charge, and a second time was fain to retreat without coming to a close
struggle. A third time he approached in the same manner, when the
Christian knight, desirous to terminate this illusory warfare, in which
he might at length have been worn out by the activity of his foeman,
suddenly seized the mace which hung at his saddle-bow, and, with a
strong hand and unerring aim, hurled it against the head of the Emir,
for such and not less his enemy appeared. The Saracen was just aware of
the formidable missile in time to interpose his light buckler betwixt
the mace and his head; but the violence of the blow forced the buckler
down on his turban, and though that defence also contributed to deaden
its violence, the Saracen was beaten from his horse. Ere the Christian
could avail himself of this mishap, his nimble foeman sprang from the
ground, and, calling on his steed, which instantly returned to his side,
he leaped into his seat without touching the stirrup, and regained all
the advantage of which the Knight of the Leopard hoped to deprive him.
But the latter had in the meanwhile recovered his mace, and the Eastern
cavalier, who remembered the strength and dexterity with which his
antagonist had aimed it, seemed to keep cautiously out of the reach of
that weapon, of which he had so lately felt the force, while he showed
his purpose of waging a distant warfare with missile weapons of his
own. Planting his long spear in the sand at a distance from the scene of
combat, he strung, with great address, a short bow, which he carried at
his back, and, putting his horse to the gallop, once more described two
or three circles of a wider extent than formerly, in the course of which
he discharged six arrows at the Christian with such unerring skill that
the goodness of his harness alone saved him from being wounded in as
many places. The seventh shaft apparently found a less perfect part of
the armour, and the Christian dropped heavily from his horse. But what
was the surprise of the Saracen, when, dismounting to examine the
condition of his prostrate enemy, he found himself suddenly within the
grasp of the European, who had had recourse to this artifice to bring
his enemy within his reach! Even in this deadly grapple the Saracen was
saved by his agility and presence of mind. He unloosed the sword-belt,
in which the Knight of the Leopard had fixed his hold, and, thus eluding
his fatal grasp, mounted his horse, which seemed to watch his motions
with the intelligence of a human being, and again rode off. But in the
last encounter the Saracen had lost his sword and his quiver of arrows,
both of which were attached to the girdle, which he was obliged to
abandon. He had also lost his turban in the struggle. These
disadvantages seemed to incline the Moslem to a truce: he approached the
Christian with his right hand extended, but no longer in a menacing
attitude.
"There is truce betwixt our nations," he said, in the _lingua franca_
commonly used for the purpose of communication with the Crusaders;
"Wherefore should there be war betwixt thee and me? Let there be peace
betwixt us."
"I am well contented," answered he of the Couchant Leopard; "but what
security dost thou offer that thou wilt observe the truce?"
"The word of a follower of the Prophet was never broken," answered the
Emir. "It is thou, brave Nazarene, from whom I should demand security,
did I not know that treason seldom dwells with courage."
The Crusader felt that the confidence of the Moslem made him ashamed of
his own doubts.
"By the cross of my sword," he said, laying his hand on the weapon as he
spoke, "I will be true companion to thee, Saracen, while our fortune
wills that we remain in company together."
"By Mohammed, Prophet of God, and by Allah, God of the Prophet," replied
his late foeman, "there is not treachery in my heart towards thee. And
now wend we to yonder fountain, for the hour of rest is at hand, and the
stream had hardly touched my lip when I was called to battle by thy
approach."
The Knight of the Couchant Leopard yielded a ready and courteous assent;
and the late foes, without an angry look or gesture of doubt, rode side
by side to the little cluster of palm trees.
Scott: "The Talisman."
The quality of mercy is not strained;
It droppeth, as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath: it is twice blessed;
It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes:
'Tis mightiest in the mightiest: it becomes
The thronèd 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 sceptred sway;
It is enthronèd in the hearts of kings,
It is an attribute to God himself;
And earthly power doth then shew likest God's
When mercy seasons justice.
Shakespeare
_From_ "AN AUGUST REVERIE"
The ragged daisy starring all the fields,
The buttercup abrim with pallid gold,
The thistle and burr-flowers hedged with prickly shields,
All common weeds the draggled pastures hold,
With shrivelled pods and leaves, are kin to me,
Like-heirs of earth and her maturity.
They speak a silent speech that is their own,
These wise and gentle teachers of the grass;
And when their brief and common days are flown,
A certain beauty from the year doth pass:--
A beauty of whose light no eye can tell,
Save that it went; and my heart knew it well.
I may not know each plant as some men know them,
As children gather beasts and birds to tame;
But I went 'mid them as the winds that blow them,
From childhood's hour, and loved without a name.
There is more beauty in a field of weeds
Than in all blooms the hothouse garden breeds.
For they are nature's children; in their faces
I see that sweet obedience to the sky
That marks these dwellers of the wilding places,
Who with the season's being live and die;
Knowing no love but of the wind and sun,
Who still are nature's when their life is done.
They are a part of all the haze-filled hours,
The happy, happy world all drenched with light,
The far-off, chiming click-clack of the mowers,
And yon blue hills whose mists elude my sight;
And they to me will ever bring in dreams
Far mist-clad heights and brimming rain-fed streams.
W. Wilfred Campbell
WORK AND WAGES
There will always be a number of men who would fain set themselves to
the accumulation of wealth as the sole object of their lives.
Necessarily, that class of men is an uneducated class, inferior in
intellect, and, more or less, cowardly. It is physically impossible for
a well-educated, intellectual, or brave man to make money the chief
object of his thoughts; just as it is for him to make his dinner the
principal object of them. All healthy people like their dinners, but
their dinner is not the main object of their lives. So all
healthily-minded people like making money--ought to like it, and to
enjoy the sensation of winning it: but the main object of their life is
not money; it is something better than money. A good soldier, for
instance, mainly wishes to do his fighting well. He is glad of his
pay--very properly so, and justly grumbles when you keep him ten years
without it--still, his main notion of life is to win battles, not to be
paid for winning them. So of clergymen. They like pew-rents, and
baptismal fees, of course; but yet, if they are brave and well-educated,
the pew-rent is not the sole object of their lives, and the baptismal
fee is not the sole purpose of the baptism; the clergyman's object is
essentially to baptize and preach, not to be paid for preaching. So of
doctors. They like fees no doubt,--ought to like them; yet if they are
brave and well-educated, the entire object of their lives is not fees.
They, on the whole, desire to cure the sick; and,--if they are good
doctors, and the choice were fairly put to them--would rather cure their
patient, and lose their fee, than kill him, and get it. And so with all
other brave and rightly-trained men; their work is first, their fee
second--very important always, but still _second_. But in every nation,
as I said, there are a vast class who are ill-educated, cowardly, and
more or less stupid. And with these people, just as certainly the fee is
first, and the work second, as with brave people the work is first, and
the fee second. And this is no small distinction. It is the whole
distinction in a man; distinction between life and death _in_ him,
between heaven and hell _for_ him. You cannot serve two masters:--you
_must_ serve one or other. If your work is first with you, and your fee
second, work is your master, and the lord of work, who is God. But, if
your fee is first with you, and your work second, fee is your master,
and the lord of fee, who is the Devil; and not only the Devil but the
lowest of devils--the 'least erected fiend that fell.' So there you have
it in brief terms; Work first--you are God's servants; Fee first--you
are the Fiend's. And it makes a difference, now and ever, believe me,
whether you serve Him who has on His vesture and thigh written, 'King of
Kings,' and whose service is perfect freedom; or him on whose vesture
and thigh the name is written, 'Slave of Slaves,' and whose service is
perfect slavery.
Ruskin
UNTRODDEN WAYS
Where close the curving mountains drew
To clasp the stream in their embrace,
With every outline, curve, and hue,
Reflected in its placid face,
The ploughman stopped his team, to watch
The train, as swift it thundered by;
Some distant glimpse of life to catch,
He strains his eager, wistful eye.
His glossy horses mildly stand
With wonder in their patient eyes,
As through the tranquil mountain land
The snorting monster onward flies.
The morning freshness is on him,
Just wakened from his balmy dreams;
The wayfarers, all soiled and dim,
Think longingly of mountain streams:--
O for the joyous mountain air!
The long, delightful autumn day
Among the hills!--the ploughman there
Must have perpetual holiday!
And he, as all day long he guides
His steady plough with patient hand,
Thinks of the flying train that glides
Into some fair, enchanted land;
Where day by day no plodding round
Wearies the frame and dulls the mind;
Where life thrills keen to sight and sound,
With plough and furrows left behind!
Even so to each the untrod ways
Of life are touched by fancy's glow,
That ever sheds its brightest rays
Upon _the page we do not know_!
Agnes Maule Machar
THE FIRST PLOUGHING
Calls the crow from the pine-tree top
When the April air is still.
He calls to the farmer hitching his team
In the farmyard under the hill.
"Come up," he cries, "come out and come up,
For the high field's ripe to till.
Don't wait for word from the dandelion
Or leave from the daffodil."
Cheeps the flycatcher--"Here old earth
Warms up in the April sun;
And the first ephemera, wings yet wet,
From the mould creep one by one.
Under the fence where the flies frequent
Is the earliest gossamer spun.
Come up from the damp of the valley lands,
For here the winter's done."
Whistles the high-hole out of the grove
His summoning loud and clear:
"Chilly it may be down your way
But the high south field has cheer.
On the sunward side of the chestnut stump
The woodgrubs wake and appear.
Come out to your ploughing, come up to your ploughing,
The time for ploughing is here."
Then dips the coulter and drives the share,
And the furrows faintly steam.
The crow drifts furtively down from the pine
To follow the clanking team.
The flycatcher tumbles, the high-hole darts
In the young noon's yellow gleam;
And wholesome sweet the smell of the sod
Upturned from its winter's dream.
Charles G. D. Roberts
THE ARCHERY CONTEST
"The day," said Waldemar, "is not yet very far spent--let the archers
shoot a few rounds at the target, and the prize be adjudged."
One by one the archers, stepping forward, delivered their shafts
yeomanlike and bravely. Of the ten shafts which hit the target, two
within the inner ring were shot by Hubert, a forester in the service of
Malvoisin, who was accordingly pronounced victorious.
"Now, Locksley," said Prince John with a bitter smile, "wilt thou try
conclusions with Hubert?"
"Sith it be no better," said Locksley, "I am content to try my fortune;
on condition that when I have shot two shafts at yonder mark of
Hubert's, he shall be bound to shoot one at that which I shall propose."
"That is but fair," answered Prince John, "and it shall not be refused
thee. If thou dost beat this braggart, Hubert, I will fill the bugle
with silver pennies for thee."
"A man can but do his best," answered Hubert; "but my grandsire drew a
good long bow at Hastings, and I trust not to dishonour his memory."
The former target was now removed, and a fresh one of the same size
placed in its room. Hubert took his aim with great deliberation, long
measuring the distance with his eye, while he held in his hand his
bended bow, with the arrow placed on the string. At length he made a
step forward, and raising the bow at the full stretch of his left arm,
till the centre or grasping-place was nigh level with his face, he drew
his bow-string to his ear. The arrow whistled through the air, and
lighted within the inner ring of the target, but not exactly in the
centre.
"You have not allowed for the wind, Hubert," said his antagonist,
bending his bow, "or that had been a better shot."
So saying, and without showing the least anxiety to pause upon his aim,
Locksley stepped to the appointed station, and shot his arrow as
carelessly in appearance as if he had not even looked at the mark. He
was speaking almost at the same instant that the shaft left the
bow-string, yet it alighted in the target two inches nearer to the white
spot which marked the centre than that of Hubert.
"By the light of heaven!" said Prince John to Hubert, "an thou suffer
that runagate knave to overcome thee, thou art worthy of the gallows!"
"An your highness were to hang me," said Hubert, "a man can but do his
best. Nevertheless, my grandsire drew a good bow----"
"The foul fiend on thy grandsire and all his generation!" interrupted
John; "shoot, knave, and shoot thy best, or it shall be the worse for
thee!"
Thus exhorted, Hubert resumed his place, and making the necessary
allowance for a very light air of wind, which had just arisen, shot so
successfully that his arrow alighted in the very centre of the target.
"Thou canst not mend that shot, Locksley," said the Prince with an
insulting smile.
"I will notch his shaft for him, however," replied Locksley.
And letting fly his arrow with a little more precaution than before, it
lighted right upon that of his competitor, which it split to shivers.
"And now," said Locksley, "I will crave your Grace's permission to plant
such a mark as is used in the North Country, and welcome every brave
yeoman who shall try a shot at it."
He then turned to leave the lists. "Let your guards attend me," he said,
"if you please--I go but to cut a rod from the next willow-bush."
Locksley returned almost instantly with a willow wand about six feet in
length, perfectly straight, