JOSIAH WEDGWOOD.

We make our first introduction to Wedgwood about the year 1741, as the

youngest of a family of thirteen children, and as put to earn his bread,

at eleven years of age, in the trade of his father, and in the branch

of a thrower. Then comes the well-known small-pox: the settling of the

dregs of the disease in the lower part of the leg: and the amputation of

the limb, rendering him lame for life. It is not often that we have such

palpable occasion to record our obligations to the small-pox. But, in

the wonderful ways of Providence, that disease, which came to him as

a two-fold scourge, was probably the occasion of his subsequent

excellence. It prevented him from growing up to the active vigorous

English workman, possessed of all his limbs, and knowing right well the

use of them; it put him upon considering whether, as he could not be

that, he might not be something else, and something greater. It sent his

mind inwards; it drove him to meditate upon the laws and secrets of his

art. The result was, that he arrived at a perception and a grasp of them

which might, perhaps, have been envied, certainly have been owned, by an

Athenian potter. Relentless criticism has long since torn to pieces the

old legend of King Numa, receiving in a cavern, from the Nymph Egeria,

the laws that were to govern Rome. But no criticism can shake the record

of that illness and mutilation of the boy Josiah Wedgwood, which made

for him a cavern of his bedroom, and an oracle of his own inquiring,

searching, meditative, and fruitful mind.

From those early days of suffering, weary perhaps to him as they went

by, but bright surely in the retrospect both to him and us, a mark seems

at once to have been set upon his career. But those, who would dwell

upon his history, have still to deplore that many of the materials are

wanting. It is not creditable to his country or his art, that the Life

of Wedgwood should still remain unwritten. Here is a man, who, in the

well-chosen words of his epitaph, "converted a rude and inconsiderable

manufacture into an elegant art, and an important branch of national

commerce." Here is a man, who, beginning as it were from zero, and

unaided by the national or royal gifts which were found necessary to

uphold the glories of Sèvres, of Chelsea, and of Dresden, produced works

truer, perhaps, to the inexorable laws of art, than the fine fabrics

that proceeded from those establishments, and scarcely less attractive

to the public taste. Here is a man, who found his business cooped up

within a narrow valley by the want of even tolerable communications,

and who, while he devoted his mind to the lifting that business from

meanness, ugliness, and weakness, to the highest excellence of material

and form, had surplus energy enough to take a leading part in great

engineering works like the Grand Trunk Canal from the Mersey to the

Trent; which made the raw material of his industry abundant and cheap,

which supplied a vent for the manufactured article, and opened for it

materially a way to the outer world. Lastly, here is a man who found

his country dependent upon others for its supplies of all the finer

earthenware; but who, by his single strength, reversed the inclination

of the scales, and scattered thickly the productions of his factory over

all the breadth of the continent of Europe. In travelling from Paris to

St. Petersburg, from Amsterdam to the furthest point of Sweden, from

Dunkirk to the southern extremity of France, one is served at every inn

from English earthenware. The same article adorns the tables of Spain,

Portugal, and Italy; it provides the cargoes of ships to the East

Indies, the West Indies, and America.

_Speech by_ MR. GLADSTONE.

* * * * *

THE CRIMEAN WAR.

There is one point upon which I could have wished that the noble Lord

had also touched--I know there were so many subjects that he could

not avoid touching that I share the admiration of the House at the

completeness with which he seemed to have mastered all his themes; but

when the noble Lord recalled to our recollection the deeds of admirable

valour and of heroic conduct which have been achieved upon the heights

of Alma, of Balaklava, and of Inkermann, I could have wished that he had

also publicly recognized that the deeds of heroism in this campaign had

not been merely confined to the field of battle. We ought to remember

the precious lives given to the pestilence of Varna and to the

inhospitable shores of the Black Sea; these men, in my opinion, were

animated by as heroic a spirit as those who have yielded up their lives

amid the flash of artillery and the triumphant sound of trumpets. No,

Sir, language cannot do justice to the endurance of our troops under the

extreme and terrible privations which circumstances have obliged them to

endure. The high spirit of an English gentleman might have sustained him

under circumstances which he could not have anticipated to encounter;

but the same proud patience has been found among the rank and file. And

it is these moral qualities that have contributed as much as others

apparently more brilliant to those great victories which we are now

acknowledging.

Sir, the noble Lord has taken a wise and gracious course in combining

with the thanks which he is about to propose to the British army and

navy the thanks also of the House of Commons to the army of our allies.

Sir, that alliance which has now for some time prevailed between the two

great countries of France and Britain has in peace been productive

of advantage, but it is the test to which it has been put by recent

circumstances that, in my opinion, will tend more than any other cause

to confirm and consolidate that intimate union. That alliance, Sir, is

one that does not depend upon dynasties or diplomacy. It is one which

has been sanctioned by names to which we all look up with respect or

with feelings even of a higher character. The alliance between France

and England was inaugurated by the imperial mind of Elizabeth, and

sanctioned by the profound sagacity of Cromwell; it exists now not more

from feelings of mutual interest than from feelings of mutual respect,

and I believe it will be maintained by a noble spirit of emulation.

Sir, there is still another point upon which, although with hesitation,

I will advert for a moment. I am distrustful of my own ability to deal

becomingly with a theme on which the noble Lord so well touched; but

nevertheless I feel that I must refer to it. I was glad to hear from

the noble Lord that he intends to propose a vote of condolence with the

relatives of those who have fallen in this contest. Sir, we have already

felt, even in this chamber of public assemblage, how bitter have

been the consequences of this war. We cannot throw our eyes over the

accustomed benches, where we miss many a gallant and genial face,

without feeling our hearts ache, our spirits sadden, and even our

eyes moisten. But if that be our feeling here when we miss the long

companions of our public lives and labours, what must be the anguish

and desolation which now darken so many hearths! Never, Sir, has the

youthful blood of this country been so profusely lavished as it has been

in this contest,--never has a greater sacrifice been made, and for ends

which more fully sanctify the sacrifice. But we can hardly hope now, in

the greenness of the wound, that even these reflections can serve as a

source of solace. Young women who have become widows almost as soon as

they had become wives--mothers who have lost not only their sons, but

the brethren of those sons--heads of families who have seen abruptly

close all their hopes of an hereditary line--these are pangs which even

the consciousness of duty performed, which even the lustre of glory won,

cannot easily or speedily alleviate and assuage. But let us indulge at

least in the hope, in the conviction, that the time will come when

the proceedings of this evening may be to such persons a source of

consolation--when sorrow for the memory of those that are departed may

be mitigated by the recollection that their death is at least associated

with imperishable deeds, with a noble cause, and with a nation's

gratitude.

_Speech by_ MR. DISRAELI.

* * * * *

NATIONAL MORALITY.

I believe there is no permanent greatness to a nation except it be based

upon morality. I do not care for military greatness or military renown.

I care for the condition of the people among whom I live. There is no

man in England who is less likely to speak irreverently of the Crown and

Monarchy of England than I am; but crowns, coronets, mitres, military

display, the pomp of war, wide colonies, and a huge empire, are, in my

view, all trifles light as air, and not worth considering, unless with

them you can have a fair share of comfort, contentment, and happiness

among the great body of the people. Palaces, baronial castles, great

halls, stately mansions, do not make a nation. The nation in every

country dwells in the cottage; and unless the light of your Constitution

can shine there, unless the beauty of your legislation and the

excellence of your statesmanship are impressed there on the feelings and

condition of the people, rely upon it you have yet to learn the duties

of government.

I have not, as you have observed, pleaded that this country should

remain without adequate and scientific means of defence. I acknowledge

it to be the duty of your statesmen, acting upon the known opinions and

principles of ninety-nine out of every hundred persons in the country,

at all times, with all possible moderation, but with all possible

efficiency, to take steps which shall preserve order within and on

the confines of your kingdom. But I shall repudiate and denounce

the expenditure of every shilling, the engagement of every man, the

employment of every ship which has no object but intermeddling in the

affairs of other countries, and endeavouring to extend the boundaries

of an Empire which is already large enough to satisfy the greatest

ambition, and I fear is much too large for the highest statesmanship to

which any man has yet attained.

The most ancient of profane historians has told us that the Scythians

of his time were a very warlike people, and that they elevated an old

cimeter upon a platform as a symbol of Mars, for to Mars alone, I

believe, they built altars and offered sacrifices. To this cimeter they

offered sacrifices of horses and cattle, the main wealth of the country,

and more costly sacrifices than to all the rest of their gods. I often

ask myself whether we are at all advanced in one respect beyond those

Scythians. What are our contributions to charity, to education, to

morality, to religion, to justice, and to civil government, when

compared with the wealth we expend in sacrifices to the old cimeter? Two

nights ago I addressed in this hall a vast assembly composed to a great

extent of your countrymen who have no political power, who are at work

from the dawn of the day to the evening, and who have therefore limited

means of informing themselves on these great subjects. Now I am

privileged to speak to a somewhat different audience. You represent

those of your great community who have a more complete education, who

have on some points greater intelligence, and in whose hands reside the

power and influence of the district. I am speaking, too, within the

hearing of those whose gentle nature, whose finer instincts, whose purer

minds, have not suffered as some of us have suffered in the turmoil

and strife of life. You can mould opinion, you can create political

power,--you cannot think a good thought on this subject and communicate

it to your neighbours,--you cannot make these points topics of

discussion in your social circles and more general meetings, without

affecting sensibly and speedily the course which the Government of your

country will pursue. May I ask you, then, to believe, as I do most

devoutly believe, that the moral law was not written for men alone in

their individual character, but that it was written as well for nations,

and for nations great as this of which we are citizens. If nations

reject and deride that moral law, there is a penalty which will

inevitably follow. It may not come at once, it may not come in our

lifetime; but, rely upon it, the great Italian is not a poet only, but a

prophet, when he says--

"The sword of heaven is not in haste to smite,

Nor yet doth linger."

We have experience, we have beacons, we have landmarks enough. We

know what the past has cost us, we know how much and how far we have

wandered, but we are not left without a guide. It is true, we have not,

as an ancient people had, Urim and Thummim--those oraculous gems on

Aaron's breast--from which to take counsel, but we have the unchangeable

and eternal principles of the moral law to guide us, and only so far as

we walk by that guidance can we be permanently a great nation, or our

people a happy people.

_Speech by_ MR. BRIGHT.

* * * * *

HYMN TO DIANA.

Queen and huntress, chaste and fair,

Now the sun is laid to sleep,

Seated in thy silver chair.

State in wonted manner keep.

Hesperus entreats thy light,

Goddess excellently bright!

Earth, let not thy envious shade

Dare itself to interpose;

Cynthia's shining orb was made

Heaven to clear, when day did close.

Bless us then with wishèd sight,

Goddess excellently bright!

Lay thy bow of pearl apart,

And thy crystal-shining quiver:

Give unto the flying hart

Space to breathe how short soever;

Thou that mak'st a day of night,

Goddess excellently bright!

BEN JONSON.

[Notes: _Ben Jonson_ (1574-1637), poet and dramatist; the contemporary

and friend of Shakespeare, with more than his learning, but far less

than his genius and imagination.]

* * * * *

L'ALLEGRO.

Hence, loathed Melancholy,

Of Cerberus and blackest midnight born,

In Stygian cave forlorn,

'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights

unholy!

Find out some uncouth cell,

Where brooding darkness spreads his jealous wings,

And the night-raven sings;

There, under ebon shades, and low-brow'd rocks,

As ragged as thy locks,

In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell.

But come, thou goddess fair and free,

In heaven yclep'd Euphrosyne,

And by men, heart-easing Mirth;

Whom lovely Venus, at a birth,

With two sister Graces more,

To ivy-crowned Bacchus bore:

* * * * *

Haste thee, nymph, and bring with thee

Jest, and youthful jollity,

Quips, and cranks, and wanton wiles,

Nods, and becks, and wreathed smiles,

Such as hang on Hebe's cheek,

And love to live in dimple sleek;

Sport that wrinkled care derides,

And laughter holding both his sides.

Come, and trip it, as you go,

On the light fantastic toe;

And in thy right hand lead with thee

The mountain-nymph, sweet Liberty;

And, if I give thee honour due,

Mirth, admit me of thy crew,

To live with her, and live with thee,

In unreproved pleasures free;

To hear the Lark begin his flight,

And singing startle the dull night,

From his watch-tower in the skies,

Till the dappled dawn doth rise;

Then to come, in spite of sorrow,

And at my window bid good-morrow,

Through the sweet-briar, or the vine,

Or the twisted eglantine:

While the cock, with lively din,

Scatters the rear of darkness thin,

And to the stack, or the barn-door,

Stoutly struts his dames before:

Oft listening how the hounds and horn

Cheerly rouse the slumbering morn,

From the side of some hoar hill,

Through the high wood echoing shrill.

Sometime walking, not unseen,

By hedge-row elms, on hillocks green,

Right against the eastern gate,

Where the great sun begins his state,

Rob'd in flames, and amber light,

The clouds in thousand liveries dight;

While the ploughman, near at hand,

Whistles o'er the furrow'd land,

And the milkmaid singeth blithe,

And the mower whets his scythe,

And every shepherd tells his tale,

Under the hawthorn in the dale.

Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures,

While the landscape round it measures;

Russet lawns, and fallows gray,

Where the nibbling flocks do stray

Mountains, on whose barren breast,

The labouring clouds do often rest;

Meadows trim with daisies pied,

Shallow brooks, and rivers wide;

Towers and battlements it sees

Bosom'd high in tufted trees,

Where perhaps some beauty lies,

The cynosure of neighbouring eyes.

Hard by, a cottage chimney smokes

From betwixt two aged oaks,

Where Corydon and Thyrsis met,

Are at their savoury dinner set

Of herbs, and other country messes,

Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses;

And then in haste her bower she leaves,

With Thestylis to bind the sheaves;

Or, if the earlier season lead,

To the tann'd haycock in the mead.

Sometimes with secure delight

The upland hamlets will invite,

When the merry bells ring round,

And the jocund rebecks sound

To many a youth and many a maid,

Dancing in the checker'd shade;

And young and old come forth to play

On a sun-shine holy-day,

Till the live-long day-light fail:

Then to the spicy nut-brown ale,

With stories told of many a feat,

How faery Mab the junkets eat;

She was pinch'd, and pull'd, she said;

And he, by friar's lantern led.

Tells how the drudging goblin sweat

To earn his cream-bowl duly set,

When in one night, ere glimpse of morn,

His shadowy flail hath thresh'd the corn,

That ten day-labourers could not end;

Then lies him down the lubber fiend,

And, stretch'd out all the chimney's length,

Basks at the fire his hairy strength;

And crop-full out of door he flings,

Ere the first cock his matin rings.

Thus done the tales, to bed they creep,

By whispering winds soon lull'd asleep.

Tower'd cities please us then,

And the busy hum of men,

Where throngs of knights and barons bold,

In weeds of peace high triumphs hold.

With store of ladies, whose bright eyes

Rain influence, and judge the prize

Of wit or arms, while both contend

To win her grace, whom all commend.

There let Hymen oft appear

In saffron robe, with taper clear,

And pomp, and feast, and revelry,

With mask and antique pageantry.

Such sights, as youthful poets dream

On summer eves by haunted stream.

Then to the well-trod stage anon,

If Jonson's learned sock be on.

Or sweetest Shakspeare, Fancy's child,

Warble his native wood-notes wild.

And ever, against eating cares,

Lap me in soft Lydian airs,

Married to immortal verse;

Such as the meeting soul may pierce,

In notes, with many a winding bout

Of linked sweetness long drawn out,

With wanton heed and giddy cunning,

The melting voice through mazes running,

Untwisting all the chains that tie

The hidden soul of harmony;

That Orpheus' self may heave his head

From golden slumber on a bed

Of heap'd Elysian flowers, and hear

Such strains as would have won the ear

Of Pluto, to have quite set free

His half-regain'd Eurydice.

These delights if thou canst give,

Mirth, with thee I mean to live.

MILTON.

[Notes: _L'Allegro_ the Cheerful man: as Il Penseroso, the Thoughtful

man, (the title of the companion poem).

_Cerberus_. The dog that guarded the infernal regions.

_Cimmerian_. The Cimmerians were a race dwelling beyond the ocean

stream, in utter darkness.

_Euphrosyne_ Mirth or gladness.

_In unreproved pleasures_ = In innocent pleasures.

_Then to come_ = Then (admit me) to come.

_Corydon and Thyrsis_. Names for a rustic couple taken from the

mythology of the Latin poets. So _Phillis and Thestylis_.

_Rebecks_. Musical instruments like fiddles.

_Junkets_. Pieces of cheese or something of the kind.

_By friar's lantern_ = Jack o' Lantern or Will o' the Wisp.

_In weeds of peace_ = the dress worn in time of peace.

_Hymen_. God of wedlock.

_Jonson_. (See previous note to _Ben Jonson_.)

_Sock_. The shoe worn on the ancient stage by comedians as the buskin

was by tragedians.

_Lydian airs_. Soft and soothing, as opposed to the Dorian airs, which

expressed the rough and harsh element in ancient music.]

* * * * *

THE PLEASURES OF A LIFE OF LABOUR.

I wish to show you how possible it is to enjoy much happiness in very

mean employments. Cowper tells us that labour, though the primal curse,

"has been softened into mercy;" and I think that, even had he not done

so, I would have found out the fact for myself. It was twenty years

last February since I set out a little before sunrise to make my first

acquaintance with a life of labour and restraint, and I have rarely had

a heavier heart than on that morning. I was but a thin, loose-jointed

boy at the time--fond of the pretty intangibilities of romance, and of

dreaming when broad awake; and, woful change! I was now going to work

at what Burns has instanced in his "Twa Dogs" as one of the most

disagreeable of all employments--to work in a quarry. Bating the passing

uneasiness occasioned by a few gloomy anticipations, the portion of my

life which had already gone by had been happy beyond the common lot. I

had been a wanderer among rocks and wood--a reader of curious books when

I could get them--a gleaner of old traditionary stories; and now I was

going to exchange all my day-dreams, and all my amusements, for the kind

of life in which men toil every day that they may be enabled to eat, and

eat every day that they may be enabled to toil!

The quarry in which I wrought lay on the southern side of a noble inland

bay, or frith rather, with a little clear stream on the one side, and a

thick fir wood on the other. It had been opened in the old red sandstone

of the district, and was overtopped by a huge bank of diluvial clay,

which rose over it in some places to the height of nearly thirty feet,

and which at this time was rent and shivered, wherever it presented an

open front to the weather, by a recent frost. A heap of loose fragments,

which had fallen from above blocked up the face of the quarry, and my

first employment was to clear them away. The friction of the shovel soon

blistered my hands, but the pain was by no means very severe, and I

wrought hard and willingly, that I might see how the huge strata below,

which presented so firm and unbroken a frontage, were to be torn up

and removed. Picks, and wedges, and levers, were applied by my brother

workmen; and simple and rude as I had been accustomed to regard these

implements, I found I had much to learn in the way of using them. They

all proved inefficient, however, and the workmen had to bore into one of

the inferior strata, and employ gunpowder. The process was new to me,

and I deemed it a highly-amusing one: it had the merit, too, of being

attended with some such degree of danger as a boating or rock excursion,

and had thus an interest independent of its novelty. We had a few

capital shots: the fragments flew in every direction; and an immense

mass of the diluvium came toppling down, bearing with it two dead birds,

that in a recent storm had crept into one of the deeper fissures, to die

in the shelter. I felt a new interest in examining them. The one was a

pretty cock goldfinch, with its hood of vermilion, and its wings inlaid

with the gold to which it owes its name, as unsoiled and smooth as if it

had been preserved for a museum. The other, a somewhat rarer bird, of

the woodpecker tribe, was variegated with light blue and a grayish

yellow. I was engaged in admiring the poor little things, more disposed

to be sentimental, perhaps, than if I had been ten years older, and

thinking of the contrast between the warmth and jollity of their green

summer haunts and the cold and darkness of their last retreat, when I

heard our employer bidding the workmen lay by their tools. I looked up,

and saw the sun sinking behind the thick fir-wood beside us, and the

long dark shadows of the trees stretching downwards towards the shore.

This was no very formidable beginning of the course of life I had so

much dreaded. To be sure, my hands were a little sore, and I felt nearly

as much fatigued as if I had been climbing among the rocks; but I had

wrought and been useful, and had yet enjoyed the day fully as much as

usual. It was no small matter, too, that the evening, converted by a

rare transmutation into the delicious "blink of rest," which Burns so

truthfully describes, was all my own. I was as light of heart next

morning as any of my fellow-workmen. There had been a smart frost during

the night, and the rime lay white on the grass as we passed onwards

through the fields; but the sun rose in a clear atmosphere, and the day

mellowed, as it advanced, into one of those delightful days of early

spring which give so pleasing an earnest of whatever is mild and genial

in the better half of the year! All the workmen rested at mid-day, and

I went to enjoy my half-hour alone on a mossy knoll in the neighbouring

wood, which commands through the trees a wide prospect of the bay and

the opposite shore. There was not a wrinkle on the water, nor a cloud in

the sky, and the branches were as moveless in the calm as if they had

been traced on canvas. From a wooded promontory that stretched half-way

across the frith, there ascended a thin column of smoke. It rose

straight as the line of a plummet for more than a thousand yards, and

then, on reaching a thinner stratum of air, spread out equally on every

side like the foliage of a stately tree. Ben Wyvis rose to the west,

white with the yet unwasted snows of winter, and as sharply defined

in the clear atmosphere as if all its sunny slopes and blue retiring

hollows had been chiselled in marble. A line of snow ran along the

opposite hills; all above was white, and all below was purple. They

reminded me of the pretty French story, in which an old artist is

described as tasking the ingenuity of his future son-in-law by giving

him as a subject for his pencil a flower-piece composed of only white

flowers, of which the one-half were to bear their proper colour, the

other half a deep purple hue, and yet all be perfectly natural; and

how the young man resolved the riddle, and gained his mistress, by

introducing a transparent purple vase into the picture, and making the

light pass through it on the flowers that were drooping over the edge. I

returned to the quarry, convinced that a very exquisite pleasure may be

a very cheap one, and that the busiest employments may afford leisure

enough to enjoy it.

The gunpowder had loosened a large mass in one of the inferior strata,

and our first employment, on resuming our labours, was to raise it from

its bed. I assisted the other workmen in placing it on edge, and was

much struck by the appearance of the platform on which it had rested.

The entire surface was ridged and furrowed like a bank of sand that

had been left by the tide an hour before. I could trace every bend and

curvature, every cross-hollow and counter-ridge of the corresponding

phenomena; for the resemblance was no half-resemblance--it was the

thing itself; and I had observed it a hundred and a hundred times when

sailing my little schooner in the shallows left by the ebb. But what had

become of the waves that had thus fretted the solid rock, or of what

element had they been composed? I felt as completely at fault as

Robinson Crusoe did on his discovering the print of the man's foot on

the sand. The evening furnished me with still further cause of wonder.

We raised another block in a different part of the quarry, and found

that the area of a circular depression in the stratum below was broken

and flawed in every direction, as if it had been the bottom of a pool,

recently dried up, which had shrunk and split in the hardening. Several

large stones came rolling down from the diluvium in the course of the

afternoon. They were of different qualities from the sandstone below,

and from one another; and, what was more wonderful still, they were all

rounded and water-worn, as if they had been tossed about in the sea, or

the bed of a river, for hundreds of years. There could not, surely, be

a more conclusive proof that the bank which had enclosed them so long

could not have been created on the rock on which it rested. No workman

ever manufactures a half-worn article, and the stones were all

half-worn! And if not the bank, why then the sandstone underneath? I

was lost in conjecture, and found I had food enough for thought that

evening, without once thinking of the unhappiness of a life of labour.

HUGH MILLER.

* * * * *

THE FLIGHT OF BIRDS.

A good ornithologist should be able to distinguish birds by their air,

as well as by their colours and shape, on the ground as well as on the

wing, and in the bush as well as in the hand. For, though it must not be

said that every species of birds has a manner peculiar to itself,

yet there is somewhat in most kinds at least that at first sight

discriminates them, and enables a judicious observer to pronounce upon

them with some certainty.

Thus, kites and buzzards sail round in circles, with wings expanded and

motionless; and it is from their gliding manner that the former are

still called, in the north of England, gleads, from the Saxon verb

_glidan_, to glide. The kestrel, or windhover, has a peculiar mode of

hanging in the air in one place, his wings all the while being briskly

agitated. Hen-harriers fly low over heaths or fields of corn, and beat

the ground regularly like a pointer or setting-dog. Owls move in a

buoyant manner, as if lighter than the air; they seem to want ballast.

There is a peculiarity belonging to ravens that must draw the attention

even of the most incurious--they spend all their leisure time in

striking and cuffing each other on the wing in a kind of playful

skirmish; and when they move from one place to another, frequently turn

on their backs with a loud croak, and seem to be falling on the ground.

