The feelings of the crew now burst forth in the most extravagant

transports. They had recently considered themselves devoted men,

hurrying forward to destruction; they now looked upon themselves as

favourites of fortune, and gave themselves up to the most unbounded joy.

They thronged around the admiral with overflowing zeal, some embracing

him, others kissing his hands. Those who had been most mutinous and

turbulent during the voyage, were now most devoted and enthusiastic.

Some begged favours of him, as if he had already wealth and honours in

his gift. Many abject spirits, who had outraged him by their insolence,

now crouched at his feet, begging pardon for all the trouble they had

caused him, and promising the blindest obedience for the future.

WASHINGTON IRVING.

[Notes: _Columbus_. Christopher Columbus of Genoa (born 1430, died

1506), the discoverer of America. His first expedition was made in 1492.

"_The reward was afterwards adjudged to the admiral_." This has often

been alleged, and apparently with considerable reason, as a stain upon

the name of Columbus.]

* * * * *

COLUMBUS SHIPWRECKED.

On the morning of the 24th of December, Columbus set sail from Port St.

Thomas before sunrise, and steered to the eastward, with an intention of

anchoring at the harbour of the cacique Guacanagari. The wind was from

the land, but so light as scarcely to fill the sails, and the ships made

but little progress. At eleven o'clock at night, being Christmas eve,

they were within a league or a league and a half of the residence of the

cacique; and Columbus, who had hitherto kept watch, finding the sea calm

and smooth, and the ship almost motionless, retired to rest, not having

slept the preceding night. He was, in general, extremely wakeful on his

coasting voyages, passing whole nights upon deck in all weathers; never

trusting to the watchfulness of others where there was any difficulty or

danger to be provided against. In the present instance he felt perfectly

secure; not merely on account of profound calm, but because the boats on

the preceding day, in their visit to the cacique, had reconnoitred the

coast, and had reported that there were neither rocks nor shoals in

their course.

No sooner had he retired, than the steersman gave the helm in charge to

one of the ship-boys, and went to sleep. This was in direct violation

of an invariable order of the admiral, that the helm should never be

intrusted to the boys. The rest of the mariners who had the watch took

like advantage of the absence of Columbus, and in a little while

the whole crew was buried in sleep. In the meantime the treacherous

currents, which run swiftly along this coast, carried the vessel

quietly, but with force, upon a sand-bank. The heedless boy had not

noticed the breakers, although they made a roaring that might have been

heard a league. No sooner, however, did he feel the rudder strike,

and hear the tumult of the rushing sea, than he began to cry for

aid. Columbus, whose careful thoughts never permitted him to sleep

profoundly, was the first on deck. The master of the ship, whose duty it

was to have been on watch, next made his appearance, followed by others

of the crew, half awake. The admiral ordered them to take the boat and

carry out an anchor astern, to warp the vessel off. The master and the

sailors sprang into the boat; but, confused as men are apt to be when

suddenly awakened by an alarm, instead of obeying the commands of

Columbus, they rowed off to the other caravel, about half a league to

windward.

In the meantime the master had reached the caravel, and made known the

perilous state in which he had left the vessel. He was reproached with

his pusillanimous desertion; the commander of the caravel manned his

boat and hastened to the relief of the admiral, followed by the recreant

master, covered with shame and confusion.

It was too late to save the ship, the current having set her more upon

the bank. The admiral, seeing that his boat had deserted him, that the

ship had swung across the stream, and that the water was continually

gaining upon her, ordered the mast to be cut away, in the hope of

lightening her sufficiently to float her off. Every effort was in vain.

The keel was firmly bedded in the sand; the shock had opened several

seams; while the swell of the breakers, striking her broadside, left

her each moment more and more aground, until she fell over on one side.

Fortunately the weather continued calm, otherwise the ship must have

gone to pieces, and the whole crew might have perished amidst the

currents and breakers.

The admiral and her men took refuge on board the caravel. Diego de

Arana, chief judge of the armament, and Pedro Gutierrez, the king's

butler, were immediately sent on shore as envoys to the cacique

Guaeanagari, to inform him of the intended visit of the admiral, and of

his disastrous shipwreck. In the meantime, as a light wind had sprung up

from shore, and the admiral was ignorant of his situation, and of the

rocks and banks that might be lurking around him, he lay to until

daylight.

The habitation of the cacique was about a league and a half from the

wreck. When he heard of the misfortune of his guest, he manifested the

utmost affliction, and even shed tears. He immediately sent all his

people, with all the canoes, large and small, that could be mustered;

and so active were they in their assistance, that in a little while

the vessel was unloaded. The cacique himself, and his brothers and

relatives, rendered all the aid in their power, both on sea and land;

keeping vigilant guard that everything should be conducted with order,

and the property secured from injury or theft. From time to time, he

sent some one of his family, or some principal person of his attendants,

to console and cheer the admiral, assuring him that everything he

possessed should be at his disposal.

Never, in a civilized country, were the vaunted rites of hospitality

more scrupulously observed, than by this uncultivated savage. All the

effects landed from the ships were deposited near his dwelling; and an

armed guard surrounded them all night, until houses could be prepared

in which to store them. There seemed, however, even among the common

people, no disposition to take advantage of the misfortune of the

stranger. Although they beheld what must in their eyes have been

inestimable treasures, cast, as it were, upon their shores, and open

to depredation, yet there was not the least attempt to pilfer, nor, in

transporting the effects from the ships, had they appropriated the most

trifling article. On the contrary, a general sympathy was visible in

their countenances and actions; and to have witnessed their concern, one

would have supposed the misfortune to have happened to themselves.

"So loving, so tractable, so peaceable are these people," says Columbus

in his journal, "that I swear to your Majesties, there is not in the

world a better nation, nor a better land. They love their neighbours

as themselves; and their discourse is ever sweet and gentle, and

accompanied with a smile; and though it is true that they are naked, yet

their manners are decorous and praiseworthy."

WASHINGTON IRVING.

[Note: _Cacique_. The chief of an Indian tribe. The word was adopted by

the Spaniards from the language of the natives of San Domingo.

* * * * *

ROBBED IN THE DESERT.

I departed from Kooma, accompanied by two shepherds, who were going

towards Sibidooloo. The road was very steep and rocky, and as my horse

had hurt his feet much, he travelled slowly and with great difficulty;

for in many places the ascent was so sharp, and the declivities so

great, that if he had made one false step, he must inevitably have been

dashed to pieces. The herds being anxious to proceed, gave themselves

little trouble about me or my horse, and kept walking on at a

considerable distance. It was about eleven o'clock, as I stopped to

drink a little water at a rivulet (my companions being near a quarter of

a mile before me), that I heard some people calling to each other,

and presently a loud screaming, as from a person in great distress. I

immediately conjectured that a lion had taken one of the shepherds, and

mounted my horse to have a better view of what had happened. The noise,

however, ceased; and I rode slowly towards the place from whence I

thought it proceeded, calling out, but without receiving any answer. In

a little time, however, I perceived one of the shepherds lying among the

long grass near the road; and, though I could see no blood upon him,

concluded he was dead. But when I came close to him, he whispered to

me to stop, telling me that a party of armed men had seized upon his

companion, and shot two arrows at himself as he was making his escape.

I stopped to consider what course to take, and looking round, saw at a

little distance a man sitting upon the stump of a tree; I distinguished

also the heads of six or seven more; sitting among the grass, with

muskets in their hands. I had now no hopes of escaping, and therefore

determined to ride forward towards them. As I approached them, I was

in hopes they were elephant hunters, and by way of opening the

conversation, inquired if they had shot anything; but, without returning

an answer, one of them ordered me to dismount; and then, as if

recollecting himself, waved with his hand for me to proceed. I

accordingly rode past, and had with some difficulty crossed a deep

rivulet, when I heard somebody holloa; and looking back, saw those I

took for elephant hunters now running after me, and calling out to me to

turn back. I stopped until they were all come up, when they informed me

that the King of the Foulahs had sent them on purpose to bring me,

my horse, and everything that belonged to me, to Fooladoo, and that

therefore I must turn back, and go along with them. Without hesitating a

moment, I turned round and followed them, and we travelled together near

a quarter of a mile without exchanging a word. When coming to a dark

place of the wood, one of them said, in the Mandingo language, "This

place will do," and immediately snatched my hat from my head. Though

I was by no means free of apprehension, yet I resolved to show as few

signs of fear as possible; and therefore told them, unless my hat was

returned to me, I should go no farther. But before I had time to receive

an answer, another drew his knife, and seizing upon a metal button which

remained upon my waistcoat, cut it off, and put it in his pocket. Their

intention was now obvious, and I thought that the more easily they were

permitted to rob me of everything, the less I had to fear. I therefore

allowed them to search my pockets without resistance, and examine every

part of my apparel, which they did with scrupulous exactness. But

observing that I had one waistcoat under another, they insisted that I

should cast them both off; and at last, to make sure work, stripped me

quite naked. Even my half-boots (though the sole of one of them was tied

to my foot with a broken bridle-rein) were narrowly inspected. Whilst

they were examining the plunder, I begged them with great earnestness to

return my pocket compass; but when I pointed it out to them, as it was

lying on the ground, one of the banditti thinking I was about to take it

up, cocked his musket, and swore that he would lay me dead on the spot

if I presumed to lay my hand on it. After this some of them went away

with my horse, and the remainder stood considering whether they should

leave me quite naked, or allow me something to shelter me from the sun.

Humanity at last prevailed; they returned me the worst of the two shirts

and a pair of trowsers; and, as they went away, one of them threw back

my hat, in the crown of which I kept my memorandums; and this was

probably the reason they did not wish to keep it. After they were

gone, I sat for some time looking around me with amazement and terror;

whichever way I turned, nothing appeared but danger and difficulty. I

saw myself in the midst of a vast wilderness in the depth of the rainy

season, naked and alone, surrounded by savage animals, and men still

more savage. I was five hundred miles from the nearest European

settlement. All these circumstances crowded at once to my recollection;

and I confess that my spirits began to fail me. I considered my fate as

certain, and that I had no alternative but to lie down and perish. At

this moment, painful as my reflections were, the extraordinary beauty

of a small moss irresistibly caught my eye. I mention this to show from

what trifling circumstances the mind will sometimes derive consolation;

for though the whole plant was not larger than the tip of one of my

fingers, I could not contemplate the delicate conformation of its roots,

leaves, and capsule without admiration. Can that Being (thought I), who

planted, watered, and brought to perfection, in this obscure part of the

world, a thing which appears of so small importance, look with unconcern

upon the situation and sufferings of creatures formed after his own

image?--surely not! Reflections like these would not allow me to

despair; I started up, and disregarding both hunger and fatigue,

travelled forwards, assured that relief was at hand; and I was not

disappointed. In a short time I came to a small village, at the entrance

of which I overtook the two shepherds who had come with me from Rooma.

They were much surprised to see me, for they said they never doubted

that the Foulahs, when they had robbed, had murdered me. Departing from

this village, we travelled over several rocky ridges, and at sunset

arrived at Sibidooloo, the frontier town of the kingdom of Manding.

MUNGO PARK.

[Note: _Mungo Park_. Born in Selkirkshire in 1771; set out on his first

African exploration in 1795. His object was to explore the Niger; and

this he had done to a great extent when he was murdered (as is supposed)

by the natives in 1805.]

* * * * *

REST FROM BATTLE.

Now deep in ocean sunk the lamp of light,

And drew behind the cloudy veil of night;

The conquering Trojans mourn his beams decayed;

The Greeks rejoicing bless the friendly shade.

The victors keep the field: and Hector calls

A martial council near the navy walls:

These to Scamander's bank apart he led,

Where thinly scattered lay the heaps of dead.

The assembled chiefs, descending on the ground,

Attend his order, and their prince surround.

A massy spear he bore of mighty strength,

Of full ten cubits was the lance's length;

The point was brass, refulgent to behold,

Fixed to the wood with circling rings of gold:

The noble Hector on his lance reclined,

And bending forward, thus revealed his mind:

"Ye valiant Trojans, with attention hear!

Ye Dardan bands, and generous aids, give ear!

This day, we hoped, would wrap in conquering flame

Greece with her ships, and crown our toils with fame.

But darkness now, to save the cowards, falls,

And guards them trembling in their wooden walls.

Obey the night, and use her peaceful hours,

Our steeds to forage, and refresh our powers.

Straight from the town be sheep and oxen sought,

And strengthening bread and generous wine be brought.

Wide o'er the field, high blazing to the sky,

Let numerous fires the absent sun supply,

The flaming piles with plenteous fuel raise,

Till the bright morn her purple beam displays;

Lest, in the silence and the shades of night,

Greece on her sable ships attempt her flight.

Not unmolested let the wretches gain

Their lofty decks, or safely cleave the main:

Some hostile wound let every dart bestow,

Some lasting token of the Phrygian foe:

Wounds, that long hence may ask their spouses' care,

And warn their children from a Trojan war.

Now, through the circuit of our Ilion wall,

Let sacred heralds sound the solemn call;

To bid the sires with hoary honours crowned,

And beardless youths, our battlements surround.

Firm be the guard, while distant lie our powers,

And let the matrons hang with lights the towers:

Lest, under covert of the midnight shade,

The insidious foe the naked town invade.

Suffice, to-night, these orders to obey;

A nobler charge shall rouse the dawning day.

The gods, I trust, shall give to Hector's hand,

From these detested foes to free the land,

Who ploughed, with fates averse, the watery way;

For Trojan vultures a predestined prey.

Our common safety must be now the care;

But soon as morning paints the fields of air,

Sheathed in bright arms let every troop engage,

And the fired fleet behold the battle rage.

Then, then shall Hector and Tydides prove,

Whose fates are heaviest in the scale of Jove.

To-morrow's light (O haste the glorious morn!)

Shall see his bloody spoils in triumph borne,

With this keen javelin shall his breast be gored,

And prostrate heroes bleed around their lord.

Certain as this, oh! might my days endure,

From age inglorious, and black death secure;

So might my life and glory know no bound,

Like Pallas worshipped, like the sun renowned!

As the next dawn, the last they shall enjoy,

Shall crush the Greeks, and end the woes of Troy."

The leader spoke. From all his host around

Shouts of applause along the shores resound.

Each from the yoke the smoking steeds untied,

And fixed their headstalls to his chariot-side.

Fat sheep and oxen from the town are led,

With generous wine, and all-sustaining bread.

Full hecatombs lay burning on the shore;

The winds to heaven the curling vapours bore;

Ungrateful offering to the immortal powers!

Whose wrath hung heavy o'er the Trojan towers;

Nor Priam nor his sons obtained their grace;

Proud Troy they hated, and her guilty race.

The troops exulting sat in order round,

And beaming fires illumined all the ground.

As when the moon, refulgent lamp of night!

O'er heaven's clear azure spreads her sacred light,

When not a breath disturbs the deep serene,

And not a cloud o'ercasts the solemn scene;

Around her throne the vivid planets roll,

And stars unnumbered gild the glowing pole;

O'er the dark trees a yellower verdure shed,

And tip with silver every mountain's head.

Then shine the vales, the rocks in prospect rise,

A flood of glory bursts from all the skies:

The conscious swains, rejoicing in the sight,

Eye the blue vault, and bless the useful light.

So many flames before proud Ilion blaze,

And lighten glimmering Xanthus with their rays:

The long reflections of the distant fires

Gleam on the walls, and tremble on the spires.

A thousand piles the dusky horrors gild,

And shoot a shady lustre o'er the field.

Full fifty guards each flaming pile attend,

Whose umbered arms, by fits, thick flashes send,

Loud neigh the coursers o'er their heaps of corn,

And ardent warriors wait the rising morn.

POPE.

[Notes:_Rest from battle_. This is part of Pope's translation of the

Iliad of Homer (Book 8, l. 605).

_Stamander_. One of the rivers in the neighbourhood of Troy.

_Dardan bands_. Trojan lands. Dardanus was the mythical ancestor of the

Trojans.

_Generous aids_ = allies.

_Tydides_--Diomede.

_From age inglorious and black death secure_ = safe from inglorious age

and from black death.

_Hecatombs_. Sacrifices of 100 oxen.

_Ungrateful offering_ = unpleasing offering.

_Xanthus_. The other river in the neighbourhood of Troy.

_Umbered_ = thrown into shadow, and glimmering in the darkness.]

* * * * *

ARISTIDES.

Aristides at first was loved and respected for his surname of _the

Just_, and afterwards envied as much; the latter, chiefly by the

management of Themistocles, who gave it out among the people that

Aristides had abolished the courts of judicature, by drawing the

arbitration of all causes to himself, and so was insensibly gaining

sovereign power, though without guards and the other ensigns of it. The

people, elevated with the late victory at Marathon, thought themselves

capable of everything, and the highest respect little enough for them.

Uneasy, therefore, at finding any one citizen rose to such extraordinary

honour and distinction, they assembled at Athens from all the towns in

Attica, and banished Aristides by the Ostracism; disguising their

envy of his character under the specious pretence of guarding against

tyranny.

For the _Ostracism_ was not a punishment for crimes and misdemeanours,

but was very decently called an humbling and lessening of some excessive

influence and power. In reality it was a mild gratification of envy; for

by this means, whoever was offended at the growing greatness of another,

discharged his spleen, not in anything cruel or inhuman, but only in

voting a ten years' banishment. But when it once began to fall upon

mean and profligate persons, it was for ever after entirely laid aside;

Hyperbolus being the last that was exiled by it.

The reason of its turning upon such a wretch was this. Alcibiades and

Nicias, who were persons of the greatest interest in Athens, had each

his party; but perceiving that the people were going to proceed to

the Ostracism, and that one of them was likely to suffer by it, they

consulted together, and joining interests, caused it to fall upon

Hyperbolus. Hereupon the people, full of indignation at finding this

kind of punishment dishonoured and turned into ridicule, abolished it

entirely.

The Ostracism (to give a summary account of it) was conducted in the

following manner. Every citizen took a piece of a broken pot, or a

shell, on which he wrote the name of the person he wanted to have

banished, and carried it to a part of the market-place that was enclosed

with wooden rails. The magistrates then counted the number of the

shells; and if it amounted not to six thousand, the Ostracism stood for

nothing: if it did, they sorted the shells, and the person whose name

was found on the greatest number, was declared an exile for ten years,

but with permission to enjoy his estate.

At the time that Aristides was banished, when the people were inscribing

the names on the shells, it is reported that an illiterate burgher came

to Aristides, whom he took for some ordinary person, and, giving him his

shell, desired him to write Aristides upon it. The good man, surprised

at the adventure, asked him "Whether Aristides had ever injured him?"

"No," said he, "nor do I even know him; but it vexes me to hear him

everywhere called _the Just_." Aristides made no answer, but took the

shell, and having written his own name upon it, returned it to the man.

When he quitted Athens, he lifted up his hands towards heaven, and,

agreeably to his character, made a prayer, very different from that of

Achilles; namely, "That the people of Athens might never see the day

which should force them to remember Aristides."

_Plutarch's Lives_.

[Notes: _Aristides_. A prominent citizen of Athens (about the year 490

B.C.) opposed to the more advanced policy of Themistocles, who wished to

make the city rely entirely upon her naval power. He was ostracised in

489, but afterwards restored.

_Marathon_. The victory gained over the Persian invaders, 490 B.C.]

* * * * *

THE VENERABLE BEDE.

Baeda--the venerable Bede as later times styled him--was born about ten

years after the Synod of Whitby, beneath the shade of a great abbey

which Benedict Biscop was rearing by the mouth of the Wear. His youth

was trained and his long tranquil life was wholly spent in an offshoot

of Benedict's house which was founded by his scholar Ceolfrid.

Baeda never stirred from Jarrow. "I spent my whole life in the same

monastery," he says, "and while attentive to the rule of my order and

the service of the Church, my constant pleasure lay in learning, or

teaching, or writing." The words sketch for us a scholar's life, the

more touching in its simplicity that it is the life of the first great

English scholar. The quiet grandeur of a life consecrated to knowledge,

the tranquil pleasure that lies in learning and teaching and writing,

dawned for Englishmen in the story of Baeda. While still young, he

became teacher, and six hundred monks, besides strangers that flocked

thither for instruction, formed his school of Jarrow. It is hard to

imagine how, among the toils of the schoolmaster and the duties of the

monk, Baeda could have found time for the composition of the numerous

works that made his name famous in the West. But materials for study had

accumulated in Northumbria through the journeys of Wilfrith and Benedict

Biscop, and Archbishop Eegberht was forming the first English library at

York. The tradition of the older Irish teachers still lingered to direct

the young scholar into that path of scriptural interpretation to which

he chiefly owed his fame. Greek, a rare accomplishment in the West,

came to him from the school which the Greek Archbishop Theodore founded

beneath the walls of Canterbury. His skill in the ecclesiastical chaunt

was derived from a Roman cantor whom Pope Vilalian sent in the train of

Benedict Biscop. Little by little the young scholar thus made himself

master of the whole range of the science of his time; he became,

as Burke rightly styled him, "the father of English learning." The

tradition of the older classic culture was first revived for England

in his quotations of Plato and Aristotle, of Seneca and Cicero, of

Lucretius and Ovid. Virgil cast over him the same spell that he cast

over Dante; verses from the. Aeneid break his narratives of martyrdoms,

and the disciple ventures on the track of the great master in a little

eclogue descriptive of the approach of spring. His work was done with

small aid from others. "I am my own secretary," he writes; "I make my

own notes. I am my own librarian." But forty-five works remained after

his death to attest his prodigious industry. In his own eyes and

those of his contemporaries, the most important among these were the

commentaries and homilies upon various books of the Bible which he had

drawn from the writings of the Fathers. But he was far from confining

himself to theology. In treatises compiled as text-books for his

scholars, Baeda threw together all that the world had then accumulated

in astronomy and meteorology, in physics and music, in philosophy,

grammar, rhetoric, arithmetic, medicine. But the encyclopaedic character

of his researches left him in heart a simple Englishman. He loved his

own English tongue, he was skilled in English song, his last work was a

translation into English of the gospel of St. John, and almost the last

words that broke from his lips were some English rhymes upon death.

But the noblest proof of his love of England lies in the work which

immortalizes his name. In his 'Ecclesiastical History of the English

Nation,' Baeda was at once the founder of medieval history and the first

English historian. All that we really know of the century and a half

that follows the landing of Augustine, we know from him. Wherever his

own personal observation extended, the story is told with admirable

detail and force. He is hardly less full or accurate in the portions

which he owed to his Kentish friends, Alewine and Nothelm. What he owed

to no informant was his own exquisite faculty of story-telling, and yet

no story of his own telling is so touching as the story of his death.

Two weeks before the Easter of 735 the old man was seized with an

extreme weakness and loss of breath. He still preserved, however, his

usual pleasantness and gay good-humour, and in spite of prolonged

sleeplessness continued his lectures to the pupils about him. Verses

of his own English tongue broke from time to time from the master's

lip--rude rhymes that told how before the "need-fare," Death's stern

"must-go," none can enough bethink him what is to be his doom for good

or ill. The tears of Baeda's scholars mingled with his song. "We never

read without weeping," writes one of then. So the days rolled on to

Ascension-tide, and still master and pupils toiled at their work, for

Baeda longed to bring to an end his version of St. John's Gospel into

the English tongue, and his extracts from Bishop Isidore. "I don't want

my boys to read a lie," he answered those who would have had him

rest, "or to work to no purpose, after I am gone." A few days before

Ascension-tide his sickness grew upon him, but he spent the whole day in

teaching, only saying cheerfully to his scholars, "Learn with what speed

you may; I know not how long I may last." The dawn broke on another

sleepless night, and again the old man called his scholars round him and

bade them write. "There is still a chapter wanting," said the scribe, as

the morning drew on, "and it is hard for thee to question thyself any

longer." "It is easily done," said Baeda; "take thy pen and write

quickly." Amid tears and farewells the day wore on to eventide. "There

is yet one sentence unwritten, dear master," said the boy. "Write it

quickly," bade the dying man. "It is finished now," said the little

scribe at last. "You speak truth," said the master; "all is finished

now." Placed upon the pavement, his head supported in his scholar's

arms, his face turned to the spot where he was wont to pray, Baeda

chaunted the solemn "Glory to God." As his voice reached the close of

his song, he passed quietly away.

J. R. GREEN.

[Note: _Baeda_. The father of literature and learning in England

(656-735 A.D.).]

* * * * *

THE DEATH OF ANSELM.

Anselm's life was drawing to its close. The re-enactment and

confirmation by the authority of the great Whitsuntide Assembly of the

canons of the Synod of London against clerical marriage, and a dispute

with two of the Northern bishops--his old friend Ralph Flambard, and the

archbishop-elect of York, who, apparently reckoning on Anselm's age and

bad health, was scheming to evade the odious obligation of acknowledging

the paramount claims of the see of Canterbury--were all that marked the

last year of his life. A little more than a year before his own death,

he had to bury his old and faithful friend--a friend first in the

cloister of Bee, and then in the troubled days of his English

primacy--the great builder, Gundulf, Bishop of Rochester. Anselm's last

days shall be told in the words of one who had the best right to record

the end of him whom he had loved so simply and so loyally--his attendant

Eadmer.

"During these events (of the last two years of his life) he wrote a

treatise 'Concerning the Agreement of Foreknowledge, Predestination, and

the Grace of God, with Free Will,' in which contrary to his wont, he

found difficulty in composition; for after his illness at Bury St.

Edmund's, as long as he was spared to this life, he was weaker than

before; so that, when he was moving from place to place, he was from

that time carried in a litter, instead of riding on horseback. He was

tried, also, by frequent and sharp sicknesses, so that we scarce dared

promise him life. He, however, never left off his old way of living, but

was always engaged in godly meditations, or holy exhortations, or other

good work.

"In the third year after King Henry had recalled him from his second

banishment, every kind of food by which nature is sustained became

loathsome to him. He used to eat, however, putting force on himself,

knowing that he could not live without food; and in this way he somehow

or another dragged on life through half a year, gradually failing day by

day in body, though in vigour of mind he was still the same as he used

to be. So being strong in spirit, though but very feeble in the flesh,

he could not go to his oratory on foot; but from his strong desire to

attend the consecration of the Lord's body, which he venerated with a

special feeling of devotion, he caused himself to be carried thither

every day in a chair. We who attended on him tried to prevail on him to

desist, because it fatigued him so much; but we succeeded, and that with

difficulty, only four days before he died.

"From that time he took to his bed? and, with gasping breath, continued

to exhort all who had the privilege of drawing near him to live to God,

each in his own order. Palm Sunday had dawned, and we, as usual, were

sitting round him; one of us said to him, 'Lord father, we are given to

understand that you are going to leave the world for your Lord's Easter

court.' He answered, 'If His will be so, I shall gladly obey His will.

But if He willed rather that I should yet remain amongst you, at least

till I have solved a question which I am turning in my mind, about the

origin of the soul, I should receive it thankfully, for I know not

whether any one will finish it after I am gone. Indeed, I hope, that if

I could take food, I might yet get well. For I feel no pain anywhere;

only, from weakness of my stomach, which cannot take food, I am failing

altogether.'

"On the following Tuesday, towards evening, he was no longer able to

speak intelligibly. Ralph, Bishop of Rochester, asked him to bestow

his absolution and blessing on us who were present, and on his other

children, and also on the king and queen with their children, and the

people of the land who had kept themselves under God in his obedience.

He raised his right hand, as if he was suffering nothing, and made the

sign of the Holy Cross; and then dropped his head and sank down. The

congregation of the brethren were already chanting matins in the great

church, when one of those who watched about our father the book of the

Gospels and read before him the history of the Passion, which was to be

read that day at the mass. But when he came to our Lord's words, 'Ye are

they which have continued with me in my temptations, and I appoint unto

you a kingdom, as my Father hath appointed unto me, that ye may eat and

drink at my table,' he began to draw his breath more slowly. We saw

that he was just going, so he was removed from his bed, and laid upon

sackcloth and ashes. And thus, the whole family of his children being

collected round him, he gave up his last breath into the hands of his

Creator, and slept in peace."

DEAN CHURCH.

[Note:_Anselm_. An Italian by birth (1033-1109), was Abbot of Bee, in

Normandy, and afterwards Archbishop of Canterbury, in both succeeding

his countryman Lanfranc. He was famous as a scholastic philosopher; and,

as a Churchman, he struggled long for the liberties of the Church with

William II. and Henry I.]

* * * * *

THE MURDER OF BECKET.

The vespers had already begun, and the monks were singing the service in

the choir, when two boys rushed up the nave, announcing, more by their

terrified gestures than by their words, that the soldiers were bursting

into the palace and monastery. Instantly the service was thrown into the

utmost confusion; part remained at prayer, part fled into the numerous

hiding-places the vast fabric affords; and part went down the steps of

the choir into the transept to meet the little band at the door. "Come

in, come in!" exclaimed one of them; "Come in, and let us die together."

The Archbishop continued to stand outside, and said, "Go and finish the

service. So long as you keep in the entrance, I shall not come in." They

fell back a few paces, and he stepped within the door, but, finding the

whole place thronged with people, he paused on the threshold, and asked,

"What is it that these people fear?" One general answer broke forth,

"The armed men in the cloister." As he turned and said, "I shall go out

to them," he heard the clash of arms behind. The knights had just forced

their way into the cloister, and were now (as would appear from their

being thus seen through the open door) advancing along its southern

side. They were in mail, which covered their faces up to their eyes, and

carried their swords drawn. Three had hatchets. Fitzurse, with the axe

he had taken from the carpenters, was foremost, shouting as he came,

"Here, here, king's men!" Immediately behind him followed Robert

Fitzranulph, with three other knights, and a motley group--some their

own followers, some from the town--with weapons, though not in armour,

brought up the rear. At this sight, so unwonted in the peaceful

cloisters of Canterbury, not probably beheld since the time when the

monastery had been sacked by the Danes, the monks within, regardless

of all remonstrances, shut the door of the cathedral, and proceeded

to barricade it with iron bars. A loud knocking was heard from the

terrified band without, who having vainly endeavoured to prevent the

entrance of the knights into the cloister, now rushed before them to

take refuge in the church. Becket, who had stepped some paces into the

cathedral, but was resisting the solicitations of those immediately

about him to move up into the choir for safety, darted back, calling

aloud as he went, "Away, you cowards! By virtue of your obedience I

command you not to shut the door--the church must not be turned into a

castle." With his own hands he thrust them away from the door, opened it

himself, and catching hold of the excluded monks, dragged them into the

building, exclaiming, "Come in, come in--faster, faster!"

* * * * *

The knights, who had been checked for a moment by the sight of the

closed door, on seeing it unexpectedly thrown open, rushed into the

church. It was, we must remember, about five o'clock in a winter

evening; the shades of night were gathering, and were deepened into

a still darker gloom within the high and massive walls of the vast

cathedral, which was only illuminated here and there by the solitary

lamps burning before the altars. The twilight, lengthening from the

shortest day a fortnight before, was but just sufficient to reveal the

outline of objects.

* * * * *

In the dim twilight they could just discern a group of figures mounting

the steps of the eastern staircase. One of the knights called out to

them, "Stay." Another, "Where is Thomas Becket, traitor to the King?"

No answer was returned. None could have been expected by any one who

remembered the indignant silence with which Becket had swept by when the

same words had been applied by Randulf of Broc at Northampton. Fitzurse

rushed forward, and, stumbling against one of the monks on the lower

step, still not able to distinguish clearly in the darkness, exclaimed,

"Where is the Archbishop?" Instantly the answer came: "Reginald, here I

am, no traitor, but the archbishop and priest of God; what do you wish?"

and from the fourth step, which he had reached in his ascent, with a

slight motion of his head--noticed apparently as his peculiar manner in

moments of excitement--Becket descended to the transept. Attired, we

are told, in his white rochet, with a cloak and hood thrown over his

shoulders, he thus suddenly confronted his assailants. Fitzurse sprang

back two or three paces, and Becket passing by him took up his station

between the central pillar and the massive wall which still forms the

south-west corner of what was then the chapel of St. Benedict. Here they

gathered round him, with the cry, "Absolve the bishops whom you have

excommunicated." "I cannot do other than I have done," he replied, and

turning to Fitzurse, he added, "Reginald, you have received many favours

at my hands; why do you come into my church armed?" Fitzurse planted the

axe against his breast, and returned for answer, "You shall die--I will

tear out your heart." Another, perhaps in kindness, struck him between

the shoulders with the flat of his sword, exclaiming, "Fly; you are a

dead man." "I am ready to die," replied the primate, "for God and the

Church; but I warn you, I curse you in the name of God Almighty, if you

do not let my men escape."

The well-known horror which in that age was felt at an act of sacrilege,

together with the sight of the crowds who were rushing in from the town

through the nave, turned their efforts for the next few moments to

carrying him out of the church. Fitzurse threw down the axe, and tried

to drag him out by the collar of his long cloak, calling, "Come with

us--you are our prisoner." "I will not fly, you detestable fellow," was

Becket's reply, roused to his usual vehemence, and wrenching the cloak

out of Fitzurse's grasp. The three knights struggled violently to put

him on Tracy's shoulders. Becket set his back against the pillar, and

resisted with all his might, whilst Grim, vehemently remonstrating,

threw his arms around him to aid his efforts. In the scuffle, Becket

fastened upon Tracy, shook him by his coat of mail, and exerting his

great strength, flung him down on the pavement. It was hopeless to carry

on the attempt to remove him. And in the final struggle which now began,

Fitzurse, as before, took the lead. He approached with his drawn sword,

and waving it over his head, cried, "Strike, strike!" but merely dashed

off his cap. Tracy sprang forward and struck a more decided blow.

* * * * *

The blood from the first blow was trickling down his face in a thin

streak; he wiped it with his arm, and when he saw the stain, he said,

"Into thy hands, O Lord, I commend my spirit." At the third blow, he

sank on his knees--his arms falling, but his hands still joined as if

in prayer. With his face turned towards the altar of St. Benedict, he

murmured in a low voice, "For the name of Jesus, and the defence of the

Church, I am willing to die." Without moving hand or foot, he fell fiat

on his face as he spoke, and with such dignity that his mantle, which

extended from head to foot, was not disarranged. In this posture he

received a tremendous blow, aimed with such violence that the scalp or

crown of the head was severed from the skull, and the sword snapped in

two on the marble pavement. Hugh of Horsea planted his foot on the neck

of the corpse, thrust his sword into the ghastly wound, and scattered

the brains over the pavement. "Let us go--let us go," he said, in

conclusion, "the traitor is dead; he will rise no more."

DEAN STANLEY.

[Note: _Thomas Becket_ (1119-1170). Chancellor and afterwards Archbishop

of Canterbury under Henry II.; maintained a heroic, though perhaps

ambitious and undesirable struggle with that king for the independence

of the clergy; and ended his life by assassination at the hands of

certain of Henry's servants.]

* * * * *

THE DEATH OF ELIZABETH

The triumph of her lieutenant, Mountjoy, flung its lustre over the last

days of Elizabeth, but no outer triumph could break the gloom which

gathered round the dying queen. Lonely as she had always been, her

loneliness deepened as she drew towards the grave. The statesmen and

warriors of her earlier days had dropped one by one from her council

board; and their successors were watching her last moments, and

intriguing for favour in the coming reign. The old splendour of her

court waned and disappeared. Only officials remained about her, "the

other of the council and nobility estrange themselves by all occasions."

As she passed along in her progresses, the people, whose applause she

courted, remained cold and silent. The temper of the age, in fact, was

changing and isolating her as it changed. Her own England, the England

which had grown up around her, serious, moral, prosaic, shrank coldly

from this child of earth, and the renascence, brilliant, fanciful,

unscrupulous, irreligious. She had enjoyed life as the men of her day

enjoyed it, and now that they were gone she clung to it with a fierce

tenacity. She hunted, she danced, she jested with her young favourites,

she coquetted, and scolded, and frolicked at sixty-seven as she had

done at thirty. "The queen," wrote a courtier, a few months before her

death, "was never so gallant these many years, nor so set upon jollity."

She persisted, in spite of opposition, in her gorgeous progresses from

country-house to country-house. She clung to business as of old, and

rated in her usual fashion, "one who minded not to giving up some matter

of account." But death crept on. Her face became haggard, and her frame

shrank almost to a skeleton. At last, her taste for finery disappeared,

and she refused to change her dresses for a week together. A strange

melancholy settled down on her: "she held in her hand," says one who saw

her in her last days, "a golden cup, which she often put to her lips:

but in truth her heart seemed too full to need more filling." Gradually

her mind gave way. She lost her memory, the violence of her temper

became unbearable, her very courage seemed to forsake her. She called

for a sword to lie constantly beside her, and thrust it from time to

time through the arras, as if she heard murderers stirring there. Food

and rest became alike distasteful. She sate day and night propped up

with pillows on a stool, her finger on her lip, her eyes fixed on the

floor, without a word. If she once broke the silence, it was with a

flash of her old queenliness. Cecil asserted that she "must" go to bed,

and the word roused her like a trumpet. "Must!" she exclaimed; "is

_must_ a word to be addressed to princes? Little man, little man! thy

father, if he had been alive, durst not have used that word." Then, as

her anger spent itself, she sank into her old dejection. "Thou art so

presumptuous," she said, "because thou knowest I shall die." She rallied

once more when the ministers beside her bed named Lord Beauchamp, the

heir to the Suffolk claim, as a possible successor. "I will have no

rogue's son," she cried hoarsely, "in my seat." But she gave no sign,

save a motion of the head, at the mention of the King of Scots. She was

in fact fast becoming insensible; and early the next morning the life

of Elizabeth, a life so great, so strange and lonely in its greatness,

passed quietly away.

J.R. GREEN.

[Notes: _Mountjoy_. The Queen's lieutenant in Ireland, who had had

considerable success in dealing with the Irish rebels.

_This chill of ... the renascence._ In her irreligion, as well as in

her brilliancy and fancy, Elizabeth might fitly be called the child

or product of the Pagan renascence or new birth, as the return to the

freedom of classic literature, so powerful in the England of her day,

was called.

_Thy father_ = the great Lord Burghley, who guided the counsels of the

Queen throughout all the earlier part of her reign.

_The Suffolk claim, i.e.,_ the claim derived from Mary, the sister of

Henry VIII., who married Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk. James, who

succeeded Elizabeth, was descended from the elder sister, Margaret,

married to James IV. of Scotland.]

* * * * *

THE SAXON AND THE GAEL.

So toilsome was the road to trace,

The guide, abating of his pace,

Led slowly through the pass's jaws,

And ask'd Fitz-James by what strange cause

He sought these wilds? traversed by few,

Without a pass from Roderick Dhu.

"Brave Gael, my pass, in danger tried,

Hangs in my belt, and by my side;

Yet sooth to tell," the Saxon said,

"I dreamed not now to claim its aid.

When here but three days since, I came,

Bewildered in pursuit of game,

All seemed as peaceful and as still

As the mist slumbering on yon hill:

Thy dangerous chief was then afar,

Nor soon expected back from war."

"But, Stranger, peaceful since you came,

Bewildered in the mountain game,

Whence the bold boast by which you show

Vich-Alpine's vowed and mortal foe?"

