BOOK V.

INTRODUCTION.

Throughout this book, and the next, you will find passages taken from

the writings of the best English authors. But the passages are not all

equal, nor are they all such as we would call "the best," and the more

you read and are able to judge them for yourselves, the better you will

be able to see what is the difference between the best and those that

are not so good.

By the best authors are meant those who have written most skilfully

in prose and verse. Some of these have written in prose, because they

wished to tell us something more fully and freely than they could do if

they tied themselves to lines of an equal number of syllables, or ending

with the same sound, as men do when they write poetry. Others have

written in verse, because they wished rather to make us think over

and over again about the same thing, and, by doing so, to teach

us, gradually, how much we could learn from one thing; if we think

sufficiently long and carefully about it; and, besides this, they knew

that rhythmical or musical language would keep longest in our memory

anything which they wished to remain there; and by being stored up in

our mind, would enrich us in all our lives after.

In these books you will find pieces taken from authors both in prose and

verse. But of the authors who have made themselves famous by the books

which they have written in our language, many had to be set aside.

Because many writers, though their books are famous, have written so

long ago, that the language which they use, though it is really the same

language as our own, is yet so old-fashioned that it is not readily

understood. By and by, when you are older, you may read these books, and

find it interesting to notice how the language is gradually changing; so

that, though we can easily understand what our grandfathers or our great

grandfathers wrote, yet we cannot understand, without carefully studying

it, what was written by our own ancestors a thousand, or even five

hundred, years ago.

The first thing, however, that you have to do--and, perhaps, this book

may help you to do it--is to learn what is the best way of writing or

speaking our own language of the present day. You cannot learn this

better than by reading and remembering what has been written by men,

who, because they were very great, or because they laboured very hard,

have obtained a great command over the language. When we speak of

obtaining a command over language we mean that they have been able to

say, in simple, plain words, exactly what they mean. This is not so easy

a matter as you may at first think it to be. Those who write well do not

use roundabout ways of saying a thing, or they might weary us; they

do not use words or expressions which might mean one or other of two

things, or they might confuse us; they do not use bombastic language, or

language which is like a vulgar and too gaudy dress, or they might make

us laugh at them; they do not use exaggerated language, or, worse than

all, they might deceive us. If you look at many books which are written

at the present day, or at many of the newspapers which appear every

morning, you will find that those who write them often forget these

rules; and after we have read for a short time what they have written,

we are doubtful about what they mean, and only sure that they are trying

to attract foolish people, who like bombastic language as they like too

gaudy dress, and are caring little whether what they write is strictly

true or not.

It is, therefore, very important that you should take as your examples

those who have written very well and very carefully, and who have been

afraid lest by any idle or careless expression they might either lead

people to lose sight of what is true, or might injure our language,

which has grown up so slowly, which is so dear to us, and the beauty of

which we might, nevertheless, so easily throw away.

As you read specimens of what these authors have written, you will find

that they excel chiefly in the following ways:

First. They tell us just what they mean; neither more nor less.

Secondly. They never leave us doubtful as to anything we ought to know

in order to understand them. If they tell us a story, they make us feel

as if we saw all that they tell us, actually taking place.

Thirdly. They are very careful never to use a word unless it is

necessary; never to think a word so worthless a thing that it can be

dragged in only because it sounds well.

Fourthly. When they rouse our feelings, they do so, not that they may

merely excite or amuse us, but that they may make us sympathise more

fully with what they have to tell.

In these matters they are mostly alike; but in other matters you will

find that they differ from each other greatly. Our language has come

from two sources. One of these is the English language as talked by our

remote ancestors, the other is the Latin language, which came to us

through French, and from which we borrowed a great deal when our

language was getting into the form it now has. Many of our words and

expressions, therefore, are Old English, while others are borrowed from

Latin. Some authors prefer to use, where they can, old English words and

expressions, which are shorter, plainer, and more direct; others prefer

the Latin words, which are more ornamental and elaborate, and perhaps

fit for explaining what is obscure, and for showing us the difference

between things that are very like. This is one great contrast; and there

are others which you will see for yourselves as you go on. And while

you notice carefully what is good in each, you should be careful not to

imitate too exactly the peculiarities, which may be the faults, in any

one.

* * * * *

INCIDENT IN THE LIFE OF DR. JOHNSON.

During the last visit Dr. Johnson paid to Lichfield, the friends with

whom he was staying missed him one morning at the breakfast-table. On

inquiring after him of the servants, they understood he had set off from

Lichfield at a very early hour, without mentioning to any of the

family whither he was going. The day passed without the return of the

illustrious guest, and the party began to be very uneasy on his account,

when, just before the supper-hour, the door opened, and the doctor

stalked into the room. A solemn silence of a few minutes ensued, nobody

daring to inquire the cause of his absence, which was at last

relieved by Johnson addressing the lady of the house in the following

manner:--"Madam, I beg your pardon for the abruptness of my departure

from your house this morning, but I was constrained to it by my

conscience. Fifty years ago, madam, on this day, I committed a breach of

filial piety, which has ever since lain heavy on my mind, and has

not till this day been expiated. My father, as you recollect, was a

bookseller, and had long been in the habit of attending Lichfield

market, and opening a stall for the sale of his books during that day.

Confined to his bed by indisposition, he requested me, this time fifty

years ago, to visit the market, and attend the stall in his place. But,

madam, my pride prevented me from doing my duty, and I gave my father a

refusal. To do away the sin of this disobedience, I this day went in a

post-chaise to Lichfield, and going into the market at the time of high

business, uncovered my head, and stood with it bare an hour before the

stall which my father had formerly used, exposed to the sneers of the

standers-by and the inclemency of the weather--a penance by which I

hope I have propitiated Heaven for this only instance, I believe, of

contumacy towards my father."

Warner's _Tour in the Northern

Counties_.

[Notes: _Dr. Samuel Johnson_, born 1709, died 1784 By hard and unaided

toil he won his way to the front rank among the literary men of his day.

He deserves the honour of having been the first to free literature from

the thraldom of patronage.

_Filial piety_. Piety is used here not in a religious sense, but in its

stricter sense of dutifulness. In Virgil "the Pious Aneas" means "Aneas

who showed dutifulness to his father."]

* * * * *

THE OLD PHILOSOPHER AND THE YOUNG LADY.

"Alas!" exclaimed a silver-headed sage, "how narrow is the

utmost extent of human knowledge! I have spent my life in acquiring

knowledge, but how little do I know! The farther I attempt to penetrate

the secrets of nature, the more I am bewildered and benighted. Beyond

a certain limit all is but conjecture: so that the advantage of the

learned over the ignorant consists greatly in having ascertained how

little is to be known.

"It is true that I can measure the sun, and compute the distances of the

planets; I can calculate their periodical movements, and even ascertain

the laws by which they perform their sublime revolutions; but with

regard to their construction, to the beings which inhabit them, their

condition and circumstances, what do I know more than the clown?--

Delighting to examine the economy of nature in our own world, I have

analyzed the elements, and given names to their component parts. And

yet, should I not be as much at a loss to explain the burning of fire,

or to account for the liquid quality of water, as the vulgar, who use

and enjoy them without thought or examination?--I remark, that all

bodies, unsupported, fall to the ground, and I am taught to account for

this by the law of gravitation. But what have I gained here more than

a term? Does it convey to my mind any idea of the nature of that

mysterious and invisible chain which draws all things to a common

centre?--Pursuing the track of the naturalist, I have learned to

distinguish the animal, the vegetable, and the mineral kingdoms, and to

divide these into their distinct tribes and families;--but can I

tell, after all this toil, whence a single blade of grass derives its

vitality?--Could the most minute researches enable me to discover the

exquisite pencil that paints the flower of the field? and have I ever

detected the secret that gives their brilliant dye to the ruby and the

emerald, or the art that enamels the delicate shell?--I observe the

sagacity of animals--I call it instinct, and speculate upon its various

degrees of approximation to the reason of man; but, after all, I know as

little of the cogitations of the brute as he does of mine. When I see a

flight of birds overhead, performing their evolutions, or steering

their course to some distant settlement, their signals and cries are

as unintelligible to me as are the learned languages to an unlettered

mechanic: I understand as little of their policy and laws as they do of

'Blackstone's Commentaries.'

"Alas! then, what have I gained by my laborious researches but an

humbling conviction of my weakness and ignorance! Of how little has

man, at his best estate, to boast! What folly in him to glory in his

contracted powers, or to value himself upon his imperfect acquisitions!"

* * * * *

"Well!" exclaimed a young lady, just returned from school, "my education

is at last finished: indeed, it would be strange if, after five years'

hard application, anything were left incomplete. Happily, it is all over

now, and I have nothing to do but exercise my various accomplishments.

"Let me see!--as to French, I am mistress of that, and speak it, if

possible, with more fluency than English. Italian I can read with ease,

and pronounce very well, as well at least, and better, than any of my

friends; and that is all one need wish for in Italian. Music I have

learned till I am perfectly sick of it. But, now that we have a grand

piano, it will be delightful to play when we have company. And then

there are my Italian songs, which everybody allows I sing with taste,

and as it is what so few people can pretend to, I am particularly glad

that I can. My drawings are universally admired, especially the shells

and flowers, which are beautiful, certainly: besides this, I have a

decided taste in all kinds of fancy ornaments. And then, my dancing and

waltzing, in which our master himself owned that he could take me no

farther;--just the figure for it certainly! it would be unpardonable

if I did not excel. As to common things, geography, and history, and

poetry, and philosophy, thank my stars, I have got through them all! so

that I may consider myself not only perfectly accomplished, but also

thoroughly well informed.

"Well, to be sure, how much I have fagged through; the only wonder is

that one head can contain it all!"

JANE TAYLOR.

[Note: "_Blackstone's Commentaries_" The great standard work on

the theory and practice of the English law; written by Sir William

Blackstone (1723-1780).]

* * * * *

THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.

Under a spreading chestnut tree,

The village smithy stands;

The smith, a mighty man is he,

With large and sinewy hands;

And the muscles of his brawny arms

Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long,

His face is like the tan;

His brow is wet with honest sweat,

He earns whate'er he can,

And looks the whole world in the face,

For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,

You can hear his bellows blow;

You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,

With measured beat and slow,

Like a sexton ringing the village bell,

When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school

Look in at the open door;

They love to see the flaming forge,

And hear the bellows roar,

And catch the burning sparks that fly

Like chaff from a threshing-floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church,

And sits among his boys;

He hears the parson pray and preach,

He hears his daughter's voice

Singing in the village choir,

And it makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like her mother's voice,

Singing in Paradise!

He needs must think of her once more,

How in the grave she lies;

And with his hard, rough hand he wipes

A tear out of his eyes.

Toiling,--rejoicing,--sorrowing,

Onward through life he goes;

Each morning sees some task begin,

Each evening sees it close;

Something attempted, something done,

Has earned a night's repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,

For the lesson thou hast taught!

Thus at the flaming forge of life

Our fortunes must be wrought;

Thus on its sounding anvil shaped

Each burning deed and thought!

H.W. LONGFLLLOW.

[Notes: _Henry Wadsworth Longfellow_, one of the foremost among

contemporary American poets. Born in 1807. His chief poems are

'Evangeline' and 'Hiawatha.'

_His face is like the tan. Tan_ is the bark of the oak, bruised and

broken for tanning leather.

_Thus at the flaming forge of life, &c._ = As iron is softened at

the forge and beaten into shape on the anvil, so by the trials and

circumstances of life, our thoughts and actions are influenced and our

characters and destinies decided. The metaphor is made more complicated

by being broken up.]

* * * * *

MEN OF ENGLAND.

Men of England! who inherit

Rights that cost your sires their blood!

Men whose undegenerate spirit

Has been proved on land and flood:

By the foes ye've fought uncounted,

By the glorious deeds ye've done,

Trophies captured--breaches mounted,

Navies conquer'd--kingdoms won!

Yet remember, England gathers

Hence but fruitless wreaths of fame,

If the virtues of your fathers

Glow not in your hearts the same.

What are monuments of bravery,

Where no public virtues bloom?

What avail in lands of slavery

Trophied temples, arch, and tomb?

Pageants!--let the world revere us

For our people's rights and laws,

And the breasts of civic heroes

Bared in Freedom's holy cause.

Yours are Hampden's Russell's glory,

Sydney's matchless shade is your,--

Martyrs in heroic story,

Worth a thousand Agincourts!

We're the sons of sires that baffled

Crown'd and mitred tyranny:

They defied the field and scaffold,

For their birthrights--so will we.

CAMPBELL.

[Notes: _Thomas Campbell_, born 1777, died 1844. Author of the

'Pleasures of Hope,' 'Gertrude of Wyoming,' and many lyrics. His poetry

is careful, scholarlike and polished. _Men whose undegenerate spirit,

&c._ In prose, this would run, "(Ye) men whose spirit has been proved

(to be) undegenerate," &c. The word "undegenerate," which is introduced

only as an epithet, is the real predicate of the sentence.

_By the foes ye've fought uncounted_. "Uncounted" agreeing with "foes."

_Fruitless wreaths of fame_. A poetical figure, taken from the wreaths

of laurel given as prizes in the ancient games of Greece. "Past history

will give fame to a country, but nothing more fruitful than fame, unless

its virtues are kept alive."

_Trophied temples, i.e.,_ Temples hung (after the fashion of the

ancients) with trophies.

_Arch, i.e_., the triumphal arch erected by the Romans in honour of

victorious generals.

_Pageants_ = "these are nought but pageants."

_And_ (for) _the beasts of civic heroes_. Civic heroes, those who have

striven for the rights of their fellow citizens.

_Hampden, i.e_., John Hampden (born 1594, died 1643), the maintainer

of the rights of the people in the reign of Charles I. He resisted the

imposition of ship-money, and died in a skirmish at Chalgrove during the

Civil War.

_Russell, i.e_., Lord William Russell, beheaded in 1683, in the reign

of Charles II. on a charge of treason. He had resisted the Court in its

aims at establishing the doctrine of passive obedience.

_Sydney, i.e.,_ Algernon Sydney. The friend of Russell, who met with the

same fate in the same year.

_Sydney's matchless shade_. Shade = spirit or memory.

_Agincourt_. The victory won by Henry V. in France, in 1415.

_Crown'd and mitred tyranny_. Explain this.]

* * * * *

BARBABA S----.

On the noon of the 14th of November, 1743, just as the clock had struck

one, Barbara S----, with her accustomed punctuality, ascended the long,

rabbling staircase, with awkward interposed landing-places, which led to

the office, or rather a sort of box with a desk in it, whereat sat the

then Treasurer of the Old Bath Theatre. All over the island it was the

custom, and remains so I believe to this day, for the players to receive

their weekly stipend on the Saturday. It was not much that Barbara had

to claim.

This little maid had just entered her eleventh year; but her important

station at the theatre, as it seemed to her, with the benefits which she

felt to accrue from her pious application of her small earnings, had

given an air of womanhood her steps and to her behaviour. You would have

taken her to have been at least five years older. Till latterly she had

merely been employed in choruses, or where children were wanted to fill

up the scene. But the manager, observing a diligence and adroitness in

her above her age, had for some few months past intrusted to her the

performance of whole parts. You may guess the self-consequence of the

promoted Barbara.

* * * * *

The parents of Barbara had been in reputable circumstances. The father

had practised, I believe, as an apothecary in the town. But his

practice, from causes for which he was himself to blame, or perhaps from

that pure infelicity which accompanies some people in their walk through

life, and which it is impossible to lay at the door of imprudence,

was now reduced to nothing. They were, in fact, in the very teeth of

starvation, when the manager, who knew and respected them in better

days, took the little Barbara into his company.

At the period I commenced with, her slender earnings were the sole

support of the family, including two younger sisters. I must throw

a veil over some mortifying circumstances. Enough to say, that her

Saturday's pittance was the only chance of a Sunday's meal of meat.

This was the little starved, meritorious maid, stood before old

Ravenscroft, the treasurer, for her Saturday's payment. Ravenscroft was

a man, I have heard many old theatrical people besides herself say, of

all men least calculated for a treasurer. He had no head for accounts,

paid away at random, kept scarce any books, and summing up at the week's

end, if he found himself a pound or so deficient, blest himself that it

was no more.

Now Barbara's weekly stipend was a bare half-guinea. By mistake he

popped into her hand a whole one.

Barbara tripped away.

She was entirely unconscious at first of the mistake: God knows,

Ravenscroft would never have discovered it.

But when she had got down to the first of those uncouth landing-places

she became sensible of an unusual weight of metal pressing her little

hand.

Now, mark the dilemma.

She was by nature a good child. From her parents and those about her she

had imbibed no contrary influence. But then they had taught her nothing.

Poor men's smoky cabins are not always porticoes of moral philosophy.

This little maid had no instinct to evil, but then she might be said

to have no fixed principle. She had heard honesty commended, but never

dreamed of its application to herself. She thought of it as something

which concerned grown-up people, men and women. She had never known

temptation, or thought of preparing resistance against it.

Her first impulse was to go back to the old treasurer, and explain to

him his blunder. He was already so confused with age, besides a natural

want of punctuality, that she would have had some difficulty in making

him understand it. She saw _that_ in an instant. And then it was such a

bit of money: and then the image of a larger allowance of butcher's meat

on their table next day came across her, till her little eyes glistened,

and her mouth moistened. But then Mr. Ravenscroft had always been

so good-natured, had stood her friend behind the scenes, and even

recommended her promotion to some of her little parts. But again the old

man was reputed to be worth a world of money. He was supposed to have

fifty pounds a year clear of the theatre. And then came staring upon her

the figures of her little stockingless and shoeless sisters. And when

she looked at her own neat white cotton stockings, which her situation

at the theatre had made it indispensable for her mother to provide for

her, with hard straining and pinching from the family stock, and thought

how glad she should be to cover their poor feet with the same, and how

then they could accompany her to rehearsals, which they had hitherto

been precluded from doing, by reason of their unfashionable attire,--in

these thoughts she reached the second landing-place--the second, I mean,

from the top--for there was still another left to traverse.

Now, virtue, support Barbara!

And that never-failing friend did step in; for at that moment a strength

not her own, I have heard her say, was revealed to her--a reason above

reasoning--and without her own agency, as it seemed (for she never felt

her feet to move), she found herself transported back to the individual

desk she had just quitted, and her hand in the old hand of Ravenscroft,

who in silence took back the refunded treasure, and who had been sitting

(good man) insensible to the lapse of minutes, which to her were anxious

ages; and from that moment a deep peace fell upon her heart, and she

knew the quality of honesty.

A year or two's unrepining application to her profession brightened up

the feet and the prospects of her little sisters, set the whole

family upon their legs again, and released her from the difficulty of

discussing moral dogmas upon a landing-place.

_Essays of Elia_, by CHARLES LAMB.

* * * * *

A BALLAD.

"Turn, gentle Hermit of the dale,

And guide my lonely way

To where yon taper cheers the vale

With hospitable ray.

"For here forlorn and lost I tread,

With fainting steps and slow,

Where wilds, immeasurably spread,

Seem lengthening as I go."

"Forbear, my son," the Hermit cries,

"To tempt the dangerous gloom;

For yonder faithless phantom flies

To lure thee to thy doom.

"Here to the houseless child of want

My door is open still;

And, though my portion is but scant,

I give it with good will.

"Then turn to-night, and freely share

Whate'er my cell bestows;

My rushy couch and frugal fare,

My blessing and repose.

"No flocks that range the valley free

To slaughter I condemn;

Taught by that Power that pities me,

I learn to pity them:

"But from the mountain's grassy side

A guiltless feast I bring;

A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied,

And water from the spring.

"Then, pilgrim turn; thy cares forego;

All earth-born cares are wrong:

Man wants but little here below,

Nor wants that little long."

Soft as the dew from heaven descends

His gentle accents fell:

The modest stranger lowly bends,

And follows to the cell.

Far in a wilderness obscure

The lonely mansion lay,

A refuge to the neighbouring poor,

And strangers led astray.

No stores beneath its humble thatch

Required a master's care;

The wicket, opening with a latch,

Received the harmless pair.

And now, when busy crowds retire

To take their evening rest,

The Hermit trimm'd his little fire,

And cheer'd his pensive guest;

And spread his vegetable store,

And gaily pressed, and smiled;

And, skill'd in legendary lore,

The lingering hours beguiled.

Around, in sympathetic mirth,

Its tricks the kitten tries,

The cricket chirrups on the hearth,

The crackling faggot flies.

But nothing could a charm impart

To soothe the stranger's woe;

For grief was heavy at his heart,

And tears began to flow.

His rising cares the Hermit spied,

With answering care oppress'd;

And, "Whence, unhappy youth," he cried,

"The sorrows of thy breast?"

"From better habitations spurn'd,

Reluctant dost thou rove?

Or grieve for friendship unreturn'd,

Or unregarded love?"

"Alas! the joys that fortune brings

Are trifling, and decay;

And those who prize the paltry things,

More trifling still are they."

"And what is friendship but a name,

A charm that lulls to sleep;

A shade that follows wealth or fame,

But leaves the wretch to weep?"

"And love is still an emptier sound,

The modern fair one's jest;

On earth unseen, or only found

To warm the turtle's nest."

"For shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush,

And spurn the sex," he said;

But while he spoke, a rising blush

His love-lorn guest betray'd.

Surprised he sees new beauties rise,

Swift mantling to the view;

Like colours o'er the morning skies,

As bright, as transient too.

The bashful look, the rising breast,

Alternate spread alarms:

The lovely stranger stands confess'd

A maid in all her charms.

And, "Ah! forgive a stranger rude--

A wretch forlorn," she cried;

"Whose feet unhallow'd thus intrude

Where Heaven and you reside."

"But let a maid thy pity share,

Whom love has taught to stray;

Who seeks for rest, but finds despair

Companion of her way."

"My father lived beside the Tyne,

A wealthy lord was he;

And all his wealth was mark'd as mine,

He had but only me."

"To win me from his tender arms

Unnumber'd suitors came,

Who praised me for imputed charms,

And felt, or feign'd, a flame."

"Each hour a mercenary crowd

With richest proffers strove:

Amongst the rest, young Edwin bow'd,

But never talk'd of love."

"In humble, simple habit clad,

No wealth nor power had he:

Wisdom and worth were all he had,

But these were all to me.

"And when, beside me in the dale,

He caroll'd lays of love,

His breath lent fragrance to the gale,

And music to the grove.

"The blossom opening to the day,

The dews of heaven refined,

Could nought of purity display

To emulate his mind.

"The dew, the blossom on the tree,

With charms inconstant shine:

Their charms were his, but, woe to me,

Their constancy was mine.

"For still I tried each fickle art,

Importunate and vain;

And, while his passion touch'd my heart,

I triumph'd in his pain:

"Till, quite dejected with my scorn,

He left me to my pride;

And sought a solitude forlorn,

In secret, where he died.

"But mine the sorrow, mine the fault,

And well my life shall pay:

I'll seek the solitude he sought,

And stretch me where he lay.

"And there, forlorn, despairing, hid,

I'll lay me down and die;

'Twas so for me that Edwin did,

And so for him will I."

"Forbid it, Heaven!" the Hermit cried,

And clasp'd her to his breast:

The wondering fair one turn'd to chide--

'Twas Edwin's self that press'd!

"Turn, Angelina, ever dear,

My charmer, turn to see

Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here,

Restored to love and thee.

"Thus let me hold thee to my heart,

And every care resign:

And shall we never, never part,

My life--my all that's mine?

"No, never from this hour to part,

We'll live and love so true,

The sigh that rends thy constant heart

Shall break thy Edwin's too."

GOLDSMITH.

[Notes: _Oliver Goldsmith_, poet and novelist. The friend and

contemporary of Johnson, Burke, and Reynolds. Born 1728, died 1774.

This poem is introduced into 'The Vicar of Wakefield,' and Goldsmith

there says of it, "It is at least free from the false taste of loading

the lines with epithets;" or as he puts it more fully "a string of

epithets that improve the sound without carrying on the sense."

"_Immeasurably spread_" = spread to an immeasurable length.

_No flocks that range the valleys free_. "Free" may be joined either

with flocks or with valley.

Note the position of the negative, "No flocks that range," &c. = I do

not condemn the flocks that range.

_Guiltless feast_. Because it does not involve the death of a

fellow-creature.

_Scrip_. A purse or wallet; a word of Teutonic origin.

Distinguish from scrip, a writing or certificate, from the Latin word

_scribo_, I write.

_Far in a wilderness obscure_. Obscure goes with mansion, not with

wilderness.

_And gaily pressed_ (him to eat).

_With answering care_, i.e., with sympathetic care.

_A charm that lulls to sleep_. Charm is here in its proper

sense: that of a thing pleasing to the fancy is derivative.

_A shade that follows wealth or fame_. A shade = a ghost or phantom.

_Swift mantling_, &c. Spreading quickly over, like a cloak or mantle.

_Where heaven and you reside_ = where you, whose only thoughts are of

Heaven, reside.

_Whom love has taught to stray_. This use of the word "taught" for

"made" or "forced," is taken from a Latin idiom, as in Virgil, "He

_teaches_ the woods to ring with the name of Amaryllis." It is stronger

than "made" or "forced," and implies, as here, that she had forgotten

all but the wandering life that is now hers.

_He had but only me_. But or only is redundant.

_To emulate his mind_ = to be equal to his mind in purity.

_Their constancy was mine_. This verse has often been accused of

violating sense; but, however artificial the expression may be, neither

the sense is obscure, nor the way of expressing it inaccurate. It

is evidently only another way of saying "in the little they had of

constancy they resembled me as they resembled him in their charms."]

* * * * *

DR. ARNOLD.

We listened, as all boys in their better moods will listen (ay, and men

too, for the matter of that), to a man whom we felt to be, with all his

heart and soul and strength, striving against whatever was mean and

unmanly and unrighteous in our little world. It was not the cold, clear

voice of one giving advice and warning from serene heights to those who

were struggling and sinning below, but the warm, living voice of one who

was fighting for us, and by our sides, and calling on us to help him and

ourselves and one another. And so, wearily and little by little, but

surely and steadily on the whole, was brought home to the young boy,

for the first time, the meaning of his life: that it was no fool's

or sluggard's paradise into which he had wandered by chance, but a

battle-field ordained from of old, where there are no spectators, but

the youngest must take his side, and the stakes are life and death. And

he who roused this consciousness in them showed them, at the same time,

by every word he spoke in the pulpit, and by his whole daily life,

how that battle was to be fought; and stood there before them, their

fellow-soldier and the captain of their band. The true sort of captain,

too, for a boy's army, one who had no misgivings, and gave no uncertain

word of command, and, let who would yield or make truce, would fight

the fight out (so every boy felt) to the last gasp and the last drop of

blood. Other sides of his character might take hold of and influence

boys here and there, but it was this thoroughness and undaunted courage

which more than anything else won his way to the hearts of the great

mass of those on whom he left his mark, and made them believe first in

him, and then in his Master.

It was this quality, above all others, which moved such boys as Tom

Brown, who had nothing whatever remarkable about him except excess of

boyishness; by which I mean animal life in its fullest measure; good

nature and honest impulses, hatred of injustice and meanness, and

thoughtlessness enough to sink a three-decker. And so, during the next

two years, in which it was more than doubtful whether he would get good

or evil from the school, and before any steady purpose or principle grew

up in him, whatever his week's sins and shortcomings might have been, he

hardly ever left the chapel on Sunday evenings without a serious resolve

to stand by and follow the doctor, and a feeling that it was only

cowardice (the incarnation of all other sins in such a boy's mind) which

hindered him from doing so with all his heart.

_Tom Brown's School Days_.

[Note: _Dr. Arnold_, the head-master of Rugby School, died 1842.

His life, which gives an account of the work done by him to promote

education, has been written by Dean Stanley.]

* * * * *

MARTYRS

Patriots have toil'd, and in their country's cause

Bled nobly; and their deeds, as they deserve,

Receive proud recompense. We give in charge

Their names to the sweet lyre. The Historic Muse,

Proud of the treasure, marches with it down

To latest times; and Sculpture, in her turn,

Gives bond in stone and ever-during brass

To guard them, and to immortalize her trust.

But fairer wreaths are due--though never paid--

To those who, posted at the shrine of Truth,

Have fallen in her defence. A patriot's blood,

Well spent in such a strife, may earn indeed,

And for a time ensure, to his loved land

The sweets of liberty and equal laws;

But martyrs struggle for a brighter prize,

And win it with more pain. Their blood is shed

In confirmation of the noblest claim,--

Our claim to feed upon immortal truth,

To walk with God, to be divinely free,

To soar and to anticipate the skies.--

Yet few remember them! They lived unknown,

Till persecution dragged them into fame,

And chased them up to Heaven. Their ashes flew--

No marble tells us whither. With their names

No bard embalms and sanctifies his song;

And History, so warm on meaner themes,

Is cold on this. She execrates indeed

The tyranny that doom'd them to the fire,

But gives the glorious sufferers little praise.

COWPER.

[Notes:_William Cowper_ (born 1731, died 1800), the author of 'The

Task,' 'Progress of Error,' 'Truth,' and many other poems; all marked by

the same pure thought and chaste language.

This poem is written in what is called "blank verse," i.e., verse in

which the lines do not rhyme, the rhythm depending on the measure of the

verse.

_To the sweet lyre_ = To the poet, whose lyre (or poetry) is to keep

their names alive.

_The Historic Muse_. The ancients held that there were nine Muses or

Goddesses who presided over the arts and sciences; and of these, one was

the Muse of History.

_Gives bond in stone, &c._ = Pledges herself. The pith of the phrase is

in its almost homely simplicity, the more striking in its contrast with

the classical allusions by which it is surrounded.

_Her trust_, i.e., what is trusted to her.

_To anticipate the skies_ = to ennoble our life and so approach that

higher life we hope for after death.

_Till persecution dragged them into fame_ = forced them by its cruelty

to become famous against their will.

_No marble tells us whither_. Because they have no tombstone and no

epitaph.]

