying severely:
"My prince, you see you trouble the queen, and her majesty sorely needs
a rest. Come with me for a walk."
But Marie Antoinette shook her head and clung to the child whose hand
was now gently stroking her cheek, and whose tears were mingled with
her own.
Then from the street came the dreaded sound of loud shouts and cries
and threats, and the Dauphin clung more tightly to his mother, both
shivering with dread but both brave.
"Mamma," asked the Dauphin, "is to-day going to be just like
yesterday?"
His question was answered by the king himself, who entered the room
just then and flung himself into a chair, telling the queen that those
who had aided the mob in their violent acts were about to be brought to
trial for them, and he added his request that the queen should receive
the committee who had come to judge the people for their violence.
In stately dignity, Marie Antoinette then left the room to receive
other subjects, who still considered her the queen of France, and after
her going, King Louis and his little son were left alone.
The king, exhausted in body and mind, closed his eyes and lay back in
his chair, ready to sink into a light doze, when he was roused by a
gentle touch on his arm.
Beside him stood the Dauphin, his great blue eyes full of grave
thoughtfulness. When he saw the King's eyes open, he spoke.
"Papa," he said, hesitatingly, "I should like to ask you
something--something really serious!"
"Something really serious!" replied the King, smiling in spite of
himself. "Well, what is it? Let me hear."
"Papa," answered the Dauphin, with an air of one who has thought deeply
on a subject. "My governess has always told me I must love the people
of France and treat them kindly, because they love you and mama so
much. But if they do, papa, then why do the people act so badly to you?
And oh, papa, I have been told that your people owe you obedience and
respect, but they were not obedient nor respectful yesterday and they
said dreadful things I never heard before. What does it mean, papa?"
The king drew the child on to his knee and put an arm around the grave
little questioner, telling him that he would explain it to him, but
that he would have to listen carefully if he wished to understand such
grave matters.
"Oh, I will, I will," answered the Dauphin eagerly. "I know that I am
one of your subjects, and that as your son and a subject too, I must
give a good example to the French people of loving and obeying the
king. But it seems that my example has not done any good at all yet.
How does that happen, papa?"
In answer, the King told him that wicked men had said to the people
that he did not love them, that they had listened and believed this,
that France had had great wars, and wars cost a great deal. And so,
because he was the King, he had asked money of his subjects, just as
had always been done by other Kings.
"Oh, but papa," cried the Dauphin, "why did you do that? Why did you
not take my purse and pay out of that? You know that I receive every
day my purse filled with bright new francs and I could have helped you
easily. And, oh papa, do your people have more money than you have
yourself?"