That softly echoed from the neighbouring wood;
While sad to see her sorrowful constraint,
The kingly beast upon her gazing stood:
With pity calm'd he lost all angry mood.
At length, in close breast shutting up her pain,
Arose the virgin born of heavenly brood,
And on her snowy palfrey rode again
To seek and find her knight, if him she might attain.
The lion would not leave her desolate,
But with her went along, as a strong guard
Of her chaste person, and a faithful mate
Of her sad troubles and misfortunes hard:
Still when she slept, he kept both watch and ward,
And when she waked, he waited diligent
With humble service to her will prepared.
From her fair eyes he took commandment,
And ever by her looks conceived her intent.
SPENSER.
* * * * *
DANISH ENCAMPMENT.
[Illustration: Letter S.]
Seven miles from the sea-port of Boston, in Lincolnshire, lies the rural
town of Swineshead, once itself a port, the sea having flowed up to the
market-place, where there was a harbour. The name of Swineshead is
familiar to every reader of English history, from its having been the
resting-place of King John, after he lost the whole of his baggage, and
narrowly escaped with his life, when crossing the marshes from Lynn to
Sleaford, the castle of which latter place was then in his possession.
The King halted at the Abbey, close to the town of Swineshead, which
place he left on horseback; but being taken ill, was moved in a litter
to Sleaford, and thence to his castle at Newark, where he died on the
following day, in the year 1216.
Apart from this traditional interest, Swineshead has other antiquarian
and historical associations. The circular Danish encampment, sixty yards
in diameter, surrounded by a double fosse, was, doubtless, a post of
importance, when the Danes, or Northmen, carried their ravages through
England in the time of Ethelred I., and the whole country passed
permanently into the Danish hands about A.D. 877. The incessant inroads
of the Danes, who made constant descents on various parts of the coast,
burning the towns and villages, and laying waste the country in all
directions, led to that stain upon the English character, the Danish
massacre. The troops collected to oppose these marauders always lost
courage and fled, and their leaders, not seldom, set them the example.
In 1002, peace was purchased for a sum of £24,000 and a large supply of
provisions. Meantime, the King and his councillors resolved to have
recourse to a most atrocious expedient for their future security. It had
been the practice of the English Kings, from the time of Athelstane, to
have great numbers of Danes in their pay, as guards, or household
troops; and these, it is said, they quartered on their subjects, one on
each house. The household troops, like soldiers in general, paid great
attention to their dress and appearance, and thus became very popular
with the generality of people; but they also occasionally behaved with
great insolence, and were also strongly suspected of holding secret
intelligence with their piratical countrymen. It was therefore resolved
to massacre the Hus-carles, as they were called, and their families,
throughout England. Secret orders to this effect were sent to all parts,
and on St. Brice's day, November 13th, 1002, the Danes were everywhere
fallen on and slain. The ties of affinity (for many of them had married
and settled in the country) were disregarded; even Gunhilda, sister to
Sweyn, King of Denmark, though a Christian, was not spared, and with her
last breath she declared that her death would bring the greatest evils
upon England. The words of Gunhilda proved prophetic. Sweyn, burning for
revenge and glad of a pretext for war, soon made his appearance on the
south coast, and during four years he spread devastation through all
parts of the country, until the King Ethelred agreed to give him £30,000
and provisions as before for peace, and the realm thus had rest for two
years. But this short peace was but a prelude to further disturbances;
and indeed for two centuries, dating from the reign of Egbert, England
was destined to become a prey to these fierce and fearless invaders.
[Illustration: DANISH ENCAMPMENT AT SWINESHEAD, LINCOLNSHIRE.]
The old Abbey of Swineshead was demolished in 1610, and the present
structure, known as Swineshead Abbey, was built from the materials.
* * * * *
THE NAMELESS STREAM
[Illustration: Letter B.]
Beautiful stream! By rock and dell
There's not an inch in all thy course
I have not track'd. I know thee well:
I know where blossoms the yellow gorse;
I know where waves the pale bluebell,
And where the orchis and violets dwell.
I know where the foxglove rears its head,
And where the heather tufts are spread;
I know where the meadow-sweets exhale,
And the white valerians load the gale.
I know the spot the bees love best,
And where the linnet has built her nest.
I know the bushes the grouse frequent,
And the nooks where the shy deer browse the bent.
I know each tree to thy fountain head--
The lady birches, slim and fair;
[Illustration]
The feathery larch, the rowans red,
The brambles trailing their tangled hair;
And each is link'd to my waking thought
By some remembrance fancy-fraught.
[Illustration]
Yet, lovely stream, unknown to fame,
Thou hast oozed, and flow'd, and leap'd, and run,
Ever since Time its course begun,
Without a record, without a name.
I ask'd the shepherd on the hill--
He knew thee but as a common rill;
I ask'd the farmer's blue-eyed daughter--
She knew thee but as a running water;
I ask'd the boatman on the shore
(He was never ask'd to tell before)--
Thou wert a brook, and nothing more.
Yet, stream, so dear to me alone,
I prize and cherish thee none the less
That thou flowest unseen, unpraised, unknown,
In the unfrequented wilderness.
Though none admire and lay to heart
How good and beautiful thou art,
Thy flow'rets bloom, thy waters run,
And the free birds chaunt thy benison.
Beauty is beauty, though unseen;
And those who love it all their days,
Find meet reward in their soul serene,
And the inner voice of prayer and praise.
* * * * *
STAFFA.
[Illustration: Letter H.]
Having surveyed the various objects in Iona, we sailed for a spot no
less interesting. Thousands have described it. Few, however, have seen
it by torch or candle light, and in this respect we differ from most
tourists. All description, however, of this far-famed wonder must be
vain and fruitless. The shades of night were fast descending, and had
settled on the still waves and the little group of islets, called the
Treshnish Isles, when our vessel approached the celebrated Temple of the
Sea. We had light enough to discern its symmetry and proportions; but
the colour of the rock--a dark grey--and the minuter graces of the
columns, were undistinguishable in the evening gloom. The great face of
the rock is the most wonderful production of nature we ever beheld. It
reminded us of the west front of York or Lincoln cathedral--a
resemblance, perhaps, fanciful in all but the feelings they both
excite--especially when the English minster is seen by moonlight. The
highest point of Staffa at this view is about one hundred feet; in its
centre is the great cave, called Fingal's Cave, stretching up into the
interior of the rock a distance of more than 200 feet. After admiring in
mute astonishment the columnar proportions of the rock, regular as if
chiselled by the hand of art, the passengers entered a small boat, and
sailed under the arch. The boatmen had been brought from Iona, and they
instantly set themselves to light some lanterns, and form torches of old
ropes and tar, with which they completely illuminated the ocean hall,
into which we were ushered.
The complete stillness of the scene, except the low plashing of the
waves; the fitful gleams of light thrown first on the walls and ceiling,
as the men moved to and fro along the side of the stupendous cave; the
appearance of the varied roof, where different stalactites or
petrifactions are visible; the vastness and perfect art or semblance of
art of the whole, altogether formed a scene the most sublime, grand, and
impressive ever witnessed.
The Cathedral of Iona sank into insignificance before this great temple
of nature, reared, as if in mockery of the temples of man, by the
Almighty Power who laid the beams of his chambers on the waters, and who
walketh upon the wings of the wind. Macculloch says that it is with the
morning sun only that the great face of Staffa can be seen in
perfection; as the general surface is undulating and uneven, large
masses of light or shadow are thus produced. We can believe, also, that
the interior of the cave, with its broken pillars and variety of tints,
and with the green sea rolling over a dark red or violet-coloured rock,
must be seen to more advantage in the full light of day. Yet we question
whether we could have been more deeply sensible of the beauty and
grandeur of the scene than we were under the unusual circumstances we
have described. The boatmen sang a Gaelic _joram_ or boat-song in the
cave, striking their oars very violently in time with the music, which
resounded finely through the vault, and was echoed back by roof and
pillar. One of them, also, fired a gun, with the view of producing a
still stronger effect of the same kind. When we had fairly satisfied
ourselves with contemplating the cave, we all entered the boat and
sailed round by the Clamshell Cave (where the basaltic columns are bent
like the ribs of a ship), and the Rock of the Bouchaille, or the
herdsman, formed of small columns, as regular and as interesting as the
larger productions. We all clambered to the top of the rock, which
affords grazing for sheep and cattle, and is said to yield a rent of £20
per annum to the proprietor. Nothing but the wide surface of the ocean
was visible from our mountain eminence, and after a few minutes' survey
we descended, returned to the boat, and after regaining the
steam-vessel, took our farewell look of Staffa, and steered on for
Tobermory.