* * * * *

A PSALM OF LIFE.

Tell me not in mournful numbers,

Life is but an empty dream!

For the soul is dead that slumbers,

And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest!

And the grave is not its goal;

"Dust thou art, to dust returnest;"

Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,

Is our destined end or way;

But to act that each to-morrow

Finds us farther than to-day.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,

And our hearts, though stout and brave,

Still like muffled drums are beating

Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world's broad field of battle,

In the Bivouac of life,

Be not like dumb, driven cattle!

Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!

Let the dead Past bury its dead!

Act--act in the living Present!

Heart within, and God o'erhead!

Lives of great men all remind us

We can make our lives sublime,

And, departing, leave behind us

Footprints on the sands of time;--

Footprints, that perhaps another,

Sailing o'er life's solemn main,

A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,

Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing,

With a heart for any fate;

Still achieving, still pursuing,

Learn to labour and to wait.

H.W. LONGFELLOW.

[Notes:_Art is long, and time is fleeting_. A translation from the

Latin, _Ars longa, vita brevis est._

The metaphor in the last two stanzas in this page is strangely mixed.

Footprints could hardly be seen by those sailing over the main.]

* * * * *

BOYHOOD'S WORK.

In no place in the world has individual character more weight than at

a public school. Remember this, I beseech you, all you boys who are

getting into the upper forms. Now is the time in all your lives,

probably, when you may have more wide influence for good or evil in the

society you live in than you ever can have again. Quit yourselves like

men, then; speak up, and strike out, if necessary, for whatsoever

is true, and manly, and lovely, and of good report; never try to be

popular, but only to do your duty, and help others to do theirs, and you

may leave the tone of feeling in the school higher than you found it,

and so be doing good, which no living soul can measure, to generations

of your countrymen yet unborn. For boys follow one another in herds like

sheep, for good or evil; they hate thinking, and have rarely any settled

principles. Every school, indeed, has its own traditionary standard of

right and wrong, which cannot be transgressed with impunity, marking

certain things as low and blackguard, and certain others as lawful and

right. This standard is ever varying, though it changes only slowly, and

little by little; and, subject only to such standard, it is the leading

boys for the time being who give the tone to all the rest, and make

the school either a noble institution for the training of Christian

Englishmen, or a place where a young boy will get more evil than he

would if he were turned out to make his way in London streets, or

anything between these two extremes.

* * * * *

WORK IN THE WORLD.

"I want to be at work in the world," said Tom, "and not dawdling away

three years at Oxford."

"What do you mean by 'at work in the world?'" said the master, pausing,

with his lips close to his saucerful of tea, and peering at Tom over it.

"Well, I mean real work; one's profession, whatever one will have really

to do, and make one's living by. I want to be doing some real good,

feeling that I am not only at play in the world," answered Tom, rather

puzzled to find out himself what he really did mean.

"You are mixing up two very different things in your head, I think,

Brown," said the master, putting down the empty saucer, "and you ought

to get clear about them. You talk of 'working to get your living,' and

'doing some real good in the world,' in the same breath. Now, you may be

getting a very good living in a profession, and yet doing no good at all

in the world, but quite the contrary, at the same time. Keep the latter

before you as your one object, and you will be right, whether you make

a living or not; but if you dwell on the other, you'll very likely drop

into mere money-making, and let the world take care of itself, for good

or evil. Don't be in a hurry about finding your work in the world for

yourself; you are not old enough to judge for yourself yet, but just

look about you in the place you find yourself in, and try to make things

a little better and honester there. You'll find plenty to keep your hand

in at Oxford, or wherever else you go. And don't be led away to think

this part of the world important, and that unimportant. Every corner of

the world is important. No man knows whether this part or that is most

so, but every man may do some honest work in his own corner."

_Tom Brown's School Days_.

* * * * *

THE ANT AND THE CATERPILLAR

As an ant, of his talents superiorly vain,

Was trotting, with consequence, over the plain,

A worm, in his progress remarkably slow,

Cried--"Bless your good worship wherever you go;

I hope your great mightiness won't take it ill,

I pay my respects with a hearty good-will."

With a look of contempt, and impertinent pride,

"Begone, you vile reptile," his antship replied;

"Go--go, and lament your contemptible state,

But first--look at me--see my limbs how complete;

I guide all my motions with freedom and ease,

Run backward and forward, and turn when I please;

Of nature (grown weary) you shocking essay!

I spurn you thus from me--crawl out of my way."

The reptile, insulted and vex'd to the soul,

Crept onwards, and hid himself close in his hole;

But nature, determined to end his distress,

Soon sent him abroad in a butterfly's dress.

Erelong the proud ant, as repassing the road,

(Fatigued from the harvest, and tugging his load),

The beau on a violet-bank he beheld,

Whose vesture, in glory, a monarch's excelled;

His plumage expanded--'twas rare to behold

So lovely a mixture of purple and gold.

The ant, quite amazed at a figure so gay,

Bow'd low with respect, and was trudging away.

"Stop, friend," says the butterfly; "don't be surprised,

I once was the reptile you spurn'd and despised;

But now I can mount, in the sunbeams I play,

While you must for ever drudge on in your way."

CUNNINGHAM.

[Note: _Of nature (grown weary) you shocking essay_ = you wretched

attempt (= essay) by nature, when she had grown weary.]

* * * * *

REPORT

OF AN ADJUDGED CASE, NOT TO BE FOUND IN

ANY OF THE BOOKS.

Between Nose and Eyes a strange contest arose.

The spectacles set them unhappily wrong;

The point in dispute was, as all the world knows,

To which the said spectacles ought to belong.

So Tongue was the lawyer, and argued the cause,

With a great deal of skill, and a wig full of learning,

While chief baron Ear sat to balance the laws,

So fam'd for his talent in nicely discerning.

In behalf of the Nose it will quickly appear,

And your lordship, he said, will undoubtedly find,

That the nose has had spectacles always in wear,

Which amounts to possession time out of mind.

Then holding the spectacles up to the court--

Your lordship observes they are made with a straddle,

As wide as the ridge of the nose is; in short,

Designed to sit close to it, just like a saddle.

Again, would your lordship a moment suppose

('Tis a case that has happen'd, and may be again)

That the visage or countenance had not a nose,

Pray who would, or who could, wear spectacles then?

On the whole it appears, and my argument shows,

With a reasoning the court will never condemn,

That the spectacles plainly were made for the Nose,

And the Nose was as plainly intended for them.

Then shifting his side as a lawyer knows how,

He pleaded again in behalf of the Eyes;

But what were his arguments few people know,

For the court did not think they were equally wise.

So his lordship decreed, with a grave, solemn tone,

Decisive and clear, without one _if_ or _but_--

That, whenever the Nose put his Spectacles on,

By daylight or candlelight--Eyes should be shut!

COWPER.

* * * * *

CASTLES IN THE AIR.

Alnaschar was a very idle fellow, that never would set his hand to any

business during his father's life. When his father died he left him to

the value of a hundred drachmas in Persian money. Alnaschar, in order

to make the best of it, laid it out in bottles, glasses, and the finest

earthenware. These he piled up in a large open basket; and, having made

choice of a very little shop, placed the basket at his feet, and leaned

his back upon the wall in expectation of customers. As he sat in this

posture, with his eyes upon the basket, he fell into a most amusing

train of thought, and was overheard by one of his neighbours, as he

talked to himself in the following manner:--"This basket," says he,

"cost me at the wholesale merchant's a hundred drachmas, which is all I

had in the world. I shall quickly make two hundred of it by selling it

in retail. These two hundred drachmas will in a very little while rise

to four hundred; which, of course, will amount in time to four thousand.

Four thousand drachmas cannot fail of making eight thousand. As soon as

by these means I am master of ten thousand, I will lay aside my trade of

a glass-man and turn jeweller. I shall then deal in diamonds, pearls,

and all sorts of rich stones. When I have got together as much wealth

as I can well desire, I will make a purchase of the finest house I can

find, with lands, slaves, and horses. I shall then begin to enjoy myself

and make a noise in the world. I will not, however, stop there; but

still continue my traffic until I have got together a hundred thousand

drachmas. When I have thus made myself master of a hundred thousand

drachmas, I shall naturally set myself on the footing of a prince,

and will demand the grand vizier's daughter in marriage, after having

represented to that minister the information which I have received of

the beauty, wit, discretion, and other high qualities which his daughter

possesses. I will let him know at the same time that it is my intention

to make him a present of a thousand pieces of gold on our marriage day.

As soon as I have married the grand vizier's daughter, I must make my

father-in-law a visit, with a great train and equipage. And when I am

placed at his right hand, which he will do of course, if it be only to

honour his daughter, I will give him the thousand pieces of gold which

I promised him; and afterwards, to his great surprise, will present him

with another purse of the same value, with some short speech: as, 'Sir,

you see I am a man of my word: I always give more than I promise.'"

"When I have brought the princess to my house, I shall take particular

care to breed her in due respect for me. To this end I shall confine her

to her own apartments, make her a short visit, and talk but little to

her. Her women will represent to me that she is inconsolable by reason

of my unkindness; but I shall still remain inexorable. Her mother will

then come and bring her daughter to me, as I am seated on a sofa. The

daughter, with tears in her eyes, will fling herself at my feet, and beg

me to receive her into my favour. Then will I, to imprint her with a

thorough veneration for my person, draw up my legs, and spurn her from

me with my foot in such a manner that she shall fall down several paces

from the sofa."

Alnaschar was entirely swallowed up in his vision, and could not forbear

acting with his foot what he had in his thoughts: so that, unluckily

striking his basket of brittle ware, which was the foundation of all his

grandeur, he kicked his glasses to a great distance from him into the

street, and broke them into ten thousand pieces.

ADDISON.

[Note: _Joseph Addison_, born 1672, died 1719. Chiefly famous as a

critic and essayist. His calm sense and judgment, and the attraction of

his style, have rendered his writings favourites from his own time to

ours.]

* * * * *

THE INCHCAPE BELL.

No stir on the air, no swell on the sea,

The ship was still as she might be:

The sails from heaven received no motion;

The keel was steady in the ocean.