"Warrior, but yester-morn, I knew

Nought of thy Chieftain, Roderick Dhu,

Save as an outlaw'd desperate man,

The chief of a rebellious clan,

Who in the Regent's court and sight,

With ruffian dagger stabbed a knight;

Yet this alone might from his part

Sever each true and loyal heart."

Wrathful at such arraignment foul,

Dark lowered the clansman's sable scowl.

A space he paused, then sternly said,--

"And heard'st thou why he drew his blade?

Heards't thou that shameful word and blow

Brought Roderick's vengeance on his foe?

What reck'd the Chieftain if he stood

On Highland-heath, or Holy-Rood?

He rights such wrong where it is given,

If it were in the court of heaven."

"Still was it outrage:--yet, 'tis true,

Not then claimed sovereignty his due;

While Albany, with feeble hand,

Held borrowed truncheon of command,

The young King mew'd in Stirling tower,

Was stranger to respect and power.

But then, thy Chieftain's robber life!

Winning mean prey by causeless strife,

Wrenching from ruined lowland swain

His herds and harvest reared in vain,

Methinks a soul like thine should scorn

The spoils from such foul foray borne."

The Gael beheld him grim the while,

And answered with disdainful smile,--

"Saxon, from yonder mountain high,

I marked thee send delighted eye

Far to the south and east, where lay

Extended in succession gay,

Deep waving fields and pastures green,

With gentle slopes and groves between:--

These fertile plains, that softened vale,

Were once the birthright of the Gael;

The stranger came with iron hand,

And from our fathers reft the land.

Where dwell we now? See, rudely swell

Crag over crag, fell over fell.

Ask we this savage hill we tread,

For fattened steer or household bread;

Ask we for flocks these shingles dry,

And well the mountain might reply,--

"To you, as to your sires of yore,

Belong the target and claymore!

I give you shelter in my breast,

Your own good blades must win the rest."

Pent in this fortress of the North,

Think'st thou we will not sally forth,

To spoil the spoiler as we may,

And from the robber rend the prey?

Aye, by my soul!--While on yon plain

The Saxon rears one shock of grain;

While of ten thousand herds, there strays

But one along yon river's maze,--

The Gael, of plain and river heir,

Shall, with strong hand, redeem his share.

Where live the mountain Chiefs who hold

That plundering Lowland field and fold

Is aught but retribution true?

Seek other cause 'gainst Roderick Dhu."

Answered Fitz-James--"And, if I sought,

Think'st thou no other could be brought?

What deem ye of my path waylaid,

My life given o'er to ambuscade?"

"As of a meed to rashness due:

Hadst thou sent warning fair and true,--

I seek my hound, or falcon strayed.

I seek, good faith, a Highland maid.--

Free hadst thou been to come and go;

But secret path marks secret foe.

Nor yet, for this, even as a spy,

Hadst thou unheard, been doomed to die,

Save to fulfil an augury."

"Well, let it pass; nor will I now

Fresh cause of enmity avow,

To chafe thy mood and cloud thy brow.

Enough, I am by promise tied

To match me with this man of pride:

Twice have I sought Clan-Alpine's glen

In peace: but when I come again,

I come with banner, brand, and bow,

As leader seeks his mortal foe.

For love-lorn swain, in lady's bower,

Ne'er panted for the appointed hour,

As I, until before me stand

This rebel Chieftain and his band."

"Have, then, thy wish!"--he whistled shrill,

And he was answered from the hill:

Wild as the scream of the curlew,

From crag to crag the signal flew.

Instant, through copse and heath, arose

Bonnets and spears, and bended bows.

On right, on left, above, below,

Sprung up at once the lurking foe;

From shingles grey their lances start,

The bracken bush sends forth the dart.

The rushes and the willow wand

Are bristling into axe and brand,

And every tuft of broom gives life

To plaided warrior armed for strife.

That whistle garrison'd the glen

At once with full five hundred men,

As if the yawning hill to heaven

A subterraneous host had given.

Watching their leader's beck and will,

All silent there they stood and still.

Like the loose crags whose threatening mass

Lay tottering o'er the hollow pass,

As if an infant's touch could urge

Their headlong passage down the verge,

With step and weapon forward flung.

Upon the mountain-side they hung.

The mountaineer cast glance of pride

Along Benledi's living side,

Then fixed his eye and sable brow

Full on Fitz-James--"How says't thou now?

These are Clan-Alpine's warriors true,

And, Saxon,--I am Roderick Dhu!"

Fitz-James was brave:--Though to his heart

The life-blood thrilled with sudden start,

He mann'd himself with dauntless air,

Returned the Chief his haughty stare,

His back against a rock he bore,

And firmly placed his foot before:--

"Come one, come all! this rock shall fly

From its firm base as soon as I."

Sir Roderick marked--and in his eyes

Respect was mingled with surprise,

And the stern joy which warriors feel

In foemen worthy of their steel.

Short space he stood--then waved his hand;

Down sunk the disappearing band:

Each warrior vanished where he stood,

In broom or bracken, heath or wood:

Sunk brand and spear, and bended bow,

In osiers pale and copses low;

It seemed as if their mother Earth

Had swallowed up her warlike birth.

The wind's last breath had tossed in air

Pennon, and plaid, and plumage fair,--

The next but swept a lone hill-side,

Where heath and fern were waving wide;

The sun's last glance was glinted back,

From spear and glaive, from targe and jack,--

The next, all unreflected, shone

On bracken green and cold grey stone.

Fitz-James looked round--yet scarce believed

The witness that his sight received;

Such apparition well might seem

Delusion of a dreadful dream.

Sir Roderick in suspense he eyed,

And to his look the Chief replied,

"Fear nought--nay, that I need not say--

But--doubt not aught from mine array.

Thou art my guest:--I pledged my word

As far as Coilantogle ford:

Nor would I call a clansman's brand,

For aid against one valiant hand,

Though on our strife lay every vale

Rent by the Saxon from the Gael.

So move we on;--I only meant

To show the reed on which you leant,

Deeming this path you might pursue

Without a pass from Roderick Dhu."

* * * * *

The Chief in silence strode before,

And reached that torrent's sounding shore,

Which, daughter of three mighty lakes,

From Vennachar in silver breaks

Sweeps through the plain, and ceaseless mines,

On Bochastle the mouldering lines.

Where "Rome, the Empress of the world.

Of yore her eagle wings unfurl'd.

And here his course the Chieftain staid;

Threw down his target and his plaid,

And to the Lowland warrior said:--

"Bold Saxon! to his promise just,

Vich-Alpine has discharged his trust.

This murderous Chief, this ruthless man.

This head of a rebellious clan,

Hath led thee safe, through watch and ward,

Far past Clan-Alpine's outmost guard.

Now, man to man, and steel to steel,

A Chieftain's vengeance thou shalt feel,

See, here, all vantageless, I stand,

Armed like thyself, with single brand:

For this is Coilantogle ford,

And thou must keep thee with thy sword."

The Saxon paused:--"I ne'er delayed,

When foeman bade me draw my blade;

Nay more, brave Chief, I vow'd thy death:

Yet sure thy fair and generous faith,

And my deep debt for life preserved,

A better meed have well deserved:--

Can nought but blood our feud atone?

Are there no means?"--"No, stranger, none!

And hear,--to fire thy flagging zeal,--

The Saxon cause rests on thy steel;

For thus spoke Fate by prophet bred

Between the living and the dead:

"Who spills the foremost foeman's life,

His party conquers in the strife."--

"Then by my word," the Saxon said,

"The riddle is already read.

Seek yonder brake beneath the cliff,--

There lies Red Murdoch, stark and stiff.

Thus Fate has solved her prophecy,

Then yield to Fate, and not to me.

To James, at Stirling, let us go,

When, if thou wilt be still his foe,

Or if the King shall not agree

To grant thee grace and favour free,

I plight mine honour, oath, and word,

That, to thy native strengths restored,

With each advantage shalt thou stand,

That aids thee now to guard thy land."--

Dark lightning flashed from Roderick's eye--

"Soars thy presumption then so high,

Because a wretched kern ye slew,

Homage to name to Roderick Dhu?

He yields not, he, to man nor Fate!

Thou add'st but fuel to my hate:--

My clansman's blood demands revenge.--

Not yet prepared?--By Heaven, I change

My thought, and hold thy valour light

As that of some vain carpet-knight,

Who ill-deserved my courteous care,

And whose best boast is but to wear

A braid of his fair lady's hair."--

"I thank thee, Roderick, for the word!

It nerves my heart, it steels my sword;

For I have sworn this braid to stain

In the best blood that warms thy vein.

Now, truce, farewell; and ruth, begone!

Yet think not that by thee alone,

Proud Chief! can courtesy be shown:

Though not from copse, or heath, or cairn,

Start at my whistle, clansmen stern,

Of this small horn one feeble blast

Would fearful odds against thee cast.

But fear not--doubt not--which thou wilt--

We try this quarrel hilt to hilt."--

Then each at once his faulchion drew,

Each on the ground his scabbard threw,

Each looked to sun, and stream, and plain,

As what they ne'er might see again:

Then foot, and point, and eye opposed,

In dubious strife they darkly closed.

Ill-fared it then with Roderick Dhu,

That on the field his targe he threw,

Whose brazen studs and tough bull-hide

Had death so often dashed aside:

For, trained abroad his arms to wield,

Fitz-James's blade was sword and shield.

He practised every pass and ward,

To thrust, to strike, to feint, to guard;

While less expert, though stronger far,

The Gael maintained unequal war.

Three times in closing strife they stood,

And thrice the Saxon blade drank blood:

No stinted draught, no scanty tide,

The gushing flood the tartans dyed.

Fierce Roderick felt the fatal drain,

And showered his blows like wintry rain;

And, as firm rock or castle-roof,

Against the winter shower is proof,

The foe invulnerable still

Foiled his wild rage by steady skill;

Till, at advantage ta'en, his brand

Forced Roderick's weapon from his hand,

And, backward borne upon the lea,

Brought the proud Chieftain to his knee.

"Now, yield thee, or, by Him who made

The world, thy heart's blood dyes my blade!"--

"Thy threats, thy mercy, I defy!

Let recreant yield, who fears to die."--

Like adder darting from his coil,

Like wolf that dashes through the toil,

Like mountain-cat who guards her young,

Full at Fitz-James's throat he sprung,

Received, but reck'd not of a wound,

And locked his arms his foeman round.--

Now gallant Saxon, hold thine own!

No maiden's hand is round thee thrown!

That desperate grasp thy frame might feel,

Through bars of brass and triple steel!--

They tug, they strain!--down, down they go,

The Gael above, Fitz-James below.

The Chieftain's gripe his throat compress'd,

His knee was planted on his breast;

His clotted locks he backward threw,

Across his brow his hand he drew,

From blood and mist to clear his sight,

Then gleam'd aloft his dagger bright!

--But hate and fury ill supplied

The stream of life's exhausted tide,

And all too late the advantage came,

To turn the odds of deadly game;

For, while the dagger gleam'd on high,

Keeled soul and sense, reeled brain and eye,

Down came the blow! but in the heath

The erring blade found bloodless sheath.

The struggling foe may now unclasp

The fainting Chief's relaxing grasp;

Unbounded from the dreadful close,

But breathless all, Fitz-James arose.

SCOTT.

[Notes: _Fitz-James_ is James V. in disguise.

_Holy Rood_, or Holy Cross, where was the royal palace of the Scottish

kings.

_Albany_. The Duke of Albany, who was regent of Scotland during part of

the minority of James V.

_Where Rome, the Empress, &c._ And where remnants of Roman encampments

are still to be traced.]

* * * * *

THE BATTLE OF NASEBY.

BY five o'clock in the morning, the whole army, in order of battle,

began to descry the enemy from the rising grounds about a mile from

Naseby, and moved towards them. They were drawn up on a little ascent in

a large common fallow-field, in one line, extending from one side of the

field to the other, the field something more than a mile over; our army

in the same order, in one line, with the reserves.

The king led the main battle of foot, Prince Rupert the right wing of

the horse, and Sir Marmaduke Langdale the left. Of the enemy Fairfax and

Skippon led the body, Cromwell and Roseter the right, and Ireton the

left. The numbers of both armies so equal, as not to differ five hundred

men, save that the king had most horse by about one thousand, and

Fairfax most foot by about five hundred. The number was in each army

about eighteen thousand men.

The armies coming close up, the wings engaged first. The prince with his

right wing charged with his wonted fury, and drove all the parliament's

wing of horse, one division excepted, clear out of the field. Ireton,

who commanded this wing, give him his due, rallied often, and fought

like a lion; but our wing bore down all before them, and pursued

them with a terrible execution.

Ireton, seeing one division of his horse left, repaired to them, and

keeping his ground, fell foul of a brigade of our foot, who coming up to

the head of the line, he like a madman charges them with his horse. But

they with their pikes tore them to pieces; so that this division was

entirely ruined. Ireton himself, thrust through the thigh with a pike,

wounded in the face with a halberd, was unhorsed and taken prisoner.

Cromwell, who commanded the parliament's right wing, charged Sir

Marmaduke Langdale with extraordinary fury; but he, an old tried

soldier, stood firm, and received the charge with equal gallantry,

exchanging all their shot, carabines, and pistols, and then fell on

sword in hand, Roseter and Whaley had the better on the point of

the wing, and routed two divisions of horse, pushed them behind the

reserves, where they rallied, and charged again, but were at last

defeated; the rest of the horse, now charged in the flank, retreated

fighting, and were pushed behind the reserves of foot.