_Highland Note-Book_.
[Illustration: FINGAL'S CAVE, STAFFA.]
* * * * *
ON CHEERFULNESS.
[Illustration: Letter I.]
I have always preferred cheerfulness to mirth. The latter I consider as
an act, the former as a habit of the mind. Mirth is short and transient,
cheerfulness fixed and permanent. Those are often raised into the
greatest transports of mirth, who are subject to the greatest
depressions of melancholy: on the contrary, cheerfulness, though it does
not give the mind such an exquisite gladness, prevents us from falling
into any depths of sorrow. Mirth is like a flash of lightning, that
breaks through a gloom of clouds, and glitters for a moment;
cheerfulness keeps up a kind of daylight in the mind, and fills it with
a steady and perpetual serenity.
Men of austere principles look upon mirth as too wanton and dissolute
for a state of probation, and as filled with a certain triumph and
insolence of heart that is inconsistent with a life which is every
moment obnoxious to the greatest dangers. Writers of this complexion
have observed, that the sacred Person who was the great pattern of
perfection, was never seen to laugh.
Cheerfulness of mind is not liable to any of these exceptions; it is of
a serious and composed nature; it does not throw the mind into a
condition improper for the present state of humanity, and is very
conspicuous in the characters of those who are looked upon as the
greatest philosophers among the heathen, as well as among those who have
been deservedly esteemed as saints and holy men among Christians.
If we consider cheerfulness in three lights, with regard to ourselves,
to those we converse with, and the great Author of our being, it will
not a little recommend itself on each of these accounts. The man who is
possessed of this excellent frame of mind, is not only easy in his
thoughts, but a perfect master of all the powers and faculties of the
soul; his imagination is always clear, and his judgment undisturbed; his
temper is even and unruffled, whether in action or solitude. He comes
with a relish to all those goods which nature has provided for him,
tastes all the pleasures of the creation which are poured about him, and
does not feel the full weight of those accidental evils which may befall
him.
If we consider him in relation to the persons whom he converses with, it
naturally produces love and good-will towards him. A cheerful mind is
not only disposed to be affable and obliging, but raises the same
good-humour in those who come within its influence. A man finds himself
pleased, he does not know why, with the cheerfulness of his companion:
it is like a sudden sunshine, that awakens a secret delight in the mind,
without her attending to it. The heart rejoices of its own accord, and
naturally flows out into friendship and benevolence towards the person
who has so kindly an effect upon it.
When I consider this cheerful state of mind in its third relation, I
cannot but look upon it as a constant, habitual gratitude to the great
Author of nature.
There are but two things which, in my opinion, can reasonably deprive us
of this cheerfulness of heart. The first of these is the sense of guilt.
A man who lives in a state of vice and impenitence, can have no title to
that evenness and tranquillity of mind which is the health of the soul,
and the natural effect of virtue and innocence. Cheerfulness in an ill
man deserves a harder name than language can furnish us with, and is
many degrees beyond what we commonly call folly or madness.
Atheism, by which I mean a disbelief of a Supreme Being, and
consequently of a future state, under whatsoever title it shelters
itself, may likewise very reasonably deprive a man of this cheerfulness
of temper. There is something so particularly gloomy and offensive to
human nature in the prospect of non-existence, that I cannot but wonder,
with many excellent writers, how it is possible for a man to outlive the
expectation of it. For my own part, I think the being of a God is so
little to be doubted, that it is almost the only truth we are sure of,
and such a truth as we meet with in every object, in every occurrence,
and in every thought. If we look into the characters of this tribe of
infidels, we generally find they are made up of pride, spleen, and
cavil: it is indeed no wonder that men who are uneasy to themselves,
should be so to the rest of the world; and how is it possible for a man
to be otherwise than uneasy in himself, who is in danger every moment of
losing his entire existence and dropping into nothing?