When this odd gesture betides them, they are scratching themselves with

one foot, and thus lose the centre of gravity. Rooks sometimes dive and

tumble in a frolicsome manner; crows and daws swagger in their walk;

woodpeckers fly with an undulating motion, opening and closing their

wings at every stroke, and so are always rising and falling in curves.

All of this kind use their tails, which incline downwards, as a support

while they run up trees. Parrots, like all other hooked-clawed birds,

walk awkwardly, and make use of their bill as a third foot, climbing

and descending with ridiculous caution. Cocks, hens, partridges, and

pheasants, etc., parade and walk gracefully, and run nimbly; but fly

with difficulty, with an impetuous whirring, and in a straight line.

Magpies and jays flutter with powerless wings, and make no dispatch;

herons seem encumbered with too much sail for their light bodies; but

these vast hollow wings are necessary in carrying burdens, such as large

fishes, and the like; pigeons, and particularly the sort called smiters,

have a way of clashing their wings, the one against the other, over

their backs, with a loud snap; another variety, called tumblers, turn

themselves over in the air. The kingfisher darts along like an arrow;

fern-owls, or goat-suckers, glance in the dusk over the tops of trees

like a meteor; starlings, as it were, swim along, while missel-thrushes

use a wild and desultory flight; swallows sweep over the surface of the

ground and water, and distinguish themselves by rapid turns and quick

evolutions; swifts dash round in circles; and the bank-martin moves with

frequent vacillations, like a butterfly. Most of the small birds fly by

jerks, rising and falling as they advance. Most small birds hop; but

wagtails and larks walk, moving their legs alternately. Skylarks rise

and fall perpendicularly as they sing; woodlarks hang poised in the air;

and titlarks rise and fall in large curves, singing in their descent.

The white-throat uses odd jerks and gesticulations over the tops of

hedges and bushes. All the duck kind waddle; divers and auks walk as if

fettered, and stand erect on their tails. Geese and cranes, and most

wild fowls, move in figured flights, often changing their position.

Dabchicks, moorhens, and coots, fly erect, with their legs hanging down,

and hardly make any dispatch; the reason is plain, their wings are

placed too forward out of the true centre of gravity, as the legs of

auks and divers are situated too backward.

REV. GILBERT WHITE.

* * * * *

THE VILLAGE.

Sweet was the sound, when oft at evening's close

Up yonder hill the village murmur rose.

There as I past with careless steps and slow,

The mingling notes came softened from below;

The swain responsive as the milk-maid sung,

The sober herd that lowed to meet their young,

The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool,

The playful children just let loose from school,

The watch-dog's voice that bayed the whispering wind,

And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind;

These all in sweet confusion sought the shade,

And filled each pause the nightingale had made.

But now the sounds of population fail,

No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale,

No busy steps the grass-grown foot-way tread,

For all the bloomy flush of life is fled.

All but yon widowed, solitary thing,

That feebly bends beside the plashing spring:

She, wretched matron, forced in age, for bread,

To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread,

To pick her wintry faggot from the thorn,

To seek her nightly shed, and weep till mom;

She only left of all the harmless train,

The sad historian of the pensive plain.

Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled,

And still, where many a garden-flower grows wild;

There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose,

The village preacher's modest mansion rose,

A man he was to all the country dear,

And passing rich with forty pounds a year;

Remote from towns he ran his godly race,

Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change his place;

Unpractised he to fawn, or seek for power,

By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour;

Far other aims his heart had learned to prize,

More skilled to raise the wretched than to rise.

His house was known to all the vagrant train;

He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain;

The long-remember'd beggar was his guest,

Whose beard descending swept his aged breast,

The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud,

Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed;

The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay,

Sat by his fire, and talked the night away.

Wept o'er his wounds or tales of sorrow done,

Shouldered his crutch, and showed how fields were won.

Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow,

And quite forgot their vices in their woe;

Careless their merits or their faults to scan,

His pity gave ere charity began.

Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride,

And e'en his failings leaned to virtue's side;

But in his duty prompt at every call,

He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for all;

And, as a bird each fond endearment tries

To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies,

He tried each art, reproved each dull delay,

Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way.

Beside the bed where parting life was laid,

And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismayed,

The reverend champion stood. At his control

Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul;

Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise,

And his last faltering accents whispered praise.

At church, with meek and unaffected grace,

His looks adorned the venerable place;

Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway,

And fools, who came to scoff remained to pray.

The service past, around the pious man,

With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran;

E'en children followed with endearing wile,

And plucked his gown, to share the good man's smile.

His ready smile a parent's warmth expressed;

Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distressed:

To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given,

But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven.

As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form,

Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm,

Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread,

Eternal sunshine settles on its head.

Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way,

With blossom'd furze unprofitably gay,

There in his noisy mansion, skilled to rule,

The village master taught his little school.

A man severe he was, and stern to view;

I knew him well, and every truant knew;

Well had the boding tremblers learned to trace

The day's disasters in his morning face;

Full well they laughed with counterfeited glee

At all his jokes, for many a joke had he;

Full well the busy whisper circling round

Conveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned,

Yet he was kind, or, if severe in aught,

The love he bore to learning was in fault;

The village all declared how much he knew;

'Twas certain he could write, and cypher too;

Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage,

And e'en, the story ran, that he could gauge:

In arguing, too, the parson owned his skill;

For e'en though vanquished, he could argue still;

While words of learned length and thundering sound

Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around;

And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew,

That one small head could carry all he knew.

GOLDSMITH.

* * * * *

THE BATTLE OF CORUNNA.

All the encumbrances being shipped on the morning of the 16th, it was

intended to embark the fighting men in the coming night, and this

difficult operation would probably have been happily effected; but a

glorious event was destined to give a more graceful, though melancholy,

termination to the campaign. About two o'clock a general movement of

the French line gave notice of an approaching battle, and the British

infantry, fourteen thousand five hundred strong, occupied their

position. Baird's division on the right, and governed by the oblique

direction of the ridge, approached the enemy; Hope's division, forming

the centre and left, although on strong ground abutting on the Mero, was

of necessity withheld, so that the French battery on the rocks raked the

whole line of battle. One of Baird's brigades was in column behind the

right, and one of Hope's behind the left; Paget's reserve posted at the

village of Airis, behind the centre, looked down the valley separating

the right of the position front the hills occupied by the French

cavalry. A battalion detached from the reserve kept these horsemen

in check, and was itself connected with the main body by a chain of

skirmishers extended across the valley. Fraser's division held the

heights immediately before the gates of Corunna, watching the coast

road, but it was also ready to succour any point.

When Laborde's division arrived, the French force was not less than

twenty thousand men, and the Duke of Dalmatia made no idle evolutions of

display. Distributing his lighter guns along the front of his position,

he opened a fire from the heavy battery on his left, and instantly

descended the mountain, with three columns covered by clouds of

skirmishers. The British pickets were driven back in disorder, and the

village of Elvina was carried by the first French column.

The ground about that village was intersected by stone walls and hollow

roads; a severe scrambling fight ensued, the French were forced back

with great loss, and the fiftieth regiment entering the village with the

retiring mass, drove it, after a second struggle in the street, quite

beyond the houses. Seeing this, the general ordered up a battalion of

the guards to fill the void in the line made by the advance of those

regiments; whereupon, the forty-second, mistaking his intention,

retired, with exception of the grenadiers; and at that moment, the enemy

being reinforced, renewed the fight beyond the village. Major Napier,

commanding the fiftieth, was wounded and taken prisoner, and Elvina

then became the scene of another contest; which being observed by

the Commander-in-Chief, he addressed a few animating words to the

forty-second, and caused it to return to the attack. Paget had now

descended into the valley, and the line of the skirmishers being thus

supported, vigorously checked the advance of the enemy's troops in that

quarter, while the fourth regiment galled their flank; at the same time

the centre and left of the army also became engaged, Baird was severely

wounded, and a furious action ensued along the line, in the valley, and

on the hills.

General Sir John Moore, while earnestly watching the result of the

fight about the village of Elvina, was struck on the left breast by a

cannon-shot; the shock threw him from his horse with violence; yet he

rose again in a sitting posture, his countenance unchanged, and his

steadfast eye still fixed upon the regiments engaged in his front, no

sigh betraying a sensation of pain. In a few moments, when he saw the

troops were gaining ground, his countenance brightened, and he suffered

himself to be taken to the rear. Then was seen the dreadful nature

of his hurt. As the soldiers placed him in a blanket, his sword got

entangled, and the hilt entered the wound; Captain Hardinge, a staff

officer, attempted to take it off, but the dying man stopped him,

saying: "It is as well as it is. I had rather it should go out of the

field with me;" and in that manner, so becoming to a soldier, Moore was

borne from the fight.

Notwithstanding this great disaster, the troops gained ground. The

reserve overthrowing everything in the valley, forced La Houssaye's

dismounted dragoons to retire, and thus turning the enemy, approached

the eminence upon which the great battery was posted. In the centre, the

obstinate dispute for Elvina terminated in favour of the British; and

when the night set in, their line was considerably advanced beyond the

original position of the morning, while the French were falling back in

confusion. If Fraser's division had been brought into action along with

the reserve, the enemy could hardly have escaped a signal overthrow;

for the little ammunition Soult had been able to bring up was nearly

exhausted, the river Mero was in full tide behind him, and the difficult

communication by the bridge of El Burgo was alone open for a retreat. On

the other hand, to fight in the dark was to tempt fortune; the French

were still the most numerous, their ground strong, and their disorder

facilitated the original plan of embarking during the night. Hope, upon

whom the command had devolved, resolved therefore, to ship the army,

and so complete were the arrangements, that no confusion or difficulty

occurred; the pickets kindled fires to cover the retreat, and were

themselves withdrawn at daybreak, to embark under the protection of

Hill's brigade, which was in position under the ramparts of Corunna.

From the spot where he fell, the general was carried to the town by his

soldiers; his blood flowed fast, and the torture of the wound was great;

yet the unshaken firmness of his mind made those about him, seeing the

resolution of his countenance, express a hope of his recovery. He looked

steadfastly at the injury for a moment, and said, "No, I feel that to

be impossible." Several times he caused his attendants to stop and turn

round, that he might behold the field of battle; and when the firing

indicated the advance of the British, he discovered his satisfaction

and permitted the bearers to proceed. When brought to his lodgings, the

surgeons examined his wound; there was no hope, the pain increased, he

spoke with difficulty. At intervals, he asked if the French were beaten,

and addressing his old friend, Colonel Anderson, said, "You know I

always wished to die this way." Again he asked if the enemy were

defeated, and being told they were, said, "It is a great satisfaction to

me to know we have beaten the French." His countenance continued firm,

his thoughts clear; once only when he spoke of his mother he became

agitated; but he often inquired after the safety of his friends and the

officers of his staff, and he did not even in this moment forget to

recommend those whose merit had given them claims to promotion. When

life was nearly extinct, with an unsubdued spirit, as if anticipating

the baseness of his posthumous calumniators, he exclaimed, "I hope

the people of England will be satisfied! I hope my country will do me

justice!" In a few minutes afterwards he died; and his corpse, wrapped

in a military cloak, was interred by the officers of his staff, in the

citadel of Corunna. The guns of the enemy paid his funeral honours, and

Soult, with a noble feeling of respect for his valour, raised a monument

to his memory on the field of battle.

NAPIER.

[Note:_Battle of Corunna_. The French army having proclaimed Joseph

Buonaparte, King of Spain, the Spanish people rose as one man in

protest, and sought and obtained the aid of England. The English armies

were at first driven back by Napoleon; but the force under Sir John

Moore saved its honour in the fight before Corunna, 16th January, 1809,

which enabled it to embark in safety.]

* * * * *

BATTLE OF ALBUERA.

The fourth division was composed of two brigades: one of Portuguese

under General Harvey; the other, under Sir William Myers, consisting of

the seventh and twenty-third regiments, was called the Fusilier Brigade;

Harvey's Portuguese were immediately pushed in between Lumley's dragoons

and the hill, where they were charged by some French cavalry, whom they

beat off, and meantime Cole led his fusiliers up the contested height.

At this time six guns were in the enemy's possession, the whole of

Werle's reserves were coming forward to reinforce the front column of

the French, the remnant of Houghton's brigade could no longer maintain

its ground, the field was heaped with carcasses, the lancers were riding

furiously about the captured artillery on the upper parts of the

hill, and behind all, Hamilton's Portuguese and Alten's Germans, now

withdrawing from the bridge, seemed to be in full retreat. Soon,

however, Cole's fusiliers, flanked by a battalion of the Lusitanian

legion under Colonel Hawkshawe, mounted the hill, drove off the lancers,

recovered five of the captured guns and one colour, and appeared on the

right of Houghton's brigade, precisely as Abercrombie passed it on the

left.