While this was doing, the foot engaged with equal fierceness, and for

two hours there was a terrible fire. The king's foot, backed with

gallant officers, and full of rage at the rout of their horse, bore

down the enemy's brigade led by Skippon. The old man wounded, bleeding,

retreats to their reserves. All the foot, except the general's brigade,

were thus driven into the reserves, where their officers rallied them,

and brought them on to a fresh charge; and here the horse having driven

our horse above a quarter of a mile from the foot, face about, and fall

in on the rear of the foot.

Had our right wing done thus, the day had been secured; but Prince

Rupert, according to his custom, following the flying enemy, never

concerned himself with the safety of those behind; and yet he returned

sooner than he had done in like cases too. At our return we found all in

confusion, our foot broken, all but one brigade, which, though charged

in the front, flank, and rear, could not be broken, till Sir Thomas

Fairfax himself came up to the charge with fresh men, and then they

were rather cut in pieces than beaten; for they stood with their pikes

charged every way to the last extremity.

In this condition, at the distance of a quarter of a mile, we saw the

king rallying his horse, and preparing to renew the fight; and our wing

of horse coming up to him, gave him opportunity to draw up a large body

of horse; so large, that all the enemy's horse facing us, stood still

and looked on, but did not think fit to charge us, till their foot, who

had entirely broken our main battle, were put into order again, and

brought up to us.

The officers about the king advised his majesty rather to draw off; for,

since our foot were lost, it would be too much odds to expose the horse

to the fury of their whole army, and would be but sacrificing his best

troops, without any hopes of success.

The king, though with great regret at the loss of his foot, yet seeing

there was no other hope, took this advice, and retreated in good order

to Harborough, and from thence to Leicester.

This was the occasion of the enemy having so great a number of

prisoners; for the horse being thus gone off, the foot had no means

to make their retreat, and were obliged to yield themselves.

Commissary-General Ireton being taken by a captain of foot, makes the

captain his prisoner, to save his life, and gives him his liberty for

his courtesy before.

Cromwell and Roseter, with all the enemy's horse, followed us as far as

Leicester, and killed all that they could lay hold on straggling from

the body, but durst not attempt to charge us in a body. The

king expecting the enemy would come to Leicester, removes to

Ashby-de-la-Zouch, where we had some time to recollect ourselves.

This was the most fatal action of the whole war; not so much for the

loss of our cannon, ammunition, and baggage, of which the enemy boasted

so much, but as it was impossible for the king ever to retrieve it. The

foot, the best that he was ever master of, could never be supplied; his

army in the west was exposed to certain ruin; the north overrun with the

Scots; in short, the case grew desperate, and the king was once upon the

point of bidding us all disband, and shift for ourselves.

We lost in this fight not above two thousand slain, and the parliament

near as many, but the prisoners were a great number; the whole body of

foot being, as I have said, dispersed, there were four thousand five

hundred prisoners, besides four hundred officers, two thousand horses,

twelve pieces of cannon, forty barrels of powder; all the king's

baggage, coaches, most of his servants, and his secretary; with his

cabinet of letters, of which the parliament made great improvement, and,

basely enough, caused his private letters between his majesty and the

queen, her majesty's letters to the king, and a great deal of such

stuff, to be printed.

DEFOE.

[Note: _The battle of Naseby_, fought on June 14th, 1645. The king's

forces were routed, and his cannon and baggage fell into the enemy's

hands. Not only was the loss heavy, but it was made more serious by his

correspondence falling into the hands of the parliamentary leaders,

which exposed his dealings with the Irish Roman Catholics. The most

remarkable point about this description is the air of reality which

Defoe gives to his account of an event which took place nearly twenty

years before his birth.]

* * * * *

THE PILGRIMS AND GIANT DESPAIR.

Now there was, not far from the place where they lay, a castle, called

Doubting Castle, the owner whereof was Giant Despair, and it was in his

grounds they now were sleeping; wherefore he, getting up in the morning

early, and walking up and down in his fields, caught Christian and

Hopeful asleep in his grounds. Then with a grim and surly voice he bid

them awake, and asked them whence they were, and what they did in his

grounds. They told him that they were pilgrims, and that they had lost

their way. Then said the giant. You have this night trespassed on me by

trampling in and lying on my grounds, and therefore you must go along

with me. So they were forced to go, because he was stronger than they.

They also had but little to say, for they knew themselves in a fault.

The giant, therefore, drove them before him, and put them into his

castle, into a very dark dungeon, nasty, and loathsome to the spirits of

these two men. Here, then, they lay from Wednesday morning till Saturday

night, without one bit of bread or drop of drink, or light, or any to

ask how they did; they were, therefore, here in evil case, and were far

from friends and acquaintance. Now, in this place Christian had double

sorrow, because it was through his unadvised haste that they were

brought into this distress.

Now Giant Despair had a wife, and her name was Diffidence; so when he

was gone to bed, he told his wife what he had done, to wit, that he

had taken a couple of prisoners, and cast them into his dungeon for

trespassing on his grounds. Then he asked her also what he had best to

do further to them. So she asked him what they were, whence they came,

and whither they were bound, and he told her. Then she counselled him,

that when he arose in the morning he should beat them without mercy. So

when he arose, he getteth him a grievous crabtree cudgel, and goes down

into the dungeon to them, and there first falls to rating of them as if

they were dogs, although they never gave him a word of distaste. Then he

falls upon them, and beats them fearfully, in such sort that they were

not able to help themselves, or to turn them upon the floor. This done,

he withdraws, and leaves them there to condole their misery, and to

mourn under their distress: so all that day they spent their time in

nothing but sighs and bitter lamentations. The next night, she, talking

with her husband further about them, and understanding that they were

yet alive, did advise him to counsel them to make away with themselves.

So when morning was come, he goes to them in a surly manner, as before,

and perceiving them to be very sore with the stripes that he had given

them the day before, he told them, that since they were never like to

come out of that place, their only way would be forthwith to make an end

of themselves, either with knife, halter, or poison; for why, said

he, should you choose to live, seeing it is attended with so much

bitterness? But they desired him to let them go. With that he looked

ugly upon them, and, rushing to them, had doubtless made an end of them

himself, but that he fell into one of his fits (for he sometimes, in

sunshiny weather, fell into fits), and lost for a time the use of his

hands; wherefore he withdrew, and left them as before to consider what

to do.

Well, towards evening the giant goes down into the dungeon again, to see

if his prisoners had taken his counsel. But when he came there, he found

them alive; and, truly, alive was all; for now, what for want of bread

and water, and by reason of the wounds they received when he beat them,

they could do little but breathe. But, I say, he found them alive; at

which he fell into a grievous rage, and told them, that seeing they had

disobeyed his counsel, it should be worse with them than if they had

never been born.

At this they trembled greatly, and I think that Christian fell into

a swoon: but coming a little to himself again, they renewed their

discourse about the giant's counsel, and whether yet they had best take

it or no.

Now night being come again, and the giant and his wife being in bed, she

asked him concerning the prisoners, and if they had taken his counsel;

to which he replied. They are sturdy rogues; they choose rather to bear

all hardships than to make away with themselves. Then said she, Take

them into the castle-yard to-morrow, and show them the bones and skulls

of those that thou hast already despatched, and make them believe, ere a

week comes to an end, thou wilt tear them in pieces, as thou hast done

their fellows before them.

So when the morning was come, the giant goes to them again, and takes

them into the castle-yard, and shows them as his wife had bidden him.

These, said he, were pilgrims as you are once, and they trespassed on my

grounds as you have done; and when I thought fit, I tore them in pieces;

and so within ten days I will do you. Go get you down to your den again.

And with that he beat them all the way thither. They lay therefore all

day on Saturday in lamentable case as before. Now when night was come,

and when Mrs. Diffidence and her husband the giant were got to bed, they

began to renew their discourse of the prisoners; and withal the old

giant wondered that he could neither by his blows nor counsel bring them

to an end. And with that his wife replied, I fear, said she, that they

live in hopes that some will come to relieve them, or that they have

picklocks about them, by the means of which they hope to escape. And

sayest thou so, my dear? said the giant; I will therefore search them in

the morning.

Well, on Saturday about midnight, they began to pray, and continued in

prayer till almost break of day.

Now, a little before it was day, good Christian, as one half amazed,

broke out into this passionate speech: What a fool, quoth he, am I, to

lie in a dungeon, when I may as well walk at liberty! I have a key in

my bosom called Promise, that will, I am persuaded, open any lock in

Doubtful Castle. Then said Hopeful, That's good news; good brother,

pluck it out of thy bosom and try.

Then Christian pulled it out of his bosom, and began to try at the

dungeon-door, whose bolt, as he turned the key, gave back, and the door

flew open with ease, and Christian and Hopeful both came out. Then he

went to the outward door that leads into the castle-yard, and with his

key opened that door also. After that he went to the iron gate, for that

must be opened too, but that lock went desperately hard, yet the key did

open it. Then they thrust open the gate to make their escape with speed;

but that gate, as it opened, made such a creaking, that it waked Giant

Despair, who, hastily rising to pursue his prisoners, felt his limbs to

fail; for his fits took him again, so that he could by no means go after

them. Then, they went on, and came to the king's highway again, and so

were safe, because they were out of his jurisdiction.

BUNYAN.

[Note: _John Bunyan_ (1628-1688), the Puritan tinker, author of the

'Pilgrim's Progress,']

* * * * *

THE WINTER EVENING.

Hark! 'tis the twanging horn o'er yonder bridge,

That with its wearisome but needful length

Bestrides the wintry flood, in which the moon

Sees her unwrinkled face reflected bright!--

He comes, the herald of a noisy world,

With spatter'd boots, strapped waist, and frozen locks!

News from all nations lumb'ring at his back.

True to his charge, the close-pack'd load behind.

Yet careless what he brings, his one concern

Is to conduct it to the destined inn;

And, having dropp'd th' expected bag, pass on.

He whistles as he goes, light-hearted wretch,

Cold and yet cheerful: messenger of grief

Perhaps to thousands, and of joy to some;

To him indiff'rent whether grief or joy.

Houses in ashes, and the fall of stocks,

Births, deaths, and marriages, epistles wet

With tears, that trickled down the writer's cheeks

Fast as the periods from his fluent quill.

Or charged with am'rous sighs of absent swains,

Or nymphs responsive, equally affect

His horse and him, unconscious of them all.

But oh the important budget; usher'd in

With such heart-shaking music, who can say

What are its tidings? have our troops awak'd?

Or do they still, as if with opium drugged,

Snore to the murmurs of the Atlantic wave?

Is India free? and does she wear her plumed

And jewell'd turban with a smile of peace,

Or do we grind her still? The grand debate,

The popular harangue, the tart reply,

The logic, and the wisdom, and the wit,

And the loud laugh--I long to know them all;

I burn to set the imprison'd wranglers free,

And give them voice and utt'rance once again.

Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast,

Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round,

And, while the bubbling and loud hissing urn

Throws up a steamy column, and the cups

That cheer, but not inebriate, wait on each,

So let us welcome peaceful evening in.

Not such his evening, who with shining face

Sweats in the crowded theatre, and, squeez'd

And bor'd with elbow-points through both his sides.

Outscolds the ranting actor on the stage;

Nor his, who patient stands till his feet throb.

And his head thumps, to feed upon the breath

Of patriots bursting with heroic rage,

Or placemen, all tranquillity and smiles.

This folio of four pages, happy work!

Which not e'en critics criticise; that holds

Inquisitive attention, while I read.

Fast bound in chains of silence, which the fair,

Though eloquent themselves, yet fear to break:

What is it, but a map of busy life,

Its fluctuations, and its vast concerns?

Here runs the mountainous and craggy ridge,

That tempts ambition. On the summit, see,

The seals of office glitter in his eyes;

He climbs, he pants, he grasps them! At his heels.

Close at his heels, a demagogue ascends,

And with a dext'rous jerk, soon twists him

And wins them, but to lose them in his turn.

Here rills of oily eloquence in soft

Meanders lubricate the course they take;

The modest speaker is asham'd and grieved

To engross a moment's notice; and yet begs.

Begs a propitious ear for his poor thoughts,

However trivial all that he conceives.

Sweet bashfulness! it claims at least this praise;

The dearth of information and good sense,

That it foretells us, always comes to pass.

Cataracts of declamation thunder here;

There forests of no meaning spread the page,

In which all comprehension wanders lost;

While fields of pleasantry amuse us there

With merry descants on a nation's woes.

The rest appears a wilderness of strange

But gay confusion; roses for the cheeks,

And lilies for the brows of faded age,

Teeth for the toothless, ringlets for the bald,

Heaven, earth, and ocean, plunder'd of their sweets,

Nectareous essences, Olympian dews,

Sermons, and city feasts, and fav'rite airs,

Ethereal journeys, submarine exploits.

And Katerfelto, with his hair on end

At his own wonders, wond'ring for his bread.

'Tis pleasant, through the loopholes of retreat,

To peep at such a world; to see the stir

Of the great Babel, and not feel the crowd;

To hear the roar she sends through all her gates

At a safe distance, where the dying sound

Falls a soft murmur on the uninjur'd ear.