With neither sign nor sound of shock,

The waves flow'd o'er the Inchcape Rock;

So little they rose, so little they fell,

They did not move the Inchcape Bell.

The pious abbot of Aberbrothock

Had placed that bell on the Inchcape Rock;

On the waves of the storm it floated and swung,

And louder and louder its warning rung.

When the rock was hid by the tempest swell,

The mariners heard the warning bell,

And then they knew the perilous rock,

And blessed the abbot of Aberbrothock.

The float of the Inchcape Bell was seen,

A darker spot on the ocean green.

Sir Ralph the Rover walked the deck,

And he fix'd his eye on the darker speck.

His eye was on the bell and float,--

Quoth he, "My men, put down the boat,

And row me to the Inchcape Rock,--

I'll plague the priest of Aberbrothock!".

The boat was lower'd, the boatmen row,

And to the Inchcape Rock they go.

Sir Ralph leant over from the boat,

And cut the bell from off the float.

Down sunk the bell with a gurgling sound;

The bubbles rose, and burst around.

Quoth he, "Who next comes to the rock

Won't bless the priest of Aberbrothock!"

Sir Ralph the Rover sail'd away;

He scour'd the sea for many a day;

And now, grown rich with plunder'd store,

He steers his way for Scotland's shore.

So thick a haze o'erspread the sky,

They could not see the sun on high;

The wind had blown a gale all day;

At evening it hath died away.

"Canst hear," said one, "the breakers roar?

For yonder, methinks, should be the shore.

Now, where we are, I cannot tell,--

I wish we heard the Inchcape Bell."

They heard no sound--the swell is strong,

Though the wind hath fallen they drift along:

Till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock,

"Oh heavens! it is the Inchcape Rock!"

Sir Ralph the Rover tore his hair,

And cursed himself in his despair;

And waves rush in on every side,

The ship sinks fast beneath the tide.

SOUTHEY.

[Notes: _Robert Southey_, born 1774, died 1848. Poet Laureate and author

of numerous works in prose and verse.]

_Quoth_. Saxon _Cwaethan_, to say. A Perfect now used only in the first

and third persons singular of the present indicative; the nominative

following the verb.

_Till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock_. Notice the effective

use of alliteration (_i.e_., the recurrence of words beginning with the

same letter), which is the basis of old-English rhythm.]

* * * * *

THE DEATH OF NELSON.

It had been part of Nelson's prayer that the British fleet might be

distinguished by humanity in the victory he expected. Setting an example

himself, he twice gave orders to cease firing upon the 'Redoubtable,'

supposing that she had struck because her great guns were silent; for,

as she carried no flag, there was no means of instantly ascertaining the

fact. From this ship, which he had thus twice spared, he received his

death. A ball, fired from her mizen-top, which, in the then situation of

the two vessels, was not more than fifteen yards from that part of the

deck where he was standing, struck the epaulette on his left shoulder,

about a quarter after one, just in the heat of action. He fell upon his

face, on the spot which was covered with his poor secretary's blood.

Hardy (his captain), who was a few steps from him, turning round, saw

three men raising him up.

"They have done for me at last, Hardy," said he.

"I hope not," cried Hardy. "Yes," he replied, "my backbone is shot

through."

Yet even now, not for a moment losing his presence of mind, he observed,

as they were carrying him down the ladder, that the tiller ropes, which

had been shot away, were not yet replaced, and ordered that new ones

should be rove immediately; then, that he might not be seen by the crew,

he took out his handkerchief, and covered his face and his stars. Had he

but concealed these badges of honour from the enemy, England, perhaps,

would not have had cause to receive with sorrow the news of the battle

of Trafalgar. The cockpit was crowded with wounded and dying men, over

whose bodies he was with some difficulty conveyed, and laid upon

a pallet in the midshipmen's berth. It was soon perceived, upon

examination, that the wound was mortal. This, however, was concealed

from all except Captain Hardy, the chaplain, and the medical attendants.

He himself being certain, from the sensation in his back, and the gush

of blood he felt momently within his breast, that no human care could

avail him, insisted that the surgeon should leave him, and attend to

those to whom he might be useful; "For," said he, "you can do nothing

for me." All that could be done was to fan him with paper, and

frequently to give him lemonade to alleviate his intense thirst. He was

in great pain, and expressed much anxiety for the event of the action,

which now began to declare itself. As often as a ship struck, the crew

of the 'Victory' hurrahed, and at every hurrah a visible expression of

joy gleamed in the eyes and marked the countenance of the dying hero.

But he became impatient to see Captain Hardy; and as that officer,

though often sent for, could not leave the deck, Nelson feared some

fatal cause prevented him, and repeatedly cried, "Will no one bring

Hardy to me? He must be killed! He is surely dead!"

An hour and ten minutes elapsed from the time when Nelson received his

wound before Hardy could come to him. They shook hands in silence, Hardy

in vain struggling to suppress the feelings of that most painful yet

sublimest moment. "Well, Hardy," said Nelson, "how goes the day with

us?" "Very well," replied Hardy; "ten ships have struck, but five of the

van have tacked, and show an intention to bear down upon the 'Victory.'

I have called two or three of our fresh ships round, and have no doubt

of giving them a drubbing." "I hope," said Nelson, "none of our ships

have struck?" Hardy answered, "There was no fear of that." Then, and not

till then, Nelson spoke of himself. "I am a dead man, Hardy," said he;

"I am going fast; it will be all over with me soon; come nearer to me."

Hardy observed that he hoped Mr. Beattie (the surgeon) could yet hold

out some prospect of life. "Oh no," he replied, "it is impossible; my

back is shot through--Beattie will tell you so." Captain Hardy then once

more shook hands with him, and, with a heart almost bursting, hastened

upon deck.

By this time all feeling below the breast was gone; and Nelson, having

made the surgeon ascertain this, said to him, "You know I am gone; I

know it--I feel something rising in my breast (putting his hand on his

left side) which tells me so." And upon Beattie's inquiring whether

his pain was very great, he replied, "So great, that he wished he were

dead." "Yet," said he, in a lower voice, "one would like to live a

little longer too!"

Captain Hardy, some fifty minutes after he had left the cockpit,

returned, and again taking the hand of his dying friend and commander,

congratulated him on having gained a complete victory. How many of the

enemy were taken, he did not know, as it was impossible to perceive

them distinctly, but fourteen or fifteen at least. "That's well," cried

Nelson, "but I bargained for twenty." And then, in a stronger voice,

he said, "Anchor,! Hardy, anchor." Hardy upon this hinted that Admiral

Collingwood would take upon himself the direction of affairs. "Not while

I live, Hardy," said the dying Nelson, ineffectually endeavouring to

raise himself from the bed; "do you anchor." His previous order for

preparing to anchor had shown how clearly he foresaw the necessity of

this. Presently, calling Hardy back, he said to him in a low voice,

"Don't throw me overboard," and he desired that he might be buried by

his parents, unless it should please the king to order otherwise. "Kiss

me, Hardy," said he. Hardy knelt down and kissed his cheek, and Nelson

said, "Now, I am satisfied. Thank God, I have done my duty." Hardy stood

over him in silence for a moment or two, then knelt again and kissed his

forehead. "Who is that?" said Nelson; and being informed, he replied,

"God bless you, Hardy." And Hardy then left him for ever.

SOUTHEY.

[Note:_The death of Nelson_ took place at the Battle of Trafalgar,

1805.]

* * * * *

BATTLE OF THE BALTIC.

I.

Of Nelson and the North,

Sing the glorious day's renown,

When to battle fierce came forth

All the might of Denmark's crown,

And her arms along the deep proudly shone;

By each gun the lighted brand,

In a bold, determined hand,

And the Prince of all the land

Led them on.

II.

Like leviathans afloat,

Lay their bulwarks on the brine;

While the sign of battle flew

On the lofty British line:

It was ten of April morn by the chime:

As they drifted on their path,

There was silence deep as death;

And the boldest held his breath

For a time.

III.

But the might of England flushed

To anticipate the scene;

And her van the fleeter rushed

O'er the deadly space between.

"Hearts of oak!" our captains cried; when each gun

From its adamantine lips

Spread a death-shade round the ships.

Like the hurricane eclipse

Of the sun.

IV.

Again! again! again!

And the havoc did not slack,

Till a feebler cheer the Dane

To our cheering sent us back;--

Their shots along the deep slowly boom;--

Then cease--and all is wail,

As they strike the shattered sail;

Or, in conflagration pale,

Light the gloom.

V.

Out spoke the victor then,

As he hailed them o'er the wave,

"Ye are brothers! ye are men!

And we conquer but to save:--

So peace instead of death let us bring;

But yield, proud foe, thy fleet,

With the crews, at England's feet,

And make submission meet

To our king."

VI.

Then Denmark blest our chief

That he gave her wounds repose;

And the sounds of joy and grief

From her people wildly rose,

As Death withdrew his shades from the day

While the sun looked smiling bright

O'er a wide and woeful sight,

Where the fires of funeral light

Died away.

VII.

Now joy, Old England, raise!

For the tidings of thy might,

By the festal cities' blaze,

Whilst the wine-cup shines in light;

And yet amidst that joy and uproar,

Let us think of them that sleep,

Full many a fathom deep,

By thy wild and stormy steep,

Elsinore!

VIII.

Brave hearts! to Britain's pride

Once so faithful and so true,

On the deck of fame that died;--

With the gallant good Riou;--

Soft sigh the winds of heaven o'er their grave!

While the billow mournful rolls,

And the mermaid's song condoles;

Singing glory to the souls

Of the brave!

CAMPBELL

[Notes: This is the first specimen of the "ode" in this book. Notice the

variety in length between the lines, and draw up a scheme of the rhymes

in each stanza. The battle was fought, and Copenhagen bombarded, in

April, 1801.

_It was ten of April morn by the chime_. It was ten o'clock on the

morning in April.

_Like the hurricane eclipse_. The eclipse of the sun in storm.]

* * * * *

LOCHINVAR.

Oh, young Lochinvar is come out of the west,

Through all the wide border his steed is the best;

And, save his good broad-sword, he weapon had none;

He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone!

So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,

There never was knight like the young Lochinvar!

He stay'd not for brake, and he stopped not for stone,

He swam the Eske river where ford there was none--

But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate,

The bride had consented, the gallant came late;

For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war,

Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar!

So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall,

Among bridesmen, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all!--

Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword--

For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word--

"Oh come ye in peace here, or come ye in war?--

Or to dance at our bridal? young Lord Lochinvar!"

"I long woo'd your daughter, my suit you denied:

Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide!

And now am I come, with this lost love of mine,

To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine!

There be maidens in Scotland, more lovely by far,

That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar!"

The bride kissed the goblet, the knight took it up,

He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup!

She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh--

With a smile on her lip, and a tear in her eye.

He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar--

"Now tread we a measure!" said young Lochinvar,

So stately his form, and so lovely her face,

That never a hall such a galliard did grace!

While her mother did fret, and her father did fume,

And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume,

And the bride-maidens whispered, "'Twere better by far

To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar!"

One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear,

When they reached the hall door, and the charger stood

near:

So light to the croup the fair lady he swung,

So light to the saddle before her he sprung!

"She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur;

They'll have fleet steeds that follow!" cried young

Lochinvar.

There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the Netherby clan;

Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran;

There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lea,

But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see!

So daring in love, and so dauntless in war,

Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?

SCOTT.

[Notes: _Lochinvar_. The song sung by Dame Heron in 'Marmion,' one of

Scott's longest and most famous poems. The fame of Scott (1771-1832)

rests partly on these poems, but much more on the novels, in which he is

excelled by no one.

_He stay'd not for brake_. Brake, a word of Scandinavian origin, means a

place overgrown with brambles; from the crackling noise they make as one

passes over them.

_Love swells like the Solway_. For a scene in which the rapid advance

of the Solway tide is described, see the beginning of Scott's novel of

'Redgauntlet.'

_Galliard_. A gay rollicker. Used also in Chaucer.

_Scaur_. A rough, broken ground. The same word as scar.]

* * * * *

LEARNING TO RIDE.

Some time before my father had bought a small Shetland pony for us,

Moggy by name, upon which we were to complete our own education in

riding, we had already mastered the rudiments under the care of our

grandfather's coachman. He had been in our family thirty years, and we

were as fond of him as if he had been a relation. He had taught us to

sit up and hold the bridle, while he led a quiet old cob up and down

with a leading rein. But, now that Moggy was come, we were to make quite

a new step in horsemanship. Our parents had a theory that boys must

teach themselves, and that a saddle (except for propriety, when we rode

to a neighbour's house to carry a message, or had to appear otherwise

in public) was a hindrance rather than a help. So, after our morning's

lessons, the coachman used to take us to the paddock in which Moggy

lived, put her bridle on, and leave us to our own devices. I could see

that that moment was from the first one of keen enjoyment to my brother.

He would scramble up on her back, while she went on grazing--without

caring to bring her to the elm stool in the corner of the field, which

was our mounting place--pull her head up, kick his heels into her sides,

and go scampering away round the paddock with the keenest delight. He

was Moggy's master from the first day, though she not unfrequently

managed to get rid of him by sharp turns, or stopping dead short in her

gallop. She knew it quite well; and, just as well, that she was mistress

as soon as I was on her back. For weeks it never came to my turn,

without my wishing myself anywhere else. George would give me a lift

up, and start her. She would trot a few yards, and then begin grazing,

notwithstanding my timid expostulations and gentle pullings at her

bridle. Then he would run up, and pull up her head, and start her again,

and she would bolt off with a flirt of her head, and never be content

till I was safely on the grass. The moment that was effected she took to

grazing again, and I believe enjoyed the whole performance as much as

George, and certainly far more than I did. We always brought her a

carrot, or bit of sugar, in our pockets, and she was much more like a

great good-tempered dog with us than a pony.

_Memoir of a Brother_. T. HUGHES.

* * * * *

THE CHAMELEON.

Oft has it been my lot to mark

A proud, conceited, talking spark,

With eyes that hardly served at most

To guard their master 'gainst a post:

Yet round the world the blade has been

To see whatever can be seen.

Returning from his finished tour,

Grown ten times perter than before.

Whatever word you chance to drop,

The travelled fool your mouth will stop:

"Sir, if my judgment you'll allow--

I've seen--and sure I ought to know."

So begs you'd pay a due submission

And acquiesce in his decision.

Two travellers of such a cast,

As o'er Arabia's wilds they passed,

And on their way in friendly chat,

Now talked of this, and now of that:

Discoursed a while, 'mongst other matter,

Of the chameleon's form and nature.

"A stranger animal," cries one,

"Sure never lived beneath the sun;

A lizard's body, lean and long,

A fish's head, a serpent's tongue,

Its foot with triple claw disjoined;

And what a length of tail behind!

How slow its pace! And then its hue--

Who ever saw so fine a blue?"--

"Hold there," the other quick replies,

"'Tis green; I saw it with these eyes

As late with open mouth it lay,

And warmed it in the sunny ray;

Stretched at its ease the beast I viewed,

And saw it eat the air for food."

"I've seen it, sir, as well as you,

And must again affirm it blue:

At leisure I the beast surveyed

Extended in the cooling shade."

"'Tis green, 'tis green, sir, I assure you."

"Green!" cried the other in a fury:

"Why, do you think I've lost my eyes?"

"'Twere no great loss," the friend replies,

"For if they always serve you thus,

You'll find them of but little use."

So high at last the contest rose,

From words they almost came to blows,

When luckily came by a third:

To him the question they referred,

And begged he'd tell them if he knew,

Whether the thing was green or blue?

"Sirs," cries the umpire, "cease your pother,

The creature's neither one nor t'other.

I caught the animal last night,

And view'd it o'er by candle-light:

I marked it well--'twas black as jet.

You stare; but, sirs, I've got it yet:

And can produce it"--"Pray, sir, do:

I'll lay my life the thing is blue."

"And I'll be sworn, that when you've seen

The reptile you'll pronounce him green!"

"Well, then, at once to ease the doubt,"

Replies the man, "I'll turn him out:

And when before your eyes I've set him,

If you don't find him black, I'll eat him,"

He said, and full before their sight,

Produced the beast, and lo!--'twas white.

Both stared: the man looked wondrous wise:

"My children," the chameleon cries

(Then first the creature found a tongue),

"You all are right, and all are wrong;

When next you tell of what you view,

Think others see as well as you!

Nor wonder if you find that none

Prefers your eyesight to his own."

MERRICK.

* * * * *

MOSES AT THE FAIR

All this conversation, however, was only preparatory to another scheme;

and indeed I dreaded as much. This was nothing less than that, as we

were now to hold up our heads a little higher in the world, it would be

proper to sell the colt, which was grown old, at a neighbouring fair,

and buy us a horse that would carry us single or double upon an

occasion, and make a pretty appearance at church, or upon a visit. This

at first I opposed stoutly; but it was stoutly defended. However, as I

weakened, my antagonist gained strength, till at last it was resolved

to part with him. As the fair happened on the following day, I had

intentions of going myself; but my wife persuaded me that I had got a

cold, and nothing could prevail upon her to permit me from home. "No, my

dear," said she, "our son Moses is a discreet boy, and can buy and sell

to a very good advantage: you know all our great bargains are of his

purchasing. He always stands out and higgles, and actually tires them

till he gets a bargain."

As I had some opinion of my son's prudence, I was willing enough to

entrust him with this commission; and the next morning I perceived his

sisters mighty busy in fitting out Moses for the fair; trimming his

hair, brushing his buckles, and cocking his hat with pins. The business

of the toilet being over, we had at last the satisfaction of seeing

him mounted upon the colt, with a deal box before him to bring

home groceries in. He had on a coat made of that cloth they call

"thunder-and-lightning," which, though grown too short, was much too

good to be thrown away. His waistcoat was of gosling green, and his

sisters had tied his hair with a broad black riband. We all followed him

several paces from the door, bawling after him, "Good luck! good luck!"

till we could see him no longer. ***

I changed the subject by seeming to wonder what could keep our son so

long at the fair, as it was now almost nightfall. "Never mind our son,"

cried my wife; "depend upon it, he knows what he is about. I'll warrant

we'll never see him sell his hen of a rainy day. I have seen him bring

such bargains as would amaze one. I'll tell you a good story about that,

that will make you split your sides with laughing. But, as I live,

yonder comes Moses, without a horse, and the box on his back."

As she spoke, Moses came slowly on foot, and sweating under the deal

box, which he had strapped round his shoulders like a pedlar. "Welcome,

welcome, Moses! Well, my boy, what have you brought us from the fair?"

"I have brought you myself," cried Moses, with a sly look, and resting

the box on the dresser. "Ay, Moses," cried my wife, "that we know; but

where is the horse?" "I have sold him," cried Moses, "for three pounds

five shillings and twopence." "Well done, my good boy," returned she;

"I knew you would touch them off. Between ourselves, three pounds five

shillings and twopence is no bad day's work. Come, let us have it then."

"I have brought back no money," cried Moses again. "I have laid it all

out in a bargain, and here it is," pulling out a bundle from his breast;

"here they are; a gross of green spectacles, with silver rims and

shagreen cases." "A gross of green spectacles!" repeated my wife, in a

faint voice. "And you have parted with the colt, and brought us back

nothing but a gross of green paltry spectacles!" "Dear mother," cried

the boy, "why won't you listen to reason? I had them a dead bargain,

or I should not have brought them. The silver rims alone will sell for

double the money." "A fig for the silver rims," cried my wife, in a

passion: "I dare swear they won't sell for above half the money at the

rate of broken silver, five shillings an ounce." "You need be under no

uneasiness," cried I, "about selling the rims, for they are not worth

sixpence; for I perceive they are only copper varnished over." "What!"

cried my wife, "not silver! the rims not silver?" "No," cried I, "no

more silver than your saucepan." "And so," returned she, "we have parted

with the colt, and have only got a gross of green spectacles, with

copper rims and shagreen cases? A murrain take such trumpery! The

blockhead has been imposed upon, and should have known his company

better." "There, my dear," cried I, "you are wrong; he should not have

known them at all." "Marry, hang the idiot!" returned she, "to bring me

such stuff: if I had them I would throw them in the fire." "There again

you are wrong, my dear," cried I, "for though they be copper, we will

keep them by us, as copper spectacles, you know, are better than

nothing."

By this time the unfortunate Moses was undeceived. He now saw that he

had been imposed upon by a prowling sharper, who, observing his figure,

had marked him for an easy prey. I therefore asked the circumstances

of his deception. He sold the horse, it seems, and walked the fair in

search of another. A reverend-looking man brought him to a tent, under

pretence of having one to sell. "Here," continued Moses, "we met another

man, very well dressed, who desired to borrow twenty pounds upon these,

saying that he wanted money, and would dispose of them for a third of

the value. The first gentleman, who pretended to be my friend, whispered

me to buy them, and cautioned me not to let so good an offer pass. I

sent for Mr. Flamborough, and they talked him up as finely as they did

me; and so at last we were persuaded to buy the two gross between us."

GOLDSMITH.

[Note: _Moses at the fair_. This is an incident taken from Goldsmith's

novel, 'The Vicar of Wakefield.' The narrator throughout is the Vicar

himself, who tells us the simple joys and sorrows of his family, and the

foibles of each member of it.]

* * * * *

A WISH.

Happy the man whose wish and care

A few paternal acres bound,

Content to breathe his native air

In his own ground.

Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,

Whose flocks supply him with attire;

Whose trees in summer yield him shade,

In winter, fire.

Blest who can unconcernedly find

Hours, days, and years, glide soft away

In health of body, peace of mind,

Quiet by day,

Sound sleep by night; study and ease

Together mixed; sweet recreation,

And innocence, which most does please,

With meditation.

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown;

Thus unlamented let me die;

Steal from the world, and not a stone

Tell where I lie.

POPE.

[Notes: _Alexander Pope_, born 1688, died 1744. The author of numerous

poems and translations, all of them marked by the same lucid thought and

polished versification. The Essay on Man, the Satires and Epistles, and

the translations of Homer's Iliad and Odyssey, are amongst the most

important.

Write a paraphrase of the first two stanzas.]

* * * * *

WHANG THE MILLER.

Whang, the miller, was naturally avaricious; nobody loved money better

than he, or more respected those that had it. When people would talk of

a rich man in company, Whang would say, "I know him very well; he and I

are intimate; he stood for a child of mine." But if ever a poor man was

mentioned, he had not the least knowledge of the man; he might be very

well for aught he knew; but he was not fond of many acquaintances, and

loved to choose his company.

Whang, however, with all his eagerness for riches, was in reality poor;

he had nothing but the profits of his mill to support him; but though

these were small, they were certain; while his mill stood and went, he

was sure of eating; and his frugality was such that he every day laid

some money by, which he would at intervals count and contemplate with

much satisfaction. Yet still his acquisitions were not equal to his

desires; he only found himself above want, whereas he desired to be

possessed of affluence.

One day, as he was indulging these wishes, he was informed that a

neighbour of his had found a pan of money under ground, having dreamed

of it three nights running before. These tidings were daggers to the

heart of poor Whang. "Here am I," says he, "toiling and moiling from

morning till night for a few paltry farthings, while neighbour Hunks

only goes quietly to bed, and dreams himself into thousands before

morning. Oh that I could dream like him! with what pleasure would I dig

round the pan; how slily would I carry it home; not even nay wife should

see me; and then, oh, the pleasure of thrusting one's hand into a heap

of gold up to the elbow!"

Such reflections only served to make the miller unhappy; he discontinued

his former assiduity; he was quite disgusted with small gains, and his

customers began to forsake him. Every day he repeated the wish, and

every night laid himself down in order to dream. Fortune, that was for a

long time unkind, at last, however, seemed to smile upon his distresses,

and indulged him with the wished-for vision. He dreamed that under

a certain part of the foundation of his mill there was concealed a

monstrous pan of gold and diamonds, buried deep in the ground, and

covered with a large flat stone. He rose up, thanked the stars that were

at last pleased to take pity on his sufferings, and concealed his good

luck from every person, as is usual in money dreams, in order to have

the vision repeated the two succeeding nights, by which he should be

certain of its veracity. His wishes in this also were answered; he still

dreamed of the same pan of money, in the very same place.

Now, therefore, it was past a doubt; so, getting up early the third

morning, he repairs alone, with a mattock in his hand, to the mill, and

began to undermine that part of the wall which the vision directed.

The first omen of success that he met was a broken mug; digging still

deeper, he turns up a house tile, quite new and entire. At last, after

much digging, he came to the broad flat stone, but then so large, that

it was beyond one man's strength to remove it. "Here," cried he, in

raptures, to himself, "here it is! under this stone there is room for a

very large pan of diamonds indeed! I must e'en go home to my wife, and

tell her the whole affair, and get her to assist me in turning it up."

Away, therefore, he goes, and acquaints his wife with every circumstance

of their good fortune. Her raptures on this occasion may easily be

imagined; she flew round his neck, and embraced him in an agony of joy:

but those transports, however, did not delay their eagerness to know the

exact sum; returning, therefore, speedily together to the place where

Whang had been digging, there they found--not indeed the expected

treasure, but the mill, their only support, undermined and fallen.

GOLDSMITH.

[Note: _He stood for a child of mine_, i.e., stood as godfather for a

child of mine.]

* * * * *

A SEA SONG.

A wet sheet and a flowing sea,

A wind that follows fast,

And fills the white and rustling sail

And bends the gallant mast.

And bends the gallant mast, my boys,

While, like the eagle free,

Away the good ship flies, and leaves

Old England on the lee.

Oh, for a soft and gentle wind,

I heard a fair one cry:

But give to me the snoring breeze

And white waves heaving high.

And white waves heaving high, my lads,

A good ship, tight and free,

The world of waters is our home,

And merry men are we.

There's tempest in yon horned moon,

And lightning in yon cloud;

And hark the music, mariners!

The wind is piping loud.

The wind is piping loud, my boys,

The lightning flashes free;

While the hollow oak our palace is,

Our heritage the sea.

CUNNINGHAM.

[Note: _A wet sheet_. The _sheet_ is the rope fastened to the lower

corner of a sail to retain it in position.]

* * * * *

ON THE LOSS OF THE 'ROYAL GEORGE.'

Toll for the brave!

The brave that are no more;

All sunk beneath the wave,

Fast by their native shore!

Eight hundred of the brave,

Whose courage well was tried,

Had made the vessel heel,

And laid her on her side.

A land breeze shook the shrouds,

And she was overset;

Down went the 'Royal George,'

With all her crew complete.

Toll for the brave!

Brave Kempenfeldt is gone;

His last sea-fight is fought;

His work of glory done.

It was not in the battle;

No tempest gave the shock;

She sprang no fatal leak;

She ran upon no rock.

His sword was in its sheath;

His fingers held the pen,

When Kempenfeldt went down,

With twice four hundred men.

Weigh the vessel up,

Once dreaded by our foes!

And mingle with our cup,

The tear that England owes.

Her timbers yet are sound,

And she may float again,

Full-charged with England's thunder,

And plough the distant main.

But Kempenfeldt is gone,

His victories are o'er;

And he and his eight hundred

Shall plough the wave no more.

COWPER.

[Note: _The Royal George_. A ship of war, which went down with Admiral

Kempenfeldt and her crew off Spithead in 1782, while undergoing a

partial careening.]

* * * * *

AN ESCAPE.

After we had rowed, or rather driven, about a league and a half, as we

reckoned it, a raging wave, mountain-like, came rolling astern of us,

and plainly bade us expect our end. In a word, it took us with such a

fury that it overset the boat at once; and, separating us as well from

the boat as from one another, gave us not time hardly to say, "O God!"

for we were all swallowed up in a moment.

Nothing can describe the confusion of thought which I felt when I sunk

into the water; for though I swam very well, yet I could not deliver

myself from the waves, so as to draw breath, till that wave having

driven me, or rather carried me a vast way on towards the shore, and

having spent itself, went back, and left me upon the land almost dry,

but half dead from the water I took in. I had so much presence of mind

as well as breath left, that, seeing myself nearer the mainland than I

expected, I got upon my feet, and endeavoured to make on towards the

land as fast as I could, before another wave should return, and take me

up again. But I soon found it was impossible to avoid it; for I saw the

sea come after me as high as a great hill, and as furious as an enemy,

which I had no means or strength to contend with; my business was to

hold my breath, and raise myself upon the water, if I could: and so by

swimming to preserve my breathing, and pilot myself towards the shore,

if possible; my greatest concern now being, that the sea, as it would

carry me a great way towards the shore when it came on, might not carry

me back again with it when it gave back towards the sea.

The wave that came upon me again, buried me at once twenty or thirty

feet deep in its own body; and I could feel myself carried with a mighty

force and swiftness towards the shore a very great way; but I held my

breath, and assisted myself to swim still forward with all my might. I

was ready to burst with holding my breath, when, as I felt myself rising

up, so, to my immediate relief, I found my head and hands shoot out

above the surface of the water; and though it was not two seconds of

time that I could keep myself so, yet it relieved me greatly, gave me

breath and new courage. I was covered again with water a good while, but

not so long but I held it out; and finding the water had spent itself,

and began to return, I struck forward against the return of the waves,

and felt ground again with my feet. I stood still a few moments to

recover breath, and till the water went from me, and then took to my

heels, and run with what strength I had farther towards the shore. But

neither would this deliver me from the fury of the sea, which came

pouring in after me again, and twice more I was lifted up by the waves,

and carried forwards as before, the shore being very flat.

The last time of these two had well near been fatal to me; for the

sea having hurried me along as before, landed me, or rather dashed

me against a piece of a rock, and that with such force as it left me

senseless, and indeed helpless, as to my own deliverance; for the blow

taking my side and breast, beat the breath, as it were, quite out of my

body; and had it returned again immediately, I must have been strangled

in the water; but I recovered a little before the return of the waves,

and seeing I should be covered again with the water, I resolved to hold

fast by a piece of the rock, and so to hold my breath, if possible, till

the wave went back; now as the waves were not so high as at first, being

near land, I held my hold till the wave abated, and then fetched another

run, which brought me so near the shore that the next wave, though it

went over me, yet did not so swallow me up as to carry me away, and the

next run I took, I got to the main land, where, to my great comfort, I

clambered up the clifts of the shore, and sat me down upon the grass,

free from danger, and quite out of the reach of the water.