Such a gallant line, issuing from the midst of the smoke, and rapidly

separating itself from the confused and broken multitude, startled the

enemy's masses, which were increasing and pressing onwards as to an

assured victory; they wavered, hesitated, and then vomiting forth a

storm of fire, hastily endeavoured to enlarge their front, while a

fearful discharge of grape from all their artillery whistled through the

British ranks. Myers was killed, Cole and the three colonels, Ellis,

Blakeney, and Hawkshawe, fell wounded, and the fusilier battalions,

struck by the iron tempest, reeled and staggered like sinking ships; but

suddenly and sternly recovering, they closed on their terrible enemies,

and then was seen with what a strength and majesty the British soldier

fights. In vain did Soult with voice and gesture animate his Frenchmen;

in vain did the hardiest veterans break from the crowded columns and

sacrifice their lives to gain time for the mass to open out on such a

fair field; in vain did the mass itself bear up, and, fiercely striving,

fire indiscriminately upon friends and foes, while the horsemen,

hovering on the flank, threatened to charge the advancing line. Nothing

could stop that astonishing infantry. No sudden burst of undisciplined

valour, no nervous enthusiasm weakened the stability of their order,

their flashing eyes were bent on the dark columns in their front, their

measured tread shook the ground, their dreadful volleys swept away

the head of every formation, their deafening shouts overpowered the

dissonant cries that broke from all parts of the tumultuous crowd, as

slowly and with a horrid carnage it was pushed by the incessant vigour

of the attack to the farthest edge of the hill. In vain did the French

reserves mix with the struggling multitude to sustain the fight; their

efforts only increased the irremediable confusion, and the mighty mass,

breaking off like a loosened cliff, went headlong down the steep; the

rain flowed after in streams discoloured with blood, and eighteen

hundred unwounded men, the remnant of six thousand unconquerable British

soldiers, stood triumphant on the fatal hill!

NAPIER.

[Note: _Battle of Albuera_, in which the English and Spanish armies won

a victory over the French under Marshal Soult, on 16th May, 1811.]

* * * * *

CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE AT BALAKLAVA.

The whole brigade scarcely made one efficient regiment according to the

number of continental armies; and yet it was more than we could spare.

As they passed towards the front, the Russians opened on them from the

guns in the redoubt on the right with volleys of musketry and rifles.

They swept proudly past, glittering in the morning sun in all the pride

and splendour of war. We could scarcely believe the evidence of our

senses! Surely that handful of men are not going to charge an army in

position? Alas! it was but too true; their desperate valour knew

no bounds, and far indeed was it removed from its so-called better

part--discretion. They advanced in two lines, quickening their pace

as they closed towards the enemy. A more fearful spectacle was never

witnessed than by those who, without the power to aid, beheld their

heroic countrymen rushing to the arms of death. At the distance of

twelve hundred yards the whole line of the enemy belched forth, from

thirty iron mouths, a flood of smoke and flame through which hissed the

deadly balls. Their flight was marked by instant gaps in our ranks, by

dead men and horses, by steeds flying wounded or riderless across the

plain. The first line is broken, it is joined by the second; they never

halt or check their speed for an instant; with diminished ranks, thinned

by those thirty guns, which the Russians had laid with the most deadly

accuracy, with a halo of flashing steel above their heads, and with a

cheer which was many a noble fellow's death-cry, they flew into the

smoke of the batteries; but ere they were lost to view the plain was

strewn with their bodies and with the carcasses of horses. They were

exposed to an oblique fire from the batteries on the hills on both

sides, as well as to a direct fire of musketry. Through the clouds of

smoke we could see their sabres flashing as they rode up to the guns and

dashed between them, cutting down the gunners as they stood. We saw them

riding through the guns, as I have said: to our delight we saw them

returning, after breaking through a column of Russian infantry, and

scattering them like chaff, when the flank fire of the battery on the

hill swept them down, scattered and broken as they were. Wounded men and

dismounted troopers flying towards us told the sad tale: demigods could

not have done what we had failed to do. At the very moment when they

were about to retreat, an enormous mass of lancers was hurled on their

flank. Colonel Shewell, of the 8th Hussars, saw the danger, and rode his

few men straight at them, cutting his way through with fearful loss.

The other regiments turned and engaged in a desperate encounter. With

courage too great almost for credence, they were breaking their way

through the columns which enveloped them, when there took place an act

of atrocity without parallel in the modern warfare of civilised nations.

The Russian gunners, when the storm of cavalry passed, returned to their

guns. They saw their own cavalry mingled with the troopers who had just

ridden over them, and, to the eternal disgrace of the Russian name, the

miscreants poured a murderous volley of grape and canister on the mass

of struggling men and horses, mingling friend and foe in one common

ruin. It was as much as our Heavy Cavalry Brigade could do to cover

the retreat of the miserable remnants of that band of heroes as they

returned to the place they had so lately quitted in all the pride of

life. At 11:35 not a British soldier, except the dead and dying, was

left in front of the Muscovite guns.

_The "Times" Correspondent_.

* * * * *

THE MERCHANT OF VENICE.

SCENE.--_Venice. A Court of Justice.

Enter the_ DUKE, _the_ Magnificoes, ANTONIO,

BASSANIO, GATIANO, SALARINO, SALANIO, _and

others_.

_Duke_. What, is Antonio here?

_Ant_. Ready, so please your grace.

_Duke._ I am sorry for thee; thou art come to

answer

A stony adversary, an inhuman wretch

Uncapable of pity, void and empty

From any dram of mercy.

_Ant_. I have heard

Your grace hath ta'en great pains to qualify

His rigorous course; but since he stands obdurate

And that no lawful means can carry me

Out of his envy's reach, I do oppose

My patience to his fury, and am arm'd

To suffer, with a quietness of spirit,

The very tyranny and rage of his.

_Duke_. Go one, and call the Jew into the court,

_Salan_. He is ready at the door: he comes, my lord.

_Enter_ SHYLOCK.

_Duke_. Make room, and let him stand before our face.

Shylock, the world thinks, and I think so too,

That thou but lead'st this fashion of thy malice

To the last hour of act; and then 'tis thought

Thou'lt show thy mercy and remorse more strange

Than is thy strange apparent cruelty;

And where thou now exact'st the penalty,

(Which is a pound of this poor merchant's flesh),

Thou wilt not only loose the forfeiture,

But, touch'd with human gentleness and love,

Forgive a moiety of the principal;

Glancing an eye of pity on his losses,

That have of late so huddled on his back,

Enow to press a royal merchant down

And pluck commiseration of his state

From brassy bosoms and rough hearts of flint,

From stubborn Turks and Tartars, never train'd

To offices of tender courtesy.

We all expect a gentle answer, Jew.

_Shy._ I have possess'd your grace of what I purpose;

And by our holy Sabbath have I sworn

To have the due and forfeit of my bond:

If you deny it, let the danger light

Upon your charter and your city's freedom.

You'll ask me, why I rather choose to have

A weight of carrion flesh than to receive

Three thousand ducats; I'll not answer that:

But, say, it is my humour; is it answer'd?

* * * * *

_Bass._ This is no answer, thou unfeeling man,

To excuse the current of thy cruelty.

_Shy_. I am not bound to please thee with my answer.

* * * * *

_Ant._ I pray you, think you question with the Jew:

You may as well go stand upon the beach

And bid the main flood bate his usual height;

You may as well use question with the wolf

Why he hath made the ewe bleat for the lamb;

You may as well forbid the mountain pines

To wag their high tops and to make no noise,

When they are fretted with the gusts of heaven;

You may as well do any thing most hard,

As seek to soften that--than which what's harder?--

His Jewish heart: therefore, I do beseech you,

Make no more offers, use no farther means,

But with all brief and plain conveniency

Let me have judgment, and the Jew his will.

_Bass_. For thy three thousand ducats here is six.

_Shy_, If every ducat in six thousand ducats

Were in six parts, and every part a ducat,

I would not draw them; I would have my bond.

_Duke_. How shalt thou hope for mercy, rendering none?

_Shy_. What judgment shall I dread, doing no wrong?

You have among you many a purchased slave,

Which, like your asses and your dogs and mules,

You use in abject and in slavish parts,

Because you bought them: shall I say to you,

Let them be free, marry them to your heirs?

Why sweat they under burthens? let their beds

Be made as soft as yours, and let their palates

Be season'd with such viands? You will answer

"The slaves are ours:" so do I answer you;

The pound of flesh, which I demand of him,

Is dearly bought; 'tis mine, and I will have it:

If you deny me, fie upon your law!

There is no force in the decrees of Venice:

I stand for judgment: answer; shall I have it?

_Duke_. Upon my power, I may dismiss this court,

Unless Bellario, a learned doctor,

Whom I have sent for to determine this,

Come here to-day.

_Salar_. My lord, here stays without

A messenger with letters from the doctor,

New come from Padua.

_Duke_. Bring us the letters; call the messenger.

_Enter_ NERISSA, _dressed like a lawyer's clerk._

_Duke._ Came you from Padua, from Bellario?

_Ner_. From both, my lord. Bellario greets your grace.

[_Presenting a letter_.

_Bass_. Why dost thou whet thy knife so earnestly?

_Shy_. To cut the forfeiture from that bankrupt there.

_Gra_. Not on thy sole, but on thy soul, harsh Jew,

Thou mak'st thy knife keen; but no metal can,

No, not the hangman's axe, bear half the keenness

Of thy sharp envy. Can no prayers pierce thee?

_Shy_. No, none that thou hast wit enough to make.

* * * * *

_Duke_. This letter from Bellario doth commend

A young and learned doctor to our court:--

Where is he?

_Ner_. He attendeth here hard by,

To know your answer, whether you'll admit him.

_Duke_. With all my heart. Some three or four of you,

Go give him courteous conduct to this place.

* * * * *

_Enter_ PORTIA, _dressed like a doctor of laws_.

_Duke_. Give me your hand. Came you from old Bellario?

_Por_. I did, my lord.

_Duke_. You are welcome: take your place.

Are you acquainted with the difference

That holds this present question in the court?

_Por_. I am informed thoroughly of the cause.

Which is the merchant here, and which the Jew?

_Duke_. Antonio and old Shylock, both stand

forth.

_Por_. Is your name Shylock?

_Shy_. Shylock is my name.

_Por_. Of a strange nature is the suit you follow;

Yet in such rule that the Venetian law

Cannot impugn you as you do proceed.

You stand within his danger, do you not?

_Ant_. Ay, so he says.

_Por_. Do you confess the bond?

_Ant_. I do.

_Por_. Then must the Jew be merciful.

_Shy_. On what compulsion must I? tell me that.

_Por_. The quality of mercy is not strain'd;

It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven

Upon the place beneath: it is twice blest;

It blesseth him that gives and him that takes:

'Tis mightiest in the mightiest: it becomes

The throned monarch better than his crown;

His sceptre shows the force of temporal power,

The attribute to awe and majesty,

Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings;

But mercy is above this scepter'd sway;

It is enthroned in the hearts of kings,

It is an attribute to God himself:

And earthly power doth then show likest God's

When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew,

Though justice be thy plea, consider this,

That, in the course of justice, none of us

Should see salvation: we do pray for mercy;

And that same prayer doth teach us all to render

The deeds of mercy. I have spoke thus much

To mitigate the justice of thy plea;

Which if thou follow, this strict court of Venice

Must needs give sentence 'gainst the merchant there.

_Shy_. My deeds upon my head! I crave the law,

The penalty and forfeit of my bond.

_Por_. Is he not able to discharge the money?

_Bass_. Yes, here I tender it for him in the court;

Yea, twice the sum: if that will not suffice;

I will be bound to pay it ten times o'er,

On forfeit of my hands, my head, my heart:

If this will not suffice, it must appear

That malice bears down truth. And I beseech you,

Wrest once the law to your authority:

To do a great right, do a little wrong,

And curb this cruel devil of his will.

_Por_. It must not be; there is no power in Venice

Can alter a decree established:

'Twill be recorded for a precedent,

And many an error, by the same example,

Will rush into the state: it cannot be.

_Shy._ A Daniel come to judgment! yea, a Daniel!

O wise young judge, how do I honour thee!

_Por._ I pray you, let me look upon the bond.

_Shy._ Here 'tis, most reverend doctor, here it is.

_Por._ Shylock, there's thrice thy money offer'd thee.

_Shy._ An oath, an oath, I have an oath in heaven:

Shall I lay perjury upon my soul?

No, not for Venice.

_Por._ Why, this bond is forfeit;

And lawfully by this the Jew may claim

A pound of flesh, to be by him cut off

Nearest the merchant's heart. Be merciful:

Take thrice thy money; bid me tear the bond.

_Shy._ When it is paid according to the tenour.

It doth appear you are a worthy judge;

You know the law, your exposition

Hath been most sound: I charge you by the law,

Whereof you are a well-deserving pillar,

Proceed to judgment: by my soul I swear

There is no power in the tongue of man

To alter me: I stay here on my bond.

_Ant._ Most heartily I do beseech the court

To give the judgment.

_Por._ Why then, thus it is:

You must prepare your bosom for his knife.

_Shy._ O noble judge! O excellent young man!

_Por_. For the intent and purpose of the law

Hath full relation to the penalty,

Which here appeareth due upon the bond.

_Shy_. 'Tis very true: O wise and upright judge!

How much more elder art thou than thy looks!

_Por_. Therefore lay bare your bosom.

_Shy_. Ay, his breast:

So says the bond; doth it not, noble judge?

"Nearest his heart:" those are the very words.

_Por_. It is so. Are there balance here to weigh

The flesh?

_Shy_. I have them ready.

_Por_. Have by some surgeon, Shylock, on your charge,

To stop his wounds, lest he do bleed to death.

_Shy_. Is it so nominated in the bond?

_Por_. It is not so express'd: but what of that?

'Twere good you do so much for charity.

_Shy_. I cannot find it; 'tis not in the bond.

_Por_. Come, merchant, have you anything to say?

_Ant_. But little: I am arm'd and well prepared.

Give me your hand, Bassanio: fare you well!

Grieve not that I am fallen to this for you;

For herein Fortune shows herself more kind

Than is her custom: it is still her use

To let the wretched man outlive his wealth,

To view with hollow eye and wrinkled brow

An age of poverty; from which lingering penance

Of such a misery doth she cut me off.

Commend me to your honourable wife:

Tell her the process of Antonio's end;

Say how I loved you, speak me fair in death.

* * * * *

_Shy_. We trifle time: I pray thee, pursue sentence.

_Por_. A pound of that same merchant's flesh is thine:

The court awards it, and the law doth give it.

_Shy_. Most rightful judge!

_Por_. And you must cut this flesh from off his breast:

The law allows it, and the court awards it.

_Shy_. Most learned judge! A sentence; come, prepare.

_Por_. Tarry a little; there is something else.

This bond doth give thee here no jot of blood;

The words expressly are "a pound of flesh:"

Take then thy bond, take thou thy pound of flesh;

But, in the cutting it, if thou dost shed

One drop of Christian blood, thy lands and goods

Are, by the laws of Venice, confiscate

Unto the state of Venice.

_Gra_. O upright judge! Mark, Jew: O learned judge!

_Shy_. Is that the law?

_Por_. Thyself shalt see the act:

For, as thou urgest justice, be assured

Thou shalt have justice, more than thou desirest.

_Gra_. O learned judge! Mark, Jew; a learned judge!

_Shy_. I take this offer, then; pay the bond thrice,

And let the Christian go.

_Bass_. Here is the money.

_Por_. Soft!

The Jew shall have all justice; soft! no haste:

He shall have nothing but the penalty.

_Gra_. O Jew! an upright judge, a learned judge!

_Por_. Therefore prepare thee to cut off the flesh.

Shed thou no blood, nor cut thou less nor more

But just a pound of flesh: if thou cut'st more

Or less than a just pound, be it but so much

As makes it light or heavy in the substance,

Or the division of the twentieth part

Of one poor scruple; nay, if the scale do turn

But in the estimation of a hair,

Thou diest and all thy goods are confiscate.

_Gra_. A second Daniel, a Daniel, Jew!

Now, infidel, I have thee on the hip.

_Por_. Why doth the Jew pause? take thy forfeiture.

_Shy_. Give me my principal, and let me go.

_Bass_. I have it ready for thee; here it is.

_Por_. He hath refused it in the open court:

He shall have merely justice and his bond.

_Gra_. A Daniel, still say I, a second Daniel!

I thank thee, Jew, for teaching me that word.

_Shy_. Shall I not have barely my principal?

_Por_. Thou shalt have nothing but the forfeiture,

To be so taken at thy peril, Jew.

_Shy_. Why, then the devil give him good of it!

I'll stay no longer question.

_Por_. Tarry, Jew:

The law hath yet another hold on you.

It is enacted in the laws of Venice,

If it be proved against an alien,

That by direct or indirect attempts

He seek the life of any citizen,

The party 'gainst the which he doth contrive

Shall seize one half his goods; the other half

Comes to the privy coffer of the state;

And the offender's life lies in the mercy

Of the duke only, 'gainst all other voice.

In which predicament, I say, thou stand'st;

For it appears, by manifest proceeding,

That indirectly and directly too

Thou hast contrived against the very life

Of the defendant; and thou hast incurr'd

The danger formerly by me rehearsed.

Down, therefore, and beg mercy of the duke.

_Gra_. Beg that thou mayst have leave to hang thyself:

And yet, thy wealth being forfeit to the state,

Thou hast not left the value of a cord;

Therefore, thou must be hang'd at the state's charge.

_Duke_. That thou shalt see the difference of our spirit,

I pardon thee thy life before thou ask it:

For half thy wealth, it is Antonio's;

The other half comes to the general state,

Which humbleness may drive unto a fine.

_Por_. Ay, for the state, not for Antonio.

_Shy_. Nay, take my life and all; pardon not that:

You take my house when you do take the prop

That doth sustain my house; you take my life

When you do take the means whereby I live.

_Por_. What mercy can you render him, Antonio?

_Gra_. A halter gratis; nothing else, for God's sake.

_Ant_. So please my lord the duke, and all the court

To quit the fine for one half of his goods;

I am content, so he will let me have

The other half in use, to render it,

Upon his death, unto the gentleman

That lately stole his daughter.

* * * * *

_Por_. Art thou contented, Jew? what dost thou say?

_Shy_. I am content.

SHAKESPEARE.

[Notes: _Merchant of Venice. Obdurate_, with the second syllable long,

which modern usage makes short.

_Frellen_--agitated. A form of participial termination frequently found

in Shakespeare, as _strucken_, &c. It is preserved in _eaten, given,

&c._

_Within his danger_ = in danger of him.

_Which humbleness may drive unto a fine_ = which with humility on your

part may be commuted for a fine.]

* * * * *

IL PENSEROSO.

Hence vain deluding Joys,

The brood of Folly, without father bred!

How little you bestead,

Or fill the fixèd mind with all your toys!

Dwell in some idle brain,

And fancies fond with gaudy shapes possess,

As thick and numberless

As the gay motes that people the sunbeams.

Or likest hovering dreams,

The fickle pensioners of Morpheus' train.

But hail, thou Goddess, sage and holy!

Hail, divinest Melancholy!

Whose saintly visage is too bright

To hit the sense of human sight,

And therefore to our weaker view

O'erlaid with black, staid Wisdom's hue:

Black, but such as in esteem

Prince Memnon's sister might beseem

Or that starred Ethiop queen that strove

To set her beauty's praise above

The Sea-Nymphs, and their powers offended;

Yet thou art higher far descended;

Thee bright-haired Vesta, long of yore

To solitary Saturn bore;

His daughter she; in Saturn's reign

Such mixture was not held a stain:

Oft in glimmering bowers and glades

He met her, and in secret shades

Of woody Ida's inmost grove,

While yet there was no fear of Jove.

Come, pensive nun, devout and pure,

Sober, steadfast, and demure

All in a robe of darkest grain,

Flowing with majestic train

And sable stole of cyprus lawn,

Over thy decent shoulders drawn.

Come, but keep thy wonted state,

With even step and musing gait,

And looks commèrcing with the skies,

Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes;

There, held in holy passion still,

Forget thyself to marble, till

With a sad leaden downward cast,

Thou fix them on the earth as fast;

And join with thee calm Peace and Quiet,

Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet.

And hears the Muses in a ring

Aye round about Jove's altar sing;

And add to these retirèd Leisure,

That in trim gardens takes his pleasure;

But first, and chiefest, with thee bring

Him that yon soars on golden wing,

Guiding the fiery-wheelèd throne,

The cherub Contemplation;

And the mute Silence hist along,

'Less Philomel will deign a song

In her sweetest, saddest plight,

Smoothing the rugged brow of Night,

While Cynthia checks her dragon yoke,

Gently o'er the accustomed oak;

--Sweet bird, that shunn'st the noise of folly,

Most musical, most melancholy;

Thee, chauntress, oft, the woods among

I woo, to hear thy even-song;

And missing thee, I walk unseen,

On the dry smooth-shaven green,

To behold the wandering Moon,

Riding near her highest noon,

Like one that had been led astray

Through the heaven's wide pathless way;

And oft, as if her head she bowed,

Stooping through a fleecy cloud.

Oft, on a plat of rising ground,

I hear the far-off Curfew sound

Over some wide-watered shore,

Swinging slow with sullen roar.

Or, if the air will not permit,

Some still, removed place will fit,

Where glowing embers through the room

Teach light to counterfeit a gloom,

Far from all resort of mirth,

Save the cricket on the hearth,

Or the bellman's drowsy charm,

To bless the doors from nightly harm.

Or let my lamp at midnight hour

Be seen on some high lonely tower,

Where I may oft out-watch the Bear

With thrice-great Hermes, or unsphere

The spirit of Plato, to unfold

What worlds, or what vast regions hold

The immortal mind, that hath forsook

Her mansion in this fleshly nook;

And of those demons that are found

In fire air, flood, or under ground,

Whose power hath a true consent

With planet, or with element.

Sometime let gorgeous Tragedy

In sceptered pall come sweeping by,

Presenting Thebes, or Pelops' line,

Or the tale of Troy divine,

Or what (though rare) of later age

Ennobled hath the buskined stage.

But, O sad Virgin, that thy power

Might raise Musaeus from his bower,

Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing

Such notes as, warbled to the string,

Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek,

And made Hell grant what Love did seek!

Or call up him that left half-told

The story of Cambuscan bold,

Of Camball, and of Algarsife,

And who had Canace to wife

That owned the virtuous ring and glass;

And of the wondrous horse of brass

On which the Tartar king did ride;

And if aught else great bards beside

In sage and solemn tunes have sung,

Of tourneys and of trophies hung,

Of forests and enchantments drear,

Where more is meant than meets the ear.

Thus Night, oft see me in thy pale career,

Till civil-suited Morn appear.

Not tricked and frounced as she was wont

With the Attic Boy to hunt,

But kerchiefed in a comely cloud

While rocking winds are piping loud,

Or ushered with a shower still,

When the gust hath blown his fill,

Ending on the rustling leaves,

With minute drops from off the eaves.

And when the sun begins to fling

His flaring beams, me, Goddess, bring

To archèd walks of twilight groves,

And shadows brown, that Sylvan loves,

Of pine or monumental oak,

Where the rude axe, with heavèd stroke,

Was never heard the nymphs to daunt,

Or fright them from their hallowed haunt.

There in close covert by some brook

Where no profaner eye may look,

Hide me from Day's garish eye,

While the bee with honeyed thigh,

That at her flowery work doth sing,

And the waters murmuring,

With such concert as they keep,

Entice the dewy-feathered Sleep:

And let some strange mysterious dream

Wave at his wings in airy stream

Of lively portraiture displayed,

Softly on my eyelids laid:

And as I wake sweet music breathe

Above, about, or underneath,

Sent by some spirit to mortals good,

Or the unseen Genius of the wood.

But let my due feet never fail,

To walk the studious cloister's pale,

And love the high embowed roof,

With antique pillars massy proof,

And storied windows richly dight,

Casting a dim religious light.

There let the pealing organ blow,

To the full-voiced quire below,

In service high, and anthems clear,

As may with sweetness, through mine ear

Dissolve me into ecstasies,

And bring all Heaven before mine eyes.

And may at last my weary age

Find out the peaceful hermitage.

The hairy gown and mossy cell

Where I may sit and rightly spell

Of every star that heaven doth show,

And every herb that sips the dew;

Till old Experience do attain

To something like prophetic strain.

These pleasures, Melancholy, give,

And I with thee will choose to live.

MILTON.

[Notes: _Il Penscioso_ = the thoughtful man.

_Bestead_ = help, stand in good stead.

_Fond_ = foolish; its old meaning.

_Pensioners_. A word taken from the name of Elizabeth's body-guard.

Compare "the cowslips tall her pensioners be" ('Midsummer Night's

Dream').

_Prince Memnon_, of Ethiopia, fairest of warriors, slain by Achilles

(Homer's Odyssey, Book xi.). His sister was Hemora.

_Starred Ethiop Queen_ = Cassiope, wife of King Cepheus, who was placed

among the stars.

_Sea-nymphs_ = Nereids.

Vesta_, the Goddess of the hearth; here for _Retirement. Saturn_, as

having introduced, according to the mythology, civilization, here stands

for _culture_.

_Commercing_ = holding communion with. Notice the accentuation.

_Forget thyself to marble_ = forget thyself till thou are still and

silent as marble.

_Hist along_ = bring along with a hush. _Hist_ is connected with _hush_.

_Philomel_ = the nightingale.

_Cynthia_ = the moon.

_Dragon yoke_. Compare "Night's swift dragons," ('Midsummer Night's

Dream').

_Removed place_ = remote or retired place. Compare "some removed ground"

in 'Hamlet.'

_Nightly_ = by night. Sometimes it means "every night successively."

_Thrice-great Hermes_, a translation of Hermes Trismegistus, a fabulous

king of Egypt, held to be the inventor of Alchemy and Astronomy.

_Unsphere_, draw from his sphere or station.

_The immortal mind_. Plato treats of the immortality of the soul chiefly

in the _Phaedo_. The _demon_, with Socrates, is the attendant genius

of an individual; with Plato it is more general; and the assigning the

demons to the four elements is a notion of the later Platonists.

_Sceptered pall_ = royal robe.

_Presenting Thebes_, &c. These lines represent the subjects of tragedies

by Aeschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides, the great tragic poets of

Athens.

_Musaeus_, here for some bard of the distant past, generally. Musaeus,

in mythology, is a bard of Thrace, and son of Orpheus.

_Half-told the story of Cambuscan bold_. The Squire's Tale in Chaucer,

which is broken off in the middle.

_Camball_, Cambuscan's son. _Algarsife and Canacé_, his wife and

daughter.

_Frounced_. Used of hair twisted and curled.

_The Attic Boy_ = _Cephalus_, loved by _Eos_, the Morning.

_A shower still_ = a soft shower.

_Sylvan_ = Pan or Sylvanus.

_Cloister's pale_ = cloister's enclosure.

_Massy proof_. Massive and proof against the weight above them.]

* * * * *

AFRICAN HOSPITALITY.

As we approached the town, I was fortunate enough to overtake the

fugitive Kaartans to whose kindness I had been so much indebted in my

journey through Bambarra. They readily agreed to introduce me to the

King; and we rode together through some marshy ground where, as I was

anxiously looking around for the river, one of them called out, _geo

affili_ (see the water), and looking forwards, I saw with infinite

pleasure the great object of my mission--the long sought for majestic

Niger, glittering to the morning sun, as broad as the Thames at

Westminster, and flowing slowly _to the eastward_. I hastened to the

brink, and having drank of the water, lifted up my fervent thanks in

prayer to the Great Ruler of all things, for having thus far crowned my

endeavours with success.

The circumstance of the Niger's flowing towards the east, and its

collateral points, did not, however, excite my surprise; for although I

had left Europe in great hesitation on this subject, and rather believed

that it ran in the contrary direction, I had made such frequent

inquiries during my progress concerning this river, and received from

negroes of different nations such clear and decisive assurance that its

general course was _towards the rising sun_, as scarce left any doubt on

my mind; and more especially as I knew that Major Houghton had collected

similar information in the same manner.

I waited more than two hours without having an opportunity of crossing

the river; during which time, the people who had crossed carried

information to Mansong, the King, that a white man was waiting for a

passage, and was coming to see him. He immediately sent over one of his

chief men, who informed me that the King could not possibly see me

until he knew what had brought me into his country; and that I must not

presume to cross the river without the King's permission. He therefore

advised me to lodge at a distant village, to which he pointed, for

the night; and said that in the morning he would give me further

instructions how to conduct myself. This was very discouraging. However,

as there was no remedy, I set off for the village; where I found, to my

great mortification, that no person would admit me into his house. I

was regarded with astonishment and fear, and was obliged to sit all day

without victuals in the shade of a tree; and the night threatened to be

very uncomfortable, for the wind rose, and there was great appearance

of a heavy rain; and the wild beasts are so very numerous in the

neighbourhood that I should have been under the necessity of climbing up

the tree, and resting among the branches. About sunset, however, as I

was preparing to pass the night in this manner, and had turned my horse

loose that he might graze at liberty, a woman, returning from the

labours of the field, stopped to observe me, and perceiving that I

was weary and dejected, inquired into my situation, which I briefly

explained to her; whereupon, with looks of great compassion, she took up

my saddle and bridle and told me to follow her. Having conducted me into

her hut, she lighted up a lamp, spread a mat on the floor, and told me

I might remain there for the night. Finding that I was very hungry, she

said she would procure me something to eat. She accordingly went out,

and returned in a short time with a very fine fish; which having caused

to be half broiled upon some embers, she gave me for supper. The rites

of hospitality being thus performed towards a stranger in distress, my

worthy benefactress (pointing to the mat, and telling me I might sleep

there without apprehension), called to the female part of her family,

who had stood gazing on me all the while in fixed astonishment, to

resume their task of spinning cotton, in which they continued to employ

themselves great part of the night. They lightened their labour by

songs, one of which was composed extempore; for I was myself the subject

of it. It was sung by one of the young women, the rest joining in a sort

of chorus. The air was sweet and plaintive, and the words, literally

translated, were these:--"The winds roared and the rains fell. The

white man, faint and weary, came and sat our tree. He has no mother to

bring him milk, no wife to grind his corn." _Chorus_--"Let us pity the

white man; no mother has he," etc., etc. Trifling as this recital may

appear to the reader, to a person in my situation the circumstance was

affecting in the highest degree. I was oppressed by such unexpected

kindness, and sleep fled from my eyes. In the morning I presented my

compassionate landlady with two of the four brass buttons which remained

on my waistcoat; the only recompense I could make her.

MUNGO PARK.

* * * * *

ACROSS THE DESERT OF NUBIA.

After a prayer of peace, we committed ourselves to the Desert. Our party

consisted of Ismael the Turk, two Greek servants besides Georgis, who

was almost blind and useless, two Barbarins, who took care of the

camels, Idris, and a young man a relation of his; in all nine persons.

We were all well armed with blunderbusses, swords, pistols, and

double-barrelled guns, except Idris and his lad, who had lances, the

only arms they could use. Five or six naked wretches of the Turcorory

joined us at the watering place, much against my will, for I knew that

we should probably be reduced to the disagreeable alternative of either

seeing them perish of thirst before our eyes, or, by assisting them,

running a great risk of perishing along with them.

We left Gooz on the 9th of November, at noon, and halted at the little

village of Hassa, where we filled our water-skins--an operation which

occupied a whole day, as we had to take every means to secure them from

leaking or evaporation. While the camels were loading, I bathed myself

with infinite pleasure for a long half hour in the Nile, and thus took

leave of my old acquaintance, very doubtful if we should ever meet

again. We then turned to the north-east, leaving the Nile, and entering

into a bare desert of fixed gravel, without trees, and of a very

disagreeable whitish colour, mixed with small pieces of white marble,

like alabaster. Our camels, we found, were too heavily loaded; but

we comforted ourselves with the reflection, that this fault would

be remedied by the daily consumption of our provisions. We had been

travelling only two days when our misfortunes began, from a circumstance

we had not attended to. Our shoes, that had long needed repair, became

at last absolutely useless, and our feet were much inflamed by the

burning sand.

On the 13th, we saw, about a mile to the northwest of us, Hambily, a

rock not considerable in size, but, from the plain country in which it

is situated, having the appearance of a great tower or castle. South

of it were too smaller hills, forming, along with it, landmarks of the

utmost consequence to caravans, because they are too considerable in

size to be at any time covered by the moving sands. We alighted on the

following day among some acacia trees, after travelling about twenty

miles. We were here at once surprised and terrified by a sight, surely

one of the most magnificent in the world. In that vast expanse of

desert, we saw a number of prodigious pillars of sand at different

distances, at one time moving with great celerity, at another stalking

on with majestic slowness. At intervals we thought they were coming to

overwhelm us; and again they would retreat, so as to be almost out of

sight, their tops reaching to the very clouds. There the tops often

separated from the bodies; and these, once disjoined, dispersed in

the air, and did not appear more. Sometimes they were broken near the

middle, as if struck with a large cannon shot. About noon, they began to

advance with considerable swiftness upon us, the wind being very strong

at north. Eleven of them ranged alongside of us, about the distance of

three miles. The greatest diameter of the largest appeared to me at that

distance as if it would measure ten feet. They retired from us with a

wind at S.E., leaving an impression upon my mind to which I can give no

name, though surely one ingredient in it was fear, with a considerable

deal of wonder and astonishment. It was vain to think of flying; the

swiftest horse, or fastest sailing ship, could be of no use to carry us

out of this danger; and the full persuasion of this rivetted me to the

spot where I stood, and let the camels gain on me so much, that, in my

state of lameness, it was with some difficulty I could overtake them.

The effect this stupendous sight had upon Idris was to set him to his

prayers, or rather to his charms; for, except the names of God and

Mahomet, all the rest of his words were mere gibberish and nonsense.

Ismael the Turk violently abused him for not praying in the words of the

Koran, at the same time maintaining, with great apparent wisdom, that

nobody had charms to stop these moving sands but the inhabitants of

Arabia Deserta.

From this day subordination, though it did not entirely cease, rapidly

declined; all was discontent, murmuring, and fear. Our water was greatly

diminished, and that terrible death by thirst began to stare us in the

face, owing, in a great measure, to our own imprudence. Ismael, who had

been left sentinel over the skins of water, had slept so soundly, that

a Turcorory had opened one of the skins that had not been touched, in

order to serve himself out of it at his own discretion. I suppose

that, hearing somebody stir, and fearing detection, the Turcorory had

withdrawn himself as speedily as possible, without tying up the month of

the girba, which we found in the morning with scarce a quart of water in

it.

On the 16th, our men, if not gay, were in better spirits than I had seen

them since we left Gooz. The rugged top of Chiggre was before us, and we

knew that there we would solace ourselves with plenty of good water. As

we were advancing, Idris suddenly cried out, "Fall upon your faces, for

here is the simoom!" I saw from the southeast a haze come, in colour

like the purple part of the rainbow, but not so compressed or thick. It

did not occupy twenty yards in breadth, and was about twelve feet high

from the ground. It was a kind of blush upon the air, and moved very

rapidly, for I scarce could turn to fall upon the ground, with my head

to the northward, when I felt the heat of its current plainly upon my

face. We all lay flat on the ground, as if dead, till Idris told us it

was blown over. The meteor or purple haze which I saw was indeed past,

but the light air that still blew was of a heat to threaten suffocation.

For my part, I found distinctly in my breast that I had imbibed a part

of it, nor was I free from an asthmatic sensation till I had been some

months in Italy, at the baths of Poretta, nearly two years afterwards.

This phenomenon of the simoom, unexpected by us, though foreseen by

Idris, caused us all to relapse into our former despondency. It still

continued to blow, so as to exhaust us entirely, though the blast was

so weak as scarcely would have raised a leaf from the ground. Towards

evening it ceased; and a cooling breeze came from the north, blowing

five or six minutes at a time, and then falling calm. We reached Chiggre

that night, very much fatigued.

BRUCE'S TRAVELS.

[Note:_James Bruce_ (born 1730, died 1794), the African traveller; one

of the early explorers of the Nile.]

* * * * *

A SHIPWRECK ON THE ARABIAN COAST.

Another hour of struggle! It was past midnight, or thereabout, and the

storm, instead of abating, blew stronger and stronger. A passenger, one

of the three on the beam astern, felt too numb and wearied out to

retain his hold by the spar any longer; he left it, and swimming with a

desperate effort up to the boat, begged in God's name to be taken in.

Some were for granting his request, others for denying; at last two

sailors, moved with pity, laid hold of his arms where he clung to the

boat's side, and helped him in. We were now thirteen together, and the

boat rode lower down in the water and with more danger than ever: it was

literally a hand's breadth between life and death. Soon after another,

Ibraheem by name, and also a passenger, made a similar attempt to gain

admittance. To comply would have been sheer madness; but the poor wretch

clung to the gunwale, and struggled to clamber over, till the nearest

of the crew, after vainly entreating him to quit hold and return to the

beam, saying, "It is your only chance of life, you must keep to it,"

loosened his grasp by main force, and flung him back into the sea, where

he disappeared for ever. "Has Ibraheem reached you?" called out the

captain to the sailor now alone astride of the spar. "Ibraheem is

drowned," came the answer across the waves. "Is drowned," all repeated

in an undertone, adding, "and we too shall soon be drowned also." In

fact, such seemed the only probable end of all our endeavours. For the

storm redoubled in violence; the baling could no longer keep up with the

rate at which the waves entered; the boat became waterlogged; the water

poured in hissing on every side: she was sinking, and we were yet far

out in the open sea.

"Plunge for it!" a second time shouted the captain. "Plunge who may, I

will stay by the boat so long as the boat stays by me," thought I, and

kept my place. Yoosef, fortunately for him, was lying like a corpse,

past fear or motion; but four of our party, one a sailor and the other

three passengers, thinking that all hope of the boat was now over, and

that nothing remained them but the spar, jumped into the sea. Their loss

saved the remainder; the boat lightened and righted for a moment, the

pilot and I baled away desperately; she rose clear once more of the

water. Those in her were now nine in all--eight men and a boy, the

captain's nephew.

Meanwhile the sea was running mountains; and during the paroxysm of

struggle, while the boat pitched heavily, the cord attached from her

stern to the beam snapped asunder. One man was on the spar. Yet a minute

or so the moonlight showed us the heads of the five survivors as they

tried to regain the boat; had they done it we were all lost; then a huge

wave separated them from us. "May God have mercy on the poor drowning

men!" exclaimed the captain: their bodies were washed ashore three or

four days later. We now remained sole survivors--if, indeed, we were to

prove so.

Our men rowed hard, and the night wore on; at last the coast came in

full view. Before us was a high black rock, jutting out into the foaming

sea, whence it rose sheer like the wall of a fortress; at some distance

on the left a peculiar glimmer and a long white line of breakers assured

me of the existence of an even and sandy beach. The three sailors now at

the oars, and the passenger who had taken the place of the fourth, grown

reckless by long toil under the momentary expectation of death, and

longing to see an end anyhow to this protracted misery, were for pushing

the boat on the rocks, because the nearest land, and thus having it all

over as soon as possible. This would have been certain destruction.

The captain and pilot, well nigh stupefied by what they had undergone,

offered no opposition. I saw that a vigorous effort must be made; so I

laid hold of them both, shook them to arouse their attention, and bade

them take heed to what the rowers were about; adding that it was sheer

suicide, and that our only hope of life was to bear up for the sandy

creek, which I pointed out to them at a short distance.

Thus awakened from their lethargy, they started up, and joined with me

in expostulating with the sailors. But the men doggedly answered that

they could hold out no more; that wherever the land was nearest they

would make for it, come what might; and with this they pulled on

straight towards the cliff.

The captain hastily thrust the rudder into the pilot's hand, and

springing on one of the sailors, pushed him from the bench and seized

his oar, while I did the same to another on the opposite side; and we

now got the boat's head round towards the bay. The refractory sailors,

ashamed of their own faintheartedness, begged pardon, and promised to

act henceforth according to our orders. We gave them back their oars,

very glad to see a strife so dangerous, especially at such a moment,

soon at an end; and the men pulled for left, though full half an hour's

rowing yet remained between us and the breakers; and the course which

we had to hold was more hazardous than before, because it laid the boat

almost parallel with the sweep of the water: but half an hour! yet I

thought we should never come opposite the desired spot.

At last we neared it, and then a new danger appeared. The first row of

breakers, rolling like a cataract, was still far off shore, at least a

hundred yards; and between it and the beach appeared a white yeast of

raging waters, evidently ten or twelve feet deep, through which, weary

as we all were, and benumbed with the night-chill and the unceasing

splash of the spray over us, I felt it to be very doubtful whether we

should have strength to struggle. But there was no avoiding it; and when

we drew near the long white line which glittered like a watchfire in the

night, I called out to Yoosef and the lad, both of whom lay plunged

in deathlike stupor, to rise and get ready for the hard swim, now

inevitable. They stood up, the sailors laid aside their oars, and a

moment after the curling wave capsized the boat, and sent her down as

though she had been struck by a cannon-shot, while we remained to fight

for our lives in the sea.

Confident in my own swimming powers, but doubtful how far those of

Yoosef might reach, I at once turned to look for him; and seeing him

close by me in the water, I caught hold of him, telling him to hold fast

on, and I would help him to land. But, with much presence of mind, he

thrust back my grasp, exclaiming, "Save yourself! I am a good swimmer;

never fear for me." The captain and the young sailor laid hold of the

boy, the captain's nephew, one on either side, and struck out with him

for the shore. It was a desperate effort; every wave overwhelmed us in

its burst, and carried us back in its eddy, while I drank much more salt

water than was at all desirable. At last, after some minutes, long as

hours, I touched land, and scrambled up the sandy beach as though

the avenger of blood had been behind me. One by one the rest came

ashore--some stark naked, having cast off or lost their remaining

clothes in the whirling eddies; others yet retaining some part of their

dress. Every one looked around to see whether his companions arrived;

and when all nine stood together on the beach, all cast themselves

prostrate on the sands, to thank Heaven for a new lease of life granted

after much danger and so many comrades lost.

W.G. PALGRAVE.

* * * * *

AN ARABIAN TOWN.

Perhaps my readers will not think it loss of time to accompany us on a

morning visit to the camp and market, to the village gardens and wells;

such visits we often paid, not without interest and pleasure.

Warm though Raseem is, its mornings, at least at this time of year (the

latter part of September), were delightful. In a pure and mistless sky,

the sun rises over the measureless plain, while the early breeze is yet

cool and invigorating, a privilege enjoyed almost invariably in Arabia,

but wanting too often in Egypt in the west, and India in the east.

At this hour we would often thread the streets by which we had first

entered the town, and go betimes to the Persian camp, where all was

already alive and stirring. Here are arranged on the sand, baskets full

of eggs and dates, flanked by piles of bread and little round cakes of

white butter; bundles of fire-wood are heaped up close by, and pails

of goat's or camel's milk abound; and amid all these sit rows of

countrywomen, haggling with tall Persians, who in broken Arabic try to

beat down the prices, and generally end by paying only double what

they ought. The swaggering, broad-faced, Bagdad camel-drivers, and

ill-looking, sallow youths stand idle everywhere, insulting those whom

they dare, and cringing to their betters like slaves. Persian gentlemen,

too, with grand hooked noses, high caps, and quaintly-cut dresses of gay

patterns, saunter about, discussing their grievances, or quarrelling

with each other, to pass the time, for, unlike an Arab, a Persian shows

at once whatever ill-humour he may feel, and has no shame in giving it

utterance before whomever may be present; nor does he, with the Arab,

consider patience to be and essential point of politeness and dignity.

Not a few of the townsmen are here, chatting or bartering; and Bedouins,

switch in hand. If you ask any chance individual among these latter

what has brought him hither, you may be sure beforehand that the word

"camel," in one or other of its forms of detail, will find place in the

answer. Criers are going up and down the camp with articles of Persian

apparel, cooking pots, and ornaments of various descriptions in their

hands, or carrying them off for higher bidding to the town.

Having made our morning household purchases at the fair, and the sun

being now an hour or more above the horizon, we think it time to visit

the market-place of the town, which would hardly be open sooner. We

re-enter the city gate, and pass on our way by our house door, where we

leave our bundle of eatables, and regain the high street of Berezdah.

Before long we reach a high arch across the road; this gate divides the

market from the rest of the quarter. We enter. First of all we see a

long range of butchers' shops on either side, thickly hung with flesh of

sheep and camel, and very dirtily kept. Were not the air pure and the

climate healthy, the plague would assuredly be endemic here; but in

Arabia no special harm seems to follow. We hasten on, and next pass

a series of cloth and linen warehouses, stocked partly with

home-manufacture, but more imported; Bagdad cloaks and head-gear, for

instance; Syrian shawls and Egyptian slippers. Here markets follow the

law general throughout the East, that all shops or stores of the same

description should be clustered together; a system whose advantages on

the whole outweigh its inconveniences, at least for small towns like

these, in the large cities and capitals of Europe, greater extent of

locality requires evidently a different method of arrangement: it might

be awkward for the inhabitants of Hyde Park were no hatters to be

found nearer than the Tower. But what is Berezdah compared even with a

second-rate European city? However, in a crowd, it yields to none: the

streets at this time of the day are thronged to choking, and, to make

matters worse, a huge splay-footed camel every now and then, heaving

from side to side like a lubber-rowed boat, with a long beam on his

back, menacing the heads of those in the way, or with two enormous loads

of fire-wood, each as large as himself, sweeping the road before him of

men, women, and children, while the driver, high perched on the hump,

regards such trifles with supreme indifference, so long as he brushes

his path open. Sometimes there is a whole string of these beasts,

the head-rope of each tied to the crupper of his precursor--very

uncomfortable passengers when met with at a narrow turning.

Through such obstacles we have found or made our way, and are now amid

leather and shoemakers' shops, then among copper and iron-smiths, till

at last we emerge on the central town-square, not a bad one either, nor

very irregular, considering that it is in Raseem. About half one side

is taken up by the great mosque, an edifice nearly two centuries old,

judging by its style and appearance, but it bears on no part of it

either date or inscription. A crack running up one side of the tower

bears witness to an earthquake said to have occurred here about thirty

years since.

Another side of the square is formed by an open gallery. In its shade

groups of citizens are seated discussing news or business. The central

space is occupied by camels and by bales of various goods, among which

the coffee of Yemen, henna, and saffron, bear a large part.

From this square several diverging streets run out, each containing a

market-place for this or that ware, and all ending in portals dividing

them from the ordinary habitations. The vegetable and fruit market is

very extensive, and kept almost exclusively by women; so are also the

shops for grocery and spices.

Rock-salt of remarkable purity and whiteness, from Western Raseem, is

a common article of sale, and enormous flakes of it, often beautifully

crystallized, lay piled up at the shop doors. Sometimes a Persian stood

by, trying his skill at purchase or exchange; but these pilgrims were

in general shy of entering the town, where, truly, they were not in the

best repute. Well-dressed, grave-looking townsmen abound, their yellow

wand of lotus-wood in their hands, and their kerchiefs loosely thrown

over their heads.

The whole town has an aspect of old but declining prosperity. There are

few new houses, but many falling into ruin. The faces, too, of most we

meet are serious, and their voices in an undertone. Silk dresses are

prohibited by the dominant faction, and tobacco can only be smoked

within doors, and by stealth.

Enough of the town: the streets are narrow, hot, and dusty; the day,

too, advances; but the gardens are yet cool. So we dash at a venture

through a labyrinth of byways and crossways till we find ourselves in

the wide street that runs immediately along but inside the walls.

Here is a side gate, but half ruined, with great folding doors, and no

one to open them. The wall of one of the flanking towers has, however,

been broken in, and from thence we hope to find outlet on the gardens

outside. We clamber in, and after mounting a heap of rubbish, once the

foot of a winding staircase, have before us a window looking right on

the gardens. Fortunately we are not the first to try this short cut, and

the truant boys of the town have sufficiently enlarged the aperture and

piled up stones on the ground outside to render the passage tolerably

easy; we follow the indication, and in another minute stand in the open

air without the walls. The breeze is fresh, and will continue so till

noon. Before us are high palm-trees and dark shadows; the ground is

velvet-green with the autumn crop of maize and vetches, and intersected

by a labyrinth of watercourses, some dry, others flowing, for the wells

are at work.

These wells are much the same throughout Arabia; their only diversity is

in size and depth, but their hydraulic machinery is everywhere alike.

Over the well's month is fixed a crossbeam, supported high in air on

pillars of wood or stone on either side, and on this beam are from three

to six small wheels, over which pass the ropes of as many large leather

buckets, each containing nearly twice the ordinary English measure.

These are let down into the depth, and then drawn up again by camels

or asses, who pace slowly backwards or forwards on an inclined plane

leading from the edge of the well itself to a pit prolonged for some

distance. When the buckets rise to the verge, they tilt over and pour

out their contents by a broad channel into a reservoir hard by, from

which part the watercourses that irrigate the garden. The supply thus

obtained is necessarily discontinuous, and much inferior to what a

little more skill in mechanism affords in Egypt and Syria; while the

awkward shaping and not unfrequently the ragged condition of the buckets

themselves causes half the liquid to fall back into the well before it

reaches the brim. The creaking, singing noise of the wheels, the rush of

water as the buckets attain their turning-point, the unceasing splash of

their overflow dripping back into the source, all are a message of life

and moisture very welcome in this dry and stilly region, and may be

heard far off amid the sandhills, a first intimation to the sun-scorched

traveller of his approach to a cooler resting-place.

W.G. PALGRAVE.

* * * * *

COURTESY.

What virtue is so fitting for a knight,

Or for a lady whom a knight should love,

As courtesy; to bear themselves aright

To all of each degree as doth behove?

For whether they be placèd high above

Or low beneath, yet ought they well to know

Their good: that none them rightly may reprove

Of rudeness for not yielding what they owe:

Great skill it is such duties timely to bestow.

Thereto great help Dame Nature's self doth lend:

For some so goodly gracious are by kind,

That every action doth them much commend;

And in the eyes of men great liking find,

Which others that have greater skill in mind,

Though they enforce themselves, cannot attain;

For everything to which one is inclined

Doth best become and greatest grace doth gain;

Yet praise likewise deserve good thewes enforced with pain.

SPENSER.

[Notes: _Edmund Spenser_ (born 1552, died 1599), the poet who, in

Elizabeth's reign, revived the poetry of England, which since Chaucer's

day, two centuries before, had been flagging.

_Gracious are by kind, i.e.,_ by nature. _Kind_ properly means _nature_.

_Good thewes_ = good manners or virtues. As _thew_ passes into the

meaning "muscle," so _virtue_ (from _vis_, strength) originally means

_manlike valour_.]

* * * * *

THE QUEST OF THE HOLY GRAIL.

Then the King and all estates went home unto Camelot, and so went to

evensong to the great minster. And so after upon that to supper, and

every knight sat in his own place as they were toforehand. Then anon

they heard cracking and crying of thunder, that them thought the place

should all to-drive. In the midst of this blast entered a sunbeam

more clearer by seven times than ever they saw day, and all they were

alighted of the grace of the Holy Ghost. Then began every knight to

behold other, and either saw other by their seeming fairer than ever

they saw afore. Not for then there was no knight might speak one word

a great while, and so they looked every man on other, as they had been

dumb. Then there entered into the hall the Holy Grail, covered with

white samite, but there was none might see it, nor who bare it. And

there was all the hall full filled with good odours, and every knight

had such meats and drinks as he best loved in this world; and when

the Holy Grail had been borne through the hall, then the holy vessel

departed suddenly, that they wist not where it became. Then had they all

breath to speak. And then the King yielded thankings unto God of His

good grace that He had sent them. "Certes," said the King, "we ought to

thank our Lord Jesu greatly, for that he hath shewed us this day at the

reverence of this high feast of Pentecost." "Now," said Sir Gawaine, "we

have been served this day of what meats and drinks we thought on, but

one thing beguiled us: we might not see the Holy Grail, it was so

preciously covered; wherefore I will make here avow, that to-morn,

without longer abiding, I shall labour in the quest of the Sancgreal,

that I shall hold me out a twelvemonth and a day, or more if need be,

and never shall I return again unto the court till I have seen it more

openly than it hath been seen here; and if I may not speed, I shall

return again as he that may not be against the will of our Lord Jesu

Christ." When they of the Table Round heard Sir Gawaine say so, they

arose up the most party, and made such avows as Sir Gawaine had made.

Anon as King Arthur heard this he was greatly displeased, for he wist

well that they might not again say their avows. "Alas!" said King Arthur

unto Sir Gawaine, "ye have nigh slain me with the avow and promise

that ye have made. For through you ye have bereft me of the fairest

fellowship and the truest of knighthood that ever were seen together in

any realm of the world. For when they depart from hence, I am sure they

all shall never meet more in this world, for they shall die many in the

quest. And so it forethinketh me a little, for I have loved them as well

as my life, wherefore it shall grieve me right sore the departition

of this fellowship. For I have had an old custom to have them in my

fellowship." And therewith the tears filled in his eyes. And then he

said, "Gawaine, Gawaine, ye have set me in great sorrow. For I have

great doubt that my true fellowship shall never meet here again." "Ah,"

said Sir Launcelot, "comfort yourself, for it shall be unto us as a

great honour, and much more than if we died in any other places, for of

death we be sure." "Ah, Launcelot," said the King, "the great love

that I have had unto you all the days of my life maketh me to say such

doleful words; for never Christian king had never so many worthy men at

this table as I have had this day at the Round Table, and that is my

great sorrow." When the queen, ladies, and gentlewomen wist these

tidings, they had such sorrow and heaviness that there might no tongue

tell it, for those knights had holden them in honour and charity.

And when all were armed, save their shields and their helms, then they

came to their fellowship, which all were ready in the same wise for to

go to the minster to hear their service.

Then, after the service was done, the King would wit how many had taken

the quest of the Holy Grail, and to account them he prayed them all.

Then found they by tale an hundred and fifty, and all were knights of

the Round Table. And then they put on their helms and departed, and

recommended them all wholly unto the queen, and there was weeping and

great sorrow.

And so they mounted upon their horses and rode through the streets of

Camelot, and there was weeping of the rich and poor, and the King turned

away, and might not speak for weeping. So within a while they came to a

city and a castle that hight Vagon. There they entered into the castle,

and the lord of that castle was an old man that hight Vagon, and he was

a good man of his living, and set open the gates, and made them all the

good cheer that he might. And so on the morrow they were all accorded

that they should depart every each from other. And then they departed on

the morrow with weeping and mourning cheer, and every knight took the

way that him best liked.

SIR THOMAS MALORY.

[Notes: _The Quest of the Holy Grail_. This is taken from the 'Mort

d'Arthur,' written about the end of the fifteenth century by Sir Thomas

Malory, and one of the first books printed in England by Caxton. King

Arthur was at the head and centre of the company of Knights of the Table

Bound. The _Holy Grail_, or the _Sangreal,_ was the dish said to have

held the Paschal lamb at the Last Supper, and to have been possessed by

Joseph of Arimathea.

Notice throughout this piece the archaic phrases used.]

* * * * *

VISIT TO SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY'S COUNTRY SEAT.

Having often received an invitation from my friend Sir Roger de Coverley

to pass away a month with him in the country, I last week accompanied

him thither, and am settled with him for some time at his country-house,

where I intend to form several of my ensuing speculations. Sir Roger,

who is very well acquainted with my humour, lets me rise and go to bed

when I please, dine at his own table or in my own chamber, as I think

fit, sit still and say nothing without bidding me be merry.

I am the more at ease in Sir Roger's family, because it consists of

sober and staid persons; for, as the knight is the best master in the

world, he seldom changes his servants; and as he is beloved by all

about, his servants never care for leaving him; by this means his

domestics are all in years, and grown old with their master. You would

take his _valet de chambre_ for his brother; his butler is grey-headed,

his groom is one of the gravest men that I have ever seen, and his

coachman has the looks of a Privy Counsellor. You see the goodness of

the master even in the old house-dog, and in a grey pad that is kept in

the stable with great care and tenderness, out of regard for his past

services, though he has been useless for several years.

I could not but observe, with a great deal of pleasure, the joy that

appeared in the countenance of these ancient domestics upon my friend's

arrival at his country-seat. Some of them could not refrain from tears

at the sight of their old master; every one of them pressed forward to

do something for him, and seemed discouraged if they were not employed.

At the same time the good old knight, with a mixture of a father and the

master of the family, tempered the inquiries after his own affairs with

several kind questions about themselves. This humanity and good-nature

engages everybody to him, so that when he is pleasant upon any of them,

all his family are in good-humour, and none so much as the person he

diverts himself with. On the contrary, if he coughs, or betrays any

infirmity of old age, it is easy for a stander-by to observe a secret

concern in the looks of all his servants.

My chief companion, when Sir Roger is diverting himself in the woods or

the fields, is a very venerable man who is ever with Sir Roger, and has

lived at his house in the nature of a chaplain above thirty years. This

gentleman is a person of good sense and some learning; of a very regular

life and obliging conversation: he heartily loves Sir Roger, and knows

that he is very much in the old knight's esteem, so that he lives in the

family rather as a relation than a dependent.

I have observed in several of my papers, that my friend Sir Roger,

amidst all his good qualities, is something of a humorist; and that his

virtues, as well as imperfections, are, as it were, tinged by a certain

extravagance which makes them particularly _his_, and distinguishes them

from those of other men. This cast of mind, as it is generally very

innocent in itself, so it renders his conversation highly agreeable, and

more delightful than the same degree of sense and virtue would appear in

their common and ordinary colours. As I was walking with him last night,

he asked me how I liked the good man I have just now mentioned? And

without staying for an answer, told me, "That he was afraid of being

insulted with Latin and Greek at his own table; for which reason he

desired a particular friend of his at the University to find him out a

clergyman rather of plain sense than much learning; of a good aspect, a

clear voice, a sociable temper, and, if possible, a man that understood

a little of backgammon. My friend," says Sir Roger, "found me out this

gentleman, who, besides the endowments required of him, is, they tell

me, a good scholar, though he does not show it. I have given him the

parsonage of the parish; and, because I know his value, have settled

upon him a good annuity for life. If he outlives me, he shall find that

he was higher in my esteem than perhaps he thinks he is. He has now been

with me thirty years, and though he does not know I have taken notice of

it, has never in all that time asked anything of me for himself, though

he is every day soliciting me for something in behalf of one or other

of my tenants, his parishioners. There has not been a law-suit in the

parish since he has lived among them: if any dispute arises, they apply

themselves to him for the decision; if they do not acquiesce in his

judgment, which I think never happened above once or twice, at most,

they appeal to me. At his first settling with me, I made him a present

of all the good sermons that have been printed in English, and only

begged of him that every Sunday he would pronounce one of them in the

pulpit. Accordingly, he has digested them into such a series, that they

follow one another naturally, and make a continued series of practical

divinity."

ADDISON.

* * * * *

THE DEAD ASS.

"And this," said he, putting the remains of a crust into his wallet,

"and this should have been thy portion," said he, "hadst thou been alive

to have shared it with me." I thought by the accent it had been an

apostrophe to his child; but 'twas to his ass, and to the very ass we

had seen dead on the road. The man seemed to lament it much; and it

instantly brought into my mind Sancho's lamentation for his; but he did

it with more true touches of nature.

The mourner was sitting on a stone bench at the door, with the ass's

pannel and its bridle on one side, which he took up from time to

time--then laid them down--looked at them--and shook his head. He then

took his crust of bread out of his wallet again, as if to eat it;

held it some time in his hand--then laid it upon the bit of his ass's

bridle--looked wistfully at the little arrangement he had made--and then

gave a sigh.

The simplicity of his grief drew numbers about him, and La Fleur among

the rest, whilst the horses were getting ready; as I continued sitting

in the postchaise, I could see and hear over their heads.

He said he had come last from Spain, where he had been from the farthest

borders of Franconia; and he had got so far on his return home, when his

ass died. Every one seemed desirous to know what business could have

taken so old and poor a man so far a journey from his own home.

"It had pleased heaven," he said, "to bless him with three sons, the

finest lads in all Germany; but having in one week lost two of them by

the small-pox, and the youngest falling ill of the same distemper, he

was afraid of being bereft of them all; and made a vow, if Heaven would

not take him from him also, he would go in gratitude to St. Iago, in

Spain."

When the mourner got thus far on his story, he stopped to pay nature her

tribute, and wept bitterly.

He said Heaven had accepted the conditions, and that he had set out from

his cottage, with this poor creature, who had been a patient partner of

his journey--that it had eat the same bread with him all the way, and

was unto him as a friend.

Everybody who stood about heard the poor fellow with concern. La Fleur

offered him money; the mourner said he did not want it; it was not the

value of the ass, but the loss of him. "The ass," he said, "he was

assured, loved him;" and upon this, told them a long story of a

mischance upon their passage over the Pyrenean mountains, which had

separated them from each other three days; during which time the ass had

sought him as much as he had sought the ass, and they had neither scarce

eat or drank till they met.

"Thou hast one comfort, friend," said I, "at least in the loss of the

poor beast; I'm sure thou hast been a merciful master to him." "Alas!"

said the mourner, "I thought so when he was alive; but now he is dead I

think otherwise. I fear the weight of myself and my afflictions together

have been too much for him--they have shortened the poor creature's

days, and I fear I have them to answer for." "Shame on the world!" said

I to myself. "Did we love each other as this poor soul but loved his

ass, 'twould be something."

STERNE.