Thus sitting, and surveying thus at ease

The globe and its concerns, I seem advanc'd

To some secure and more than mortal height.

That liberates and exempts me from them all

It turns submitted to my view, turns round

With all its generations; I behold

The tumult, and am still. The sound of war

Has lost its terrors ere it reaches me;

Grieves, but alarms me not. I mourn the pride

And avarice that make man a wolf to man;

Hear the faint echo of those brazen throats

By which he speaks the language of his heart,

And sigh, but never tremble at the bound.

He travels and expatiates, as the bee

From flower to flower, so he from land to land:

The manners, customs, policy, of all

Pay contribution to the store he gleans;

He sucks intelligence in every clinic,

And spreads the honey of his deep research

At his return--a rich repast for me.

He travels, and I too. I tread his deck,

Ascend his topmast, through his peering eyes

Discover countries, with a kindred heart

Suffer his woes, and share in his escapes;

While fancy, like the finger of a clock,

Runs the great circuit, and is still at home.

COWPER.

[Note:_Katerfelto_. A quack then exhibiting in London.]

* * * * *

A HARD WINTER.

There were some circumstances attending the remarkable frost of January

1776 so singular and striking, that a short detail of them may not be

unacceptable.

The most certain way to be exact will be to copy the passages from my

journal, which were taken from time to time, as things occurred. But it

may be proper previously to remark, that the first week in January was

uncommonly wet, and drowned with vast rain from every quarter; from

whence may be inferred, as there is great reason to believe is the case,

that intense frosts seldom take place till the earth is completely

glutted and chilled with water; and hence dry autumns are seldom

followed by rigorous winters.

January 7th.--Snow driving all the day, which was followed by frost,

sleet, and some snow, till the twelfth, when a prodigious mass

overwhelmed all the works of men, drifting over the tops of the gates,

and filling the hollow lanes.

On the 14th, the writer was obliged to be much abroad; and thinks he

never before, or since, has encountered such rugged Siberian weather.

Many of the narrow roads are now filled above the tops of the hedges;

through which the snow was driven in most romantic and grotesque shapes,

so striking to the imagination as not to be seen without wonder and

pleasure. The poultry dared not stir out of their roosting-places; for

cocks and hens are so dazzled and confounded by the glare of the snow,

that they would soon perish without assistance. The hares also lay

sullenly in their seats, and would not move till compelled by hunger;

being conscious, poor animals, that the drifts and heaps treacherously

betray their footsteps, and prove fatal to numbers of them.

From the 14th, the snow continued to increase, and began to stop the

road-waggons and coaches, which could no longer keep in their regular

stages; and especially on the western roads, where the fall appears to

have been greater than in the south. The company at Bath, that wanted to

attend the Queen's birthday, were strangely incommoded; many carriages

of persons who got, in their way to town from Bath, as far as

Marlborough, after strange embarrassment, here came to a dead stop. The

ladies fretted, and offered large rewards to labourers if they would

shovel them a track to London; but the relentless heaps of snow were too

bulky to be removed; and so the 18th passed over, leaving the company in

very uncomfortable circumstances at the _Castle_ and other inns.

On the 20th, the sun shone out for the first time since the frost

began; a circumstance that has been remarked before, much in favour

of vegetation. All this time the cold was not very intense, for the

thermometer stood at 29°, 28° 25° and thereabout; but on the 21st it

descended to 20°. The birds now began to be in a very pitiable and

starving condition. Tamed by the season, sky-larks settled in the

streets of towns, because they saw the ground was bare; rooks frequented

dung-hills close to houses; hares now came into men's gardens, and

scraping away the snow, devoured such plants as they could find.

On the 22nd, the author had occasion to go to London; through a sort

of Laplandian scene very wild and grotesque indeed. But the metropolis

itself exhibited a still more singular appearance than the country; for,

being bedded deep in snow, the pavement could not be touched by the

wheels or the horses' feet, so that the carriages ran about without the

least noise. Such an exemption from din and clatter was strange, but not

pleasant; it seemed to convey an uncomfortable idea of desolation.

On the 27th, much snow fell all day, and in the evening the frost became

very intense. At South Lambeth, for the four following nights, the

thermometer fell to 11°, 7°, 0°, 6°; and at Selborne to 7°, 6°, 10°; and

on the 31st of January, just before sunrise, with rime on the trees, and

on the tube of the glass, the quicksilver sunk exactly to zero, being

32° below freezing point; but by eleven in the morning, though in the

shade, it sprung up to 16-1/2°--a most unusual degree of cold this

for the south of England. During these four nights the cold was so

penetrating that it occasioned ice in warm and protected chambers; and

in the day the wind was so keen that persons of robust constitutions

could scarcely endure to face it. The Thames was at once so frozen over,

both above and below the bridge, that crowds ran about on the ice. The

streets were now strangely encumbered with snow, which crumbled and trod

dusty, mid, turning gray, resembled bay-salt; what had fallen on the

roofs was so perfectly dry, that from first to last it lay twenty-six

days on the houses in the city--a longer time than had been remembered

by the oldest housekeepers living. According to all appearances, we

might now have expected the continuance of this rigorous weather for

weeks to come, since every night increased in severity; but behold,

without any apparent on the 1st of February a thaw took place, and some

rain followed before night; making good the observation, that frosts

often go off, as it were, at once, without any gradual declension of

cold. On the 2nd of February, the thaw persisted; and on the 3rd, swarms

of little insects were frisking and sporting in a court-yard at South

Lambeth, as if they had felt no frost. Why the juices in the small

bodies and smaller limbs of such minute beings are not frozen, is a

matter of curious inquiry.

REV. GILBERT WHITE.

[Note: _Rev. Gilbert White_ (1720-1793), author of the 'Natural History

of Selborne,' one of the most charming books on natural history in the

language.]

* * * * *

A PORTENTOUS SUMMER.

The, summer of the year 1783 was an amazing and portentous one, and full

of horrible phenomena; for, besides the alarming meteors and tremendous

thunder and storms that affrighted and distressed the different counties

of this kingdom, the peculiar haze, or smoky fog, that prevailed for

many weeks in this island, and in every part of Europe, and even beyond

its limits, was a most extraordinary appearance, unlike anything known

within the memory of man. By my journal I find that I had noticed this

strange occurrence from June 23 to July 20 inclusive, during which

period the wind varied to every quarter, without making any alteration

in the air. The sun, at noon, looked as black as a clouded moon, and

shed a rust-coloured feruginous light on the ground and floors of

rooms, but was particularly lurid and blood-coloured at rising and

setting. All the time the heat was so intense that butchers' meat could

hardly be eaten the day after it was killed; and the flies swarmed so

in the lanes and hedges that they rendered the horses half frantic, and

riding irksome. The country-people began to look with a superstitious

awe at the red, lowering aspect of the sun; and, indeed, there was

reason for the most enlightened person to be apprehensive, for all the

while Calabria, and part of the isle of Sicily, were torn and convulsed

with earthquakes; and about that juncture a volcano sprang out of the

sea on the coast of Norway. On this occasion Milton's noble simile of

the sun, in his first book of 'Paradise Lost,' frequently occurred to

my mind; and it is indeed particularly applicable, because, towards the

end, it alludes to a superstitious kind of dread with which the minds of

men are always impressed by such strange and unusual phenomena:--

"As when the sun, new risen,

Looks through the horizontal, misty air

Shorn of his beams; or, from behind the moon.

In dim eclipse, disastrous twilight sheds

On half the nations, and with fear of change

Perplexes monarchs."

REV. GILBERT WHITE.

* * * * *

A THUNDERSTORM.

On the 5th of June, 1784, the thermometer in the morning being at 64,

and at noon at 70, the barometer at 29.6 1/2, and the wind north, I

observed a blue mist, smelling strongly of sulphur, hang along our

sloping woods, and seeming to indicate that thunder was at hand. I was

called in about two in the afternoon, and so missed seeing the gathering

of the clouds in the north, which they who were abroad assured me had

something uncommon in its appearance. At about a quarter after two the

storm began in the parish of Hartley, moving slowly from north to south;

and from thence it came over Norton Farm and so to Grange Farm, both in

this parish. It began with vast drops of rain, which were soon succeeded

by round hail, and then by convex pieces of ice, which measured three

inches in girth. Had it been as extensive as it was violent, and of

any continuance (for it was very short), it must have ravaged all the

neighbourhood. In the parish of Hartley it did some damage to one farm;

but Norton, which lay in the centre of the storm, was greatly injured;

as was Grange, which lay next to it. It did but just reach to the middle

of the village, where the hail broke my north windows, and all my garden

lights and hand-glasses, and many of my neighbours' windows. The extent

of the storm was about two miles in length, and one in breadth. We were

just sitting down to dinner; but were soon diverted from our repast by

the clattering of tiles and the jingling of glass. There fell at the

same time prodigious torrents of rain on the farm above mentioned, which

occasioned a flood as violent as it was sudden, doing great damage to

the meadows and fallows by deluging the one and washing away the soil of

the other. The hollow lane towards Alton was so torn and disordered as

not to be passable till mended, rocks being removed that weighed two

hundredweight. Those that saw the effect which the great hail had on the

ponds and pools, say that the dashing of the water made an extraordinary

appearance, the froth and spray standing up in the air three feet above

the surface. The rushing and roaring of the hail, as it approached, was

truly tremendous.

Though the clouds at South Lambeth, near London, were at that juncture

thin and light, and no storm was in sight, nor within hearing, yet the

air was strongly electric; for the bells of an electric machine at that

place rang repeatedly, and fierce sparks were discharged.

REV. GILBERT WHITE.

* * * * *

CHARACTER OF SIR WALTER SCOTT.

About half-past one P.M. on the 21st of September, 1832, Sir Walter

Scott breathed his last, in the presence of all his children. It was

a beautiful day--so warm, that every window was wide open--and so

perfectly still, that the sound of all others most delicious to his ear,

the gentle ripple of the Tweed over its pebbles, was distinctly audible

as we knelt around the bed, and his eldest son kissed and closed his

eyes. No sculptor ever modelled a more majestic image of repose.

It will, I presume, be allowed that no human character, which we have

the opportunity of studying with equal minuteness, had fewer faults

mixed up in its texture. The grand virtue of fortitude, the basis of all

others, was never displayed in higher perfection than in him; and

it was, as perhaps true courage always is, combined with an equally

admirable spirit of kindness and humanity. His pride, if we must call it

so, undebased by the least tincture of mere vanity, was intertwined with

a most exquisite charity, and was not inconsistent with true humility.

If ever the principle of kindliness was incarnated in a mere man, it

was in him; and real kindliness can never be but modest. In the social

relations of life, where men are most effectually tried, no spot can be

detected in him. He was a patient, dutiful, reverent son; a generous,

compassionate, tender husband; an honest, careful, and most affectionate

father. Never was a more virtuous or a happier fireside than his. The

influence of his mighty genius shadowed it imperceptibly; his calm good

sense, and his angelic sweetness of heart and temper, regulated and

softened a strict but paternal discipline. His children, as they grew

up, understood by degrees the high privilege of their birth; but the

profoundest sense of his greatness never disturbed their confidence in

his goodness. The buoyant play of his spirits made him sit young among

the young; parent and son seemed to live in brotherhood together;

and the chivalry of his imagination threw a certain air of courteous

gallantry into his relations with his daughters, which gave a very

peculiar grace to the fondness of their intercourse.

Perhaps the most touching evidence of the lasting tenderness of his

early domestic feelings was exhibited to his executors, when they opened

his repositories in search of his testament, the evening after his

burial. On lifting up his desk we found arranged in careful order a

series of little objects, which had obviously been so placed there that

his eye might rest on them every morning before he began his tasks.

These were the old-fashioned boxes that had garnished his mother's

toilet when he, a sickly child, slept in her dressing-room; the silver

taper-stand which the young advocate had bought for her with his first

five-guinea fee; a row of small packets inscribed with her hand, and

containing the hair of those of her offspring that had died before her;

his father's snuff-box and pencil-case; and more things of the like

sort, recalling the "old familiar faces." The same feeling was apparent

in all the arrangement of his private apartment. Pictures of his father

and mother were the only ones in his dressing-room. The clumsy antique

cabinets that stood there--things of a very different class from the

beautiful and costly productions in the public rooms below--had all

belonged to the furniture of George's Square. Even his father's rickety

washing-stand, with all its cramped appurtenances, though exceedingly

unlike what a man of his very scrupulous habits would have selected in

these days, kept its ground. Such a son and parent could hardly fail

in any of the other social relations. No man was a firmer or more

indefatigable friend. I know not that he ever lost one; and a few

with whom, during the energetic middle stage of life, from political

differences or other accidental circumstances, he lived less familiarly,

had all gathered round him, and renewed the full warmth of early

affection in his later days. There was enough to dignify the connexion

in their eyes; but nothing to chill it on either side. The imagination

that so completely mastered him when he chose to give her the rein, was

kept under most determined control when any of the positive obligations

of active life came into question. A high and pure sense of duty

presided over whatever he had to do as a citizen and a magistrate; and,

as a landlord, he considered his estate as an extension of his hearth.

J. LOCKHART.

* * * * *

MUMPS'S HALL.