The vicious man and Atheist have therefore no pretence to cheerfulness,
and would act very unreasonably should they endeavour after it. It is
impossible for any one to live in good-humour and enjoy his present
existence, who is apprehensive either of torment or of annihilation--of
being miserable or of not being at all.
After having mentioned these two great principles, which are destructive
of cheerfulness in their own nature, as well as in right reason, I
cannot think of any other that ought to banish this happy temper from a
virtuous mind. Pain and sickness, shame and reproach, poverty and old
age; nay, death itself, considering the shortness of their duration and
the advantage we may reap from them, do not deserve the name of evils. A
good mind may bear up under them with fortitude, with indolence, and
with cheerfulness of heart. The tossing of a tempest does not discompose
him, which he is sure will bring him to a joyful harbour.
A man who uses his best endeavours to live according to the dictates of
virtue and right reason, has two perpetual sources of cheerfulness, in
the consideration of his own nature and of that Being on whom he has a
dependence. If he looks into himself, he cannot but rejoice in that
existence which is so lately bestowed upon him, and which, after
millions of ages, will be still new and still in its beginning. How many
self-congratulations naturally arise in the mind when it reflects on
this its entrance into eternity, when it takes a view of those
improvable faculties which in a few years, and even at its first setting
out, have made so considerable a progress, and which will be still
receiving an increase of perfection, and consequently an increase of
happiness! The consciousness of such a being spreads a perpetual
diffusion of joy through the soul of a virtuous man, and makes him look
upon himself every moment as more happy than he knows how to conceive.
The second source of cheerfulness to a good mind is its consideration of
that Being on whom we have our dependence, and in whom, though we behold
Him as yet but in the first faint discoveries of his perfections, we see
every thing that we can imagine as great, glorious, and amiable. We find
ourselves every where upheld by his goodness and surrounded with an
immensity of love and mercy. In short, we depend upon a Being whose
power qualifies Him to make us happy by an infinity of means, whose
goodness and truth engage Him to make those happy who desire it of Him,
and whose unchangeableness will secure us in this happiness to all
eternity.
Such considerations, which every one should perpetually cherish in his
thoughts, will banish from us all that secret heaviness of heart which
unthinking men are subject to when they lie under no real affliction,
all that anguish which we may feel from any evil that actually oppresses
us, to which I may likewise add those little cracklings of mirth and
folly, that are apter to betray virtue than support it; and establish in
us such an even and cheerful temper, as makes us pleasing to ourselves,
to those with whom we converse, and to Him whom we are made to please.
ADDISON.
* * * * *
STONY CROSS.
[Illustration: Letter T.]
This is the place where King William Rufus was accidentally shot by Sir
Walter Tyrrel. There has been much controversy on the details of this
catastrophe; but the following conclusions, given in the "Pictorial
History of England," appear to be just:--"That the King was shot by an
arrow in the New Forest; that his body was abandoned and then hastily
interred, are facts perfectly well authenticated; but some doubts may be
entertained as to the precise circumstances attending his death,
notwithstanding their being minutely related by writers who were living
at the time, or who flourished in the course of the following century.
Sir Walter Tyrrel afterwards swore, in France, that he did not shoot the
arrow; but he was, probably, anxious to relieve himself from the odium
of killing a King, even by accident. It is quite possible, indeed, that
the event did not arise from chance, and that Tyrrel had no part in it.
The remorseless ambition of Henry might have had recourse to murder, or
the avenging shaft might have been sped by the desperate hand of some
Englishman, tempted by a favourable opportunity and the traditions of
the place. But the most charitable construction is, that the party were
intoxicated with the wine they had drunk at Malwood-Keep, and that, in
the confusion consequent on drunkenness, the King was hit by a random
arrow."
In that part of the Forest near Stony Cross, at a short distance from
Castle Malwood, formerly stood an oak, which tradition affirmed was the
tree against which the arrow glanced that caused the death of Rufus.
Charles II. directed the tree to be encircled by a paling: it has
disappeared; but the spot whereon the tree grew is marked by a
triangular stone, about five feet high, erected by Lord Delaware,
upwards of a century ago. The stone has since been faced with an iron
casting of the following inscription upon the three sides:--
"Here stood the oak-tree on which an arrow, shot by Sir Walter Tyrrel at
a stag, glanced and struck King William II., surnamed Rufus, on the
breast; of which stroke he instantly died, on the 2nd of August, 1100.
"King William II., surnamed Rufus, being slain, as before related, was
laid in a cart belonging to one Purkess, and drawn from hence to
Winchester, and buried in the cathedral church of that city.
"That where an event so memorable had happened might not hereafter be
unknown, this stone was set up by John Lord Delaware, who had seen the
tree growing in this place, anno 1745."
Stony Cross is a favourite spot for pic-nic parties in the summer. It
lies seven miles from Ringwood, on a wide slope among the woods. From
the road above, splendid views over the country present themselves.
[Illustration: STONY CROSS, NEW FOREST.]
* * * * *
GELERT.
[Illustration: Letter T.]
The spearman heard the bugle sound,
And cheerily smiled the morn;
And many a brach, and many a hound,
Attend Llewellyn's horn.
And still he blew a louder blast,
And gave a louder cheer:
"Come, Gelert! why art thou the last
Llewellyn's horn to hear?
"Oh, where does faithful Gelert roam--
The flower of all his race!
So true, so brave--a lamb at home,
A lion in the chase?"
That day Llewellyn little loved
The chase of hart or hare;
And scant and small the booty proved,
For Gelert was not there.
Unpleased Llewellyn homeward hied,
When, near the portal-seat,
His truant Gelert he espied,
Bounding his lord to greet.
But when he gained the castle-door,
Aghast the chieftain stood;
The hound was smear'd with gouts of gore--
His lips and fangs ran blood!
Llewellyn gazed with wild surprise,
Unused such looks to meet;
His favourite check'd his joyful guise,
And crouch'd and lick'd his feet.
Onward in haste Llewellyn pass'd
(And on went Gelert too),
And still where'er his eyes were cast,
Fresh blood-gouts shock'd his view!
O'erturn'd his infant's bed he found,
The blood-stain'd cover rent,
And all around the walls and ground
With recent blood besprent.
He call'd his child--no voice replied;
He search'd--with terror wild;
Blood! blood! he found on every side,
But nowhere found the child!
"Hell-hound! by thee my child's devour'd!"
The frantic father cried,
And to the hilt his vengeful sword
He plunged in Gelert's side!
His suppliant, as to earth he fell,
No pity could impart;
But still his Gelert's dying yell
Pass'd heavy o'er his heart.
Aroused by Gelert's dying yell,
Some slumberer waken'd nigh:
What words the parent's joy can tell,
To hear his infant cry!
Conceal'd beneath a mangled heap,
His hurried search had miss'd:
All glowing from his rosy sleep,
His cherub boy he kiss'd!
Nor scratch had he, nor harm, nor dread;
But the same couch beneath
Lay a great wolf, all torn and dead--
Tremendous still in death!
[Illustration: SYRIAN WOLF.]
Ah! what was then Llewellyn's pain,
For now the truth was clear;
The gallant hound the wolf had slain
To save Llewellyn's heir.
Vain, vain was all Llewellyn's woe--
"Best of thy kind, adieu!
The frantic deed which laid thee low,
This heart shall ever rue!"
And now a gallant tomb they raise,
With costly sculpture deck'd;
And marbles, storied with his praise,
Poor Gelert's bones protect.
Here never could the spearman pass,
Or forester, unmoved;
Here oft the tear-besprinkled grass
Llewellyn's sorrow proved.
And here he hung his horn and spear;
And oft, as evening fell,
In fancy's piercing sounds would hear
Poor Gelert's dying yell.
W. SPENCER.
* * * * *
THE GREAT WALL OF CHINA.
[Illustration: Letter T.]