DEFOE'S _Robinson Crusoe_.

[Notes: _Daniel Defoe_, born 1663, died 1731. He was prominent as a

political writer, but his later fame has rested chiefly on his works of

fiction, of which 'Robinson Crusoe' (from which this extract is taken)

is the most important.

"_Gave us not time hardly to say_." This to us has the effect of a

double negative. But if we take "hardly" in its strict sense, the

sentence is clear: "did not give us time, even with difficulty, to say."

(_at foot_)."_As_ I felt myself rising up, _so_ to my

immediate relief." Note this use of _as_ and _so_, in a way which now

sounds archaic.

_Run_. The older form, for which we would use _ran_.

"That with such force, _as_ it left me," &c. For _as_, we would now use

_that_.

_Clifts of the shore_. Like clefts, broken openings in the shore.]

* * * * *

RULE BRITANNIA.

When Britain first, at Heaven's command,

Arose from out the azure main,

This was the charter of the land,

And guardian angels sung this strain:

Rule, Britannia, rule the waves,

Britons never will be slaves!

The nations, not so blessed as thee,

Must in their turn to tyrants fall;

While thou shalt flourish great and free,

The dread and envy of them all.

Still more majestic shalt thou rise,

More dreadful from each foreign stroke;

As the loud blast that tears the skies,

Serves but to root thy native oak.

Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame:

All their attempts to bend thee down

Will but arouse thy generous flame;

But work their woe and thy renown.

To thee belongs the rural reign;

Thy cities shall with commerce shine;

All thine shall be the subject main:

And every shore it circles thine.

The Muses, still with freedom found,

Shall to thy happy coast repair:

Blessed isle! with matchless beauty crowned,

And manly hearts to guard the fair:

Rule, Britannia, rule the waves,

Britons never will be slaves!

THOMSON.

[Notes: _James Thomson_, born 1700, died 1748. He was educated for the

Scotch ministry, but came to London, and commenced his career as a poet

by the series of poems called the 'Seasons,' descriptive of scenes in

nature.

_The Muses, i.e._, the Sciences and Arts, which flourish best

where there are free institutions.]

* * * * *

WATERLOO.

There was a sound of revelry by night,

And Belgium's capital had gathered then

Her Beauty and her Chivalry; and bright

The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men;

A thousand hearts beat happily; and when

Music arose with its voluptuous swell,

Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which spake again,

And all went merry as a marriage-bell;--

But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising

knell!

Did ye not hear it?--No; 'twas but the wind,

Or the car rattling o'er the stony street:

On with the dance! let joy be unconfined;

No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet

To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet--

But hark!--That heavy sound breaks in once more,

As if the clouds its echo would repeat;

And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before!

Arm! arm! it is--it is--the cannon's opening roar!

Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro,

And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress,

And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago

Blush'd at the praise of their own loveliness:

And there were sudden partings, such as press

The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs

Which ne'er might be repeated; who could guess

If ever more should meet those mutual eyes,

Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise?

And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed,

The mustering squadron, and the clattering car,

Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,

And swiftly forming in the ranks of war;

And the deep thunder peal on peal afar;

And near, the beat of the alarming drum

Roused up the soldier ere the morning-star;

While throng'd the citizens, with terror dumb,

Or whispering, with white lips,--"The foe! they come!

they come!"

And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves,

Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pass,

Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves,

Over the unreturning brave,--alas!

Ere evening to be trodden like the grass,

Which now beneath them, but above shall grow

In its next verdure; when this fiery mass

Of living valour, rolling on the foe

And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low!

Last noon beheld them full of lusty life,

Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay,

The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife,

The morn the marshalling in arms,--the day

Battle's magnificently stern array!

The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent

The earth is cover'd thick with other clay,

Which her own clay shall cover--heap'd and pent,

Rider and horse,--friend, foe,--in one red burial blent!

BYRON.

[Notes:_Waterloo_. Fought, 1815, between Napoleon on one side, and

Wellington and Blucher (the Prussian General) on the other. Its result

was the defeat of Napoleon, and his imprisonment by the Allies in St.

Helena. The festivities held at Brussels, the headquarters of the

British Army, on the eve of the battle, were rudely disturbed by the

news that the action had already begun.

_Ardennes_. A district on the frontier of France, bordering on Belgium.

_Ivry_. The battle in which Henry IV., in the struggle for the crown of

France, completely routed the forces of the Catholic League (1590).

_My white plume shine_. The white plume was the distinctive mark of the

House of Bourbon.

_Oriflamme_, or Auriflamme (lit. Flame of Gold), originally the banner

of the Abbey of St. Denis, afterwards appropriated by the crown of

France. "Let the helmet of Navarre (Henry's own country) be to-day the

Royal Standard of France."

_Culverin_. A piece of artillery of long range.

_The fiery Duke_ (of Mayenne).

_Pricking fast_. Cf. "a gentle knight was pricking o'er the plain"

(Spencer).

_With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Almayne_. The

allies of the League. Almayne or Almen, a district in the Netherlands.

* * * * *

IVRY.

The King is come to marshal us, in all his armour drest,

And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant crest.

He look'd upon his people, and a tear was in his eye:

He look'd upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and

high,

Right graciously he smiled on us, as roll'd from wing to

wing,

Down all our line a deafening shout, "God save our Lord the

King!"

"And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he may,

For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray,

Press where ye see my white plume shine, amidst the ranks

of war,

And be your Oriflamme to-day the helmet of Navarre."

Hurrah! the foes are moving. Hark to the mingled din

Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring

culverin!

The fiery Duke is pricking fast across St. André's plain,

With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Almayne.

Now by the lips of those we love, fair gentlemen of France,

Charge for the Golden Lilies,--upon them with the lance!

A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in

rest,

A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snow-white

crest;

And in they burst, and on they rush'd, while, like a

guiding star,

Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of Navarre.

Now, God be praised, the day is ours! Mayenne hath turned

his rein.

D'Aumale hath cried for quarter. The Flemish Count is

slain.

Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before a Biscay

gale.

The field is heap'd with bleeding steeds, and flags, and

cloven mail.

And then we thought on vengeance, and, all along our van,

"Remember St. Bartholomew!" was pass'd from man to man:

But out spake gentle Henry, "No Frenchman is my foe;

Down, down, with every foreigner! but let your brethren

go."

Oh! was there ever such a knight, in friendship or in war,

As our Sovereign Lord, King Henry, the soldier of Navarre!

Ho! maidens of Vienna; ho! matrons of Lucerne;

Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who never shall

return.

Ho! Philip, send, for charity, thy Mexican pistoles,

That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor spearmen's

souls.

Ho! gallant nobles of the League, look that your arms be

bright:

Ho! burghers of St. Genevieve, keep watch and ward to-

night,

For our God hath crush'd the tyrant, our God hath raised

the slave,

And mock'd the counsel of the wise, and the valour of the

brave.

Then glory to His holy name, from whom all glories are;

And glory to our Sovereign Lord, King Henry of Navarre!

MACAULAY.

[Notes: _D'Aumale_, The Duke of; another leader of the League.

_The Flemish Court_. Count Egmont, the son of the Count Egmont, whose

death on the scaffold in 1568, in consequence of the resistance he

offered to the tyranny of Philip II. of Spain, has made the name famous.

The son, on the other hand, was the attached servant of Philip II.; and

was unnatural enough to say, when reminded of his father, "Talk not of

him, he deserved his death."

_Remember St. Bartholomew_, i.e., the massacre of the Protestants on St.

Bartholomew's day, 1572.

_Maidens of Vienna: matrons of Lucerne_. In reference to the Austrian

and Swiss Allies of the League.

_Thy Mexican pistoles_. Alluding to the riches gained by the Spanish

monarchy from her American colonies.

_Ho! burghers of St. Genevieve_ = citizens of Paris, of which St.

Genevieve was held to be the patron saint.]

* * * * *

NECESSITY THE MOTHER OF INVENTION.

And now I began to apply myself to make such necessary things as I found

I most wanted, as particularly a chair or a table; for without these I

was not able to enjoy the few comforts I had in the world; I could not

write or eat, or do several things with so much pleasure without a

table.

So I went to work; and here I must needs observe that, as reason is the

substance and original of the mathematics, so by stating and squaring

everything by reason, and by making the most rational judgment of

things, every man may be in time master of every mechanic art. I

had never handled a tool in my life, and yet in time, by labour,

application, and contrivance, I found at last that I wanted nothing but

I could have made it, especially if I had had tools; however, I made

abundance of things, even without tools, and some with no more tools

than an adze and a hatchet, which perhaps were never made that way

before, and that with infinite labour; for example, if I wanted a board,

I had no other way but to cut down a tree, set it on an edge before me,

and hew it flat on either side with my axe, till I had brought it to be

as thin as a plank, and then dubb it smooth with my adze. It is true, by

this method, I could make but one board out of a whole tree, but this I

had no remedy for but patience, any more than I had for the prodigious

deal of time and labour which it took me up to make a plank or board;

but my time or labour was little worth, and so it was as well employed

one way as another.

However, I made me a table and a chair, as I observed above, in the

first place, and this I did out of the short pieces of boards that

I brought on my raft from the ship: but when I had wrought out some

boards, as above, I made large shelves of the breadth of a foot and a

half one over another, all along one side of my cave, to lay all my

tools, nails, and iron-work, and in a word, to separate everything at

large in their places, that I might come easily at them; I knocked

pieces into the wall of the rock to hang my guns and all things that

would hang up. So that had my cave been to be seen, it looked like a

general magazine of all necessary things, and I had everything so ready

at my hand, that it was a great pleasure to me to see all my goods in

such order, and especially to find my stock of all necessaries so great.

DEFOE'S _Robinson Crusoe._

[Notes: _Reason is the substance and original of the mathematics_.

Original here = origin or foundation.]

_The most rational judgment_ = the judgment most in accordance with

reason.]

* * * * *

ANCIENT GREECE.