There is, or rather I should say there _was_, a little inn, called

Mumps's Hall--that is, being interpreted, Beggar's Hotel--near to

Gilsland, which had not then attained its present fame as a Spa. It

was a hedge alehouse, where the Border farmers of either country often

stopped to refresh themselves and their nags, in their way to and from

the fairs and trysts in Cumberland, and especially those who came from

or went to Scotland, through a barren and lonely district, without

either road or pathway, emphatically called the Waste of Bewcastle. At

the period when the adventure about to be described is supposed to have

taken place, there were many instances of attacks by freebooters, on

those who travelled through this wild district; and Mumps's Hall had

a bad reputation for harbouring the banditti who committed such

depredations.

An old and sturdy yeoman belonging to the Scottish side, by surname an

Armstrong or Elliot, but well known by his sobriquet of Fighting Charlie

of Liddesdale, and still remembered for the courage he displayed in

the frequent frays which took place on the Border fifty or sixty years

since, had the following adventure in the Waste, one of many which gave

its character to the place:--

Charlie had been at Stagshaw-bank fair, had sold his sheep or cattle, or

whatever he had brought to market, and was on his return to Liddesdale.

There were then no country banks where cash could be deposited, and

bills received instead, which greatly encouraged robbery in that wild

country, as the objects of plunder were usually fraught with gold. The

robbers had spies in the fair, by means of whom they generally knew

whose purse was best stocked, and who took a lonely and desolate road

homeward--those, in short, who were best worth robbing, and likely to be

most easily robbed.

All this Charlie knew full well; but he had a pair of excellent pistols,

and a dauntless heart. He stopped at Mumps's Hall, notwithstanding the

evil character of the place. His horse was accommodated where it might

have the necessary rest and feed of corn; and the landlady used all the

influence in her power to induce him to stop all night. The landlord was

from home, she said, and it was ill passing the Waste, as twilight must

needs descend on him before he gained the Scottish side, which was

reckoned the safest. But fighting Charlie, though he suffered himself to

be detained later than was prudent, did not account Mumps's Hall a safe

place to quarter in during the night. He tore himself away, therefore,

from Meg's good fare and kind words, and mounted his nag, having first

examined his pistols, and tried by the ramrod whether the charge

remained in them.

He proceeded a mile or two, at a round trot, when, as the Waste

stretched black before him, apprehensions began to awaken in his mind,

partly arising out of Meg's unusual kindness, which he could not help

thinking had rather a suspicious appearance. He therefore resolved to

reload his pistols, lest the powder had become damp; but what was his

surprise, when he drew the charge, to find neither powder nor ball,

while each barrel had been carefully filled with _tow_, up to the space

which the loading had occupied! and, the priming of the weapons being

left untouched, nothing but actually drawing and examining the charge

could have discovered the inefficiency of his arms till the fatal minute

arrived when their services were required. Charlie reloaded his pistols

with care and accuracy, having now no doubt that he was to be waylaid

and assaulted. He was not far engaged in the Waste, which was then, and

is now, traversed only by such routes as are described in the text, when

two or three fellows, disguised and variously armed, started from a

moss-hag, while, by a glance behind him (for, marching, as the Spaniard

says, with his beard on his shoulder, he reconnoitred in every

direction), Charlie instantly saw retreat was impossible, as other two

stout men appeared behind him at some distance. The Borderer lost not a

moment in taking his resolution, and boldly trotted against his enemies

in front, who called loudly on him to stand and deliver. Charlie spurred

on, and presented his pistol. "A fig for your pistol!" said the foremost

robber, whom Charlie to his dying day protested he believed to have been

the landlord of Mumps's Hall--"A fig for your pistol! I care not a curse

for it."--"Ay, lad," said the deep voice of Fighting Charlie, "but the

_tow's out now_". He had no occasion to utter another word; the rogues,

surprised at finding a man of redoubted courage well armed, instead of

being defenceless, took to the moss in every direction, and he passed on

his way without further molestation.

SCOTT.

* * * * *

THE PORTEOUS MOB.

The magistrates, after vain attempts to make themselves heard and

obeyed, possessing no means of enforcing their authority, were

constrained to abandon the field to the rioters, and retreat in all

speed from the showers of missiles that whistled around their ears.

The passive resistance of the Tolbooth-gate promised to do more to

baffle the purpose of the mob than the active interference of the

magistrates. The heavy sledge-hammers continued to din against it

without intermission, and with a noise which, echoed from the lofty

buildings around the spot, seemed enough to have alarmed the garrison in

the Castle. It was circulated among the rioters that the troops would

march down to disperse them, unless they could execute their purpose

without loss of time; or that even without quitting the fortress, the

garrison might obtain the same end by throwing a bomb or two upon the

street.

Urged by such motives for apprehension, they eagerly relieved each other

at the labour of assailing the Tolbooth door; yet such was its strength,

that it still defied their efforts. At length, a voice was heard to

pronounce the words, "Try it with fire!" The rioters, with an unanimous

shout, called for combustibles, and as all their wishes seemed to be

instantly supplied, they were soon in possession of two or three empty

tar-barrels. A huge red glaring bonfire speedily arose close to the door

of the prison, sending up a tall column of smoke and flame against

its antique turrets and strongly-grated windows, and illuminating the

ferocious and wild gestures of the rioters who surrounded the place, as

well as the pale and anxious groups of those who, from windows in the

vicinage, watched the progress of this alarming scene. The mob fed the

fire with whatever they could find fit for the purpose. The flames

roared and crackled among the heaps of nourishment piled on the fire,

and a terrible shout soon announced that the door had kindled, and was

in the act of being destroyed. The fire was suffered to decay, but, long

ere it was quite extinguished, the most forward of the rioters rushed,

in their impatience, one after another, over its yet smouldering

remains. Thick showers of sparkles rose high in the air, as man after

man bounded over the glowing embers, and disturbed them in their

passage. It was now obvious to Butler, and all others who were present,

that the rioters would be instantly in possession of their victim, and

have it in their power to work their pleasure upon him, whatever that

might be.

The unhappy object of this remarkable disturbance had been that day

delivered from the apprehension of a public execution, and his joy was

the greater, as he had some reason to question whether government would

have run the risk of unpopularity by interfering in his favour, after he

had been legally convicted by the verdict of a jury, of a crime so very

obnoxious. Relieved from this doubtful state of mind, his heart was

merry within him, and he thought, in the emphatic words of Scripture on

a similar occasion, that surely the bitterness of death was past. Some

of his friends, however, who had watched the manner and behaviour of

the crowd when they were made acquainted with the reprieve, were of a

different opinion. They augured, from the unusual sternness and silence

with which they bore their disappointment, that the populace nourished

some scheme of sudden and desperate vengeance; and they advised Porteous

to lose no time in petitioning the proper authorities, that he might

be conveyed to the Castle under a sufficient guard, to remain there

in security until his ultimate fate should be determined. Habituated,

however, by his office to overawe the rabble of the city, Porteous could

not suspect them of an attempt so audacious as to storm a strong and

defensible prison; and, despising the advice by which he might have

been saved, he spent the afternoon of the eventful day in giving an

entertainment to some friends who visited him in jail, several of whom,

by the indulgence of the Captain of the Tolbooth, with whom he had

an old intimacy, arising from their official connection, were even

permitted to remain to supper with him, though contrary to the rules of

the jail.

It was, therefore, in the hour of unalloyed mirth, when this unfortunate

wretch was "full of bread," hot with wine, and high in mis-timed and

ill-grounded confidence, and, alas! with all his sins full blown,

when the first distant shouts of the rioters mingled with the song

of merriment and intemperance. The hurried call of the jailor to the

guests, requiring them instantly to depart, and his yet more hasty

intimation that a dreadful and determined mob had possessed themselves

of the city gates and guard-house, were the first explanation of these

fearful clamours.

Porteous might, however, have eluded the fury from which the force of

authority could not protect him, had he thought of slipping on some

disguise, and leading the prison along with his guests. It is probable

that the jailor might have connived at his escape, or even that, in the

hurry of this alarming contingency, he might not have observed it. But

Porteous and his friends alike wanted presence of mind to suggest or

execute such a plan of escape. The former hastily fled from a place

where their own safety seemed compromised, and the latter, in a state

resembling stupefaction, awaited in his apartment the termination of the

enterprise of the rioters. The cessation of the clang of the instruments

with which they had at first attempted to force the door, gave him

momentary relief. The flattering hopes that the military had marched

into the city, either from the Castle or from the suburbs, and that the

rioters were intimidated and dispersing, were soon destroyed by the

broad and glaring-light of the flames, which, illuminating through the

grated window every corner of his apartment, plainly showed that the

mob, determined on their fatal purpose, had adopted a means of forcing

entrance equally desperate and certain.

The sudden glare of light suggested to the stupefied and astonished

object of popular hatred the possibility of concealment or escape. To

rush to the chimney, to ascend it at the risk of suffocation, were the

only means which seem to have occurred to him; but his progress was

speedily stopped by one of those iron gratings, which are, for the sake

of security, usually placed across the vents of buildings designed for

imprisonment. The bars, however, which impeded his farther progress,

served to support him in the situation which he had gained, and he

seized them with the tenacious grasp of one who esteemed himself

clinging to his last hope of existence. The lurid light, which had

filled the apartment, lowered and died away; the sound of shouts was

heard within the walls, and on the narrow and winding stair, which,

cased within one of the turrets, gave access to the upper apartments of

the prison. The huzza of the rioters was answered by a shout wild and

desperate as their own, the cry, namely, of the imprisoned felons, who,

expecting to be liberated in the general confusion, welcomed the mob as

their deliverers. By some of these the apartment of Porteous was

pointed out to his enemies. The obstacle of the lock and bolts was

soon overcome, and from his hiding-place the unfortunate man heard

his enemies search every corner of the apartment, with oaths and

maledictions, which would but shock the reader if we recorded them, but

which served to prove, could it have admitted of doubt, the settled

purpose of soul with which they sought his destruction.

A place of concealment so obvious to suspicion and scrutiny as that

which Porteous had chosen, could not long screen him from detection.

He was dragged from his lurking place, with a violence which seemed to

argue an intention to put him to death on the spot. More than one weapon

was directed towards him, when one of the rioters, the same whose female

disguise had been particularly noticed by Butler, interfered in an

authoritative tone. "Are ye mad?" he said, "or would ye execute an act

of justice as if it were a crime and a cruelty? This sacrifice will lose

half its savour if we do not offer it at the very horns of the altar. We

will have him die where a murderer should die, on the common gibbet--we

will have him die where he spilled the blood of so many innocents!"

A loud shout of applause followed the proposal, and the cry, "To the

gallows with the murderer!--to the Grassmarket with him!" echoed on all

hands.

"Let no man hurt him," continued the speaker; "let him make his peace

with God, if he can; we will not kill both his soul and body."

"What time did he give better folk for preparing their account?"

answered several voices. "Let us mete to him with the same measure he

measured to them."

But the opinion of the spokesman better suited the temper of those

he addressed, a temper rather stubborn than impetuous, sedate though

ferocious, and desirous of colouring their cruel and revengeful action

with a show of justice and moderation.

SCOTT.

[Notes: _The Porteous Mob_ occurred in 1736. At the execution of a

smuggler named Wilson, a slight commotion amongst the crowd was made by

Captain Porteous the occasion for ordering his men who were on guard to

fire upon the people. He was tried and sentenced to death, but reprieved

by Queen Caroline, then regent in the absence of George II. The reprieve

was held so unjust by the people that they stormed the Tolbooth, and

hanged Porteous, who was a prisoner there.]

* * * * *

THE PORTEOUS MOB--_continued._

The tumult was now transferred from the inside to the outside of the

Tolbooth. The mob had brought their destined victim forth, and were

about to conduct him to the common place of execution, which they had

fixed as the scene of his death. The leader, whom they had distinguished

by the name of Madge Wildfire, had been summoned to assist at the

procession by the impatient shouts of his confederates.

"I will ensure you five hundred pounds," said the unhappy man, grasping

Wildfire's hand,--"five hundred pounds for to save my life."

The other answered in the same undertone, and returning his grasp with

one equally convulsive. "Five hundred-height of coined gold should not

save you--Remember Wilson!"

A deep pause of a minute ensued, when Wildfire added, in a more composed

tone, "Make your peace with Heaven. Where is the clergyman?"

Butler, who, in great terror and anxiety, had been detained within a

few yards of the Tolbooth door, to wait the event of the search after

Porteous, was now brought forward, and commanded to walk by the

prisoner's side, and to prepare him for immediate death.

They had suffered the unfortunate Porteous to put on his night-gown

and slippers, as he had thrown off his coat and shoes, in order to

facilitate his attempted escape up the chimney. In this garb he was now

mounted on the hands of two of the rioters, clasped together, so as to

form what is called in Scotland, "The King's Cushion." Butler was placed

close to his side, and repeatedly urged to perform a duty always the

most painful which can be imposed on a clergyman deserving of the name,

and now rendered more so by the peculiar and horrid circumstances of the

criminal's case. Porteous at first uttered some supplications for mercy,

but when he found that there was no chance that these would be attended

to, his military education, and the natural stubbornness of his

disposition, combined to support his spirits.

The procession now moved forward with a slow and determined pace. It was

enlightened by many blazing links and torches; for the actors of this

work were so far from affecting any secrecy on the occasion, that they

seemed even to court observation. Their principal leaders kept close to

the person of the prisoner, whose pallid yet stubborn features were seen

distinctly by the torch-light, as his person was raised considerably

above the concourse which thronged around him. Those who bore swords,

muskets, and battle-axes, marched on each side, as if forming a regular

guard to the procession. The windows, as they went along, were filled

with the inhabitants, whose slumbers had boon broken by this unusual

disturbance. Some of the spectators muttered accents of encouragement;

but in general they were so much appalled by a sight so strange and

audacious, that they looked on with a sort of stupefied astonishment. No

one offered, by act or word, the slightest interruption.

The rioters, on their part, continued to act with the same air

of deliberate confidence and security which had marked all their

proceedings. When the object of their resentment dropped one of his

slippers, they stopped, sought for it, and replaced it upon his foot

with great deliberation. As they descended the Bow towards the fatal

spot where they designed to complete their purpose, it was suggested

that there should be a rope kept in readiness. For this purpose the

booth of a man who dealt in cordage was forced open, a coil of rope fit

for their purpose was selected to serve as a halter, and the dealer next

morning found that a guinea had been left on his counter in exchange; so

anxious were the perpetrators of this daring action to show that they

meditated not the slightest wrong or infraction of law, excepting so far

so as Porteous was himself concerned.

Leading, or carrying along with them, in this determined and regular

manner, the object of their vengeance, they at length reached the place

of common execution, the scene of his crime, and destined spot of

his sufferings. Several of the rioters (if they should not rather be

described as conspirators) endeavoured to remove the stone which filled

up the socket in which the end of the fatal tree was sunk when it

was erected for its fatal purpose; others sought for the means of

constructing a temporary gibbet, the place in which the gallows itself

was deposited being reported too secure to be forced, without much loss

of time. Butler endeavoured to avail himself of the delay afforded by

these circumstances, to turn the people from their desperate design.

"For God's sake," he exclaimed, "remember it is the image of your

Creator which you are about to deface in the person of this unfortunate

man! Wretched as he is, and wicked as he may be, he has a share in every

promise of Scripture, and you cannot destroy him in impenitence without

blotting his name from the Book of Life--Do not destroy soul and body;

give time for preparation."

"What time had they," returned a stern voice, "whom he murdered on this

very spot?--The laws both of God and man call for his death."

"But what, my friends," insisted Butler, with a generous disregard to

his own safety--"what hath constituted you his judges?"

"We are not his judges," replied the same person; "he has been already

judged and condemned by lawful authority. We are those whom Heaven, and

our righteous anger, have stirred up to execute judgment, when a corrupt

government would have protected a murderer."

"I am none," said the unfortunate Porteous: "that which you charge upon me

fell out in self-defence, in the lawful exercise of my duty."

"Away with him--away with him!" was the general cry. "Why do you trifle

away time in making a gallows?--that dyester's pole is good enough for

the homicide."

The unhappy man was forced to his fate with remorseless rapidity.

Butler, separated from him by the press, escaped the last horrors of

his struggles. Unnoticed by those who had hitherto detained him as a

prisoner, he fled from the fatal spot, without much caring in what

direction his course lay. A loud shout proclaimed the stern delight with

which the agents of this deed regarded its completion. Butler, then,

at the opening into the low street called the Cowgate, cast back a

terrified glance, and, by the red and dusky light of the torches, he

could discern a figure wavering and struggling as it hung suspended

above the heads of the multitude, and could even observe men striking at

it with their Lochaberaxes and partisans. The sight was of a nature to

double his horror, and to add wings to his flight.

SCOTT.

* * * * *

MAZEPPA.

"'Bring forth the horse!'--the horse was brought;

In truth, he was a noble steed,

A Tartar of the Ukraine breed,

Who look'd as though the speed of thought

Were in his limbs; but he was wild,

Wild as the wild deer, and untaught,

With spur and bridle undefiled--

'T was but a day he had been caught;

And snorting, with erected mane,

And struggling fiercely, but in vain,

In the full foam of wrath and dread

To me the desert-born was led:

They bound me on, that menial throng;

Upon his back with many a thong;

Then loosed him with a sudden lash--

Away!--away!--and on we dash!

Torrents less rapid and less rash.

* * * * *

"Away, away, my steed and I,

Upon the pinions of the wind,

All human dwellings left behind;

We sped like meteors through the sky,

When with its crackling sound the night

Is chequer'd with the northern light:

Town--village--none were on our track.

But a wild plain of far extent,

And bounded by a forest black;

And, save the scarce seen battlement

On distant heights of some stronghold,

Against the Tartars built of old,

No trace of man. The year before

A Turkish army had march'd o'er;

And where the Spahi's hoof hath trod,

The verdure flies the bloody sod:

The sky was dull, and dim, and gray,

And a low breeze crept moaning by--

I could have answered with a sigh--

But fast we fled, away, away,

And I could neither sigh nor pray;

And my cold sweat-drops fell like rain

Upon the courser's bristling mane;

But, snorting still with rage and fear,

He flew upon his far career:

At times I almost thought, indeed,

He must have slacken'd in his speed;

But no--my bound and slender frame

Was nothing to his angry might,

And merely like a spur became;

Each motion which I made to free

My swoln limbs from their agony

Increased his fury and affright:

I tried my voice,--'t was faint and low.

But yet he swerved as from a blow;

And, starting to each accent, sprang

As from a sudden trumpet's clang:

Meantime my cords were wet with gore,

Which, oozing through my limbs, ran o'er;

And in my tongue the thirst became

A something fiercer far than flame.

"We near'd the wild wood--'t was so wide,

I saw no bounds on either side;

'T was studded with old sturdy trees,

That bent not to the roughest breeze

Which howls down from Siberia's waste,

And strips the forest in its haste,--

But these were few and far between,

Set thick with shrubs more young and green.

Luxuriant with their annual leaves,

Ere strown by those autumnal eves

That nip the forest's foliage dead,

Discolour'd with a lifeless red,

Which stands thereon like stiffen'd gore

Upon the slain when battle's o'er,

And some long winter's night hath shed

Its frost o'er every tombless head,

So cold and stark the raven's beak

May peck unpierced each frozen cheek:

'T was a wild waste of underwood,

And here and there a chestnut stood,

The strong oak, and the hardy pine;

But far apart--and well it were,

Or else a different lot were mine--

The boughs gave way, and did not tear

My limbs; and I found strength to bear

My wounds, already scarr'd with cold;

My bonds forbade to loose my hold.

We rustled through the leaves like wind,

Left shrubs, and trees, and wolves behind;

By night I heard them on the track,

Their troop came hard upon our back,

With their long gallop, which can tire

The hound's deep hate, and hunter's fire:

Where'er we flew they follow'd on,

Nor left us with the morning sun.

Behind I saw them, scarce a rood,

At day-break winding through the wood,

And through the night had heard their feet

Their stealing, rustling step repeat.

* * * * *

"The wood was past; 'twas more than noon,

But chill the air, although in June;

Or it might be my veins ran cold--

Prolong'd endurance tames the bold;

And I was then not what I seem,

But headlong as a wintry stream,

And wore my feelings out before

I well could count their causes o'er:

And what with fury, fear, and wrath,

The tortures which beset my path,

Cold, hunger, sorrow, shame, distress.

Thus bound in nature's nakedness;

Sprung from a race whose rising blood,

When stirr'd beyond its calmer mood,

And trodden hard upon, is like

The rattle-snake's, in act to strike,

What marvel if this worn-out trunk

Beneath its woes a moment sunk?

The earth gave way, the skies roll'd round.

I seem'd to sink upon the ground;

But err'd, for I was fastly bound.

My heart turn'd sick, my brain grew sore.

And throbb'd awhile, then beat no more:

The skies spun like a mighty wheel;

I saw the trees like drunkards reel

And a slight flash sprang o'er my eyes,

Which saw no farther: he who dies

Can die no more than then I died.

O'ertortured by that ghastly ride,

I felt the blackness come and go.

"My thoughts came back; where was I?

Cold,

And numb, and giddy: pulse by pulse

Life reassumed its lingering hold,

And throb by throb,--till grown a pang

Which for a moment would convulse,

My blood reflow'd, though thick and chill;

My ear with uncouth noises rang,

My heart began once more to thrill;

My sight return'd, though dim; alas!

And thicken'd, as it were, with glass.

Methought the dash of waves was nigh;

There was a gleam too of the sky,

Studded with stars;--it is no dream;

The wild horse swims the wilder stream!

The bright broad river's gushing tide

Sleeps, winding onward, far and wide,

And we are half-way, struggling o'er

To yon unknown and silent shore.

The waters broke my hollow trance,

And with a temporary strength

My stiffen'd limbs were rebaptized.

My courser's broad breast proudly braves,

And dashes off the ascending waves.

We reach the slippery shore at length,

A haven I but little prized,

For all behind was dark and drear,

And all before was night and fear.

How many hours of night or day

In those suspended pangs I lay.

I could not tell; I scarcely knew

If this were human breath I drew.

"With glossy skin and dripping mane,

And reeling limbs, and reeking flank,

The wild steed's sinewy nerves still strain

Up the repelling bank.

We gain the top: a boundless plain

Spreads through the shadow of the night,

And onward, onward, onward, seems,

Like precipices in our dreams

To stretch beyond the sight:

And here and there a speck of white,

Or scatter'd spot of dusky green.

In masses broke into the light.

As rose the moon upon my right:

But nought distinctly seen

In the dim waste would indicate

The omen of a cottage gate;

No twinkling taper from afar

Stood like a hospitable star:

Not even an ignis-fatuus rose

To make him merry with my woes:

That very cheat had cheer'd me then!

Although detected, welcome still,

Reminding me, through every ill,

Of the abodes of men.

"Onward we went--but slack and slow;

His savage force at length o'erspent,

The drooping courser, faint and low,

All feebly foaming went.

A sickly infant had had power

To guide him forward in that hour;

But useless all to me:

His new-born tameness nought avail'd--

My limbs were bound; my force had fail'd,

Perchance, had they been free.

With feeble effort still I tried

To rend the bonds so starkly tied,

But still it was in vain;

My limbs were only wrung the more,

And soon the idle strife gave o'er,

Which but prolonged their pain:

The dizzy race seem'd almost done,

Although no goal was nearly won:

Rome streaks announced the coming sun--

How slow, alas! he came!

Methought that mist of dawning gray

Would never dapple into day;

How heavily it roll'd away--

Before the eastern flame

Rose crimson, and deposed the stars,

And call'd the radiance from their cars,

And fill'd the earth, from his deep throne.

"Up rose the sun; the mists were curl'd

Back from the solitary world

Which lay around, behind, before.

What booted it to traverse o'er

Plain, forest, river? Man nor brute,

Nor dint of hoof, nor print of foot,

Lay in the wild luxuriant soil;

No sign of travel, none of toil;

The very air was mute;

And not an insect's shrill small horn.

Nor matin bird's new voice was borne

From herb nor thicket. Many a werst,

Panting as if his heart would burst.

The weary brute still stagger'd on:

And still we were--or seem'd--alone.

At length, while reeling on our way.

Methought I heard a courser neigh,

From out yon tuft of blackening firs.

Is it the wind those branches stirs?

No, no! from out the forest prance

A trampling troop; I see them come!

In one vast squadron they advance!

I strove to cry--my lips were dumb.

The steeds rush on in plunging pride;

But where are they the reins to guide

A thousand horse, and none to ride!

With flowing tail, and flying mane,

Wide nostrils never stretch'd by pain,

Mouths bloodless to the bit of rein,

And feet that iron never shod,

And flanks unscarr'd by spur or rod,

A thousand horse, the wild, the free,

Like waves that follow o'er the sea,

Came thickly thundering on,

As if our faint approach to meet;

The sight re-nerved my courser's feet,

A moment staggering, feebly fleet,

A moment, with a faint low neigh,

He answer'd, and then fell;

With gasps and glaring eyes he lay,

And reeking limbs immoveable,

His first and last career is done!

On came the troop--they saw him stoop,

They saw me strangely bound along

His back with many a bloody thong:

They stop, they start, they snuff the air,

Gallop a moment here and there,

Approach, retire, wheel round and round,

Then plunging back with sudden bound,

Headed by one black mighty steed,

Who seem'd the patriarch of his breed,

Without a single speck or hair

Of white upon his shaggy hide;

They snort, they foam, neigh, swerve aside.

And backward to the forest fly,

By instinct, from a human eye.

They left me there to my despair,

Link'd to the dead and stiffening wretch,

Whose lifeless limbs beneath me stretch,

Believed from that unwonted weight,

From whence I could not extricate

Nor him nor me--and there we lay,

The dying on the dead!

I little deem'd another day

Would see my houseless, helpless head.

BYRON.

[Notes: _Mazeppa_ (1645-1709) was at first in the service of the King

of Poland, but on account of a charge brought against him suffered the

penalty described in the poem. He afterwards joined the Cossacks and

became their leader; was in favour for a time with Peter the Great; but

finally joined Charles XII., and died soon after the battle of Pultowa

(1709), in which Charles was defeated by Peter.

_Ukraine_ ("a frontier"), a district lying on the borders of Poland and

Russia.

_Werst_. A Russian measure of distance.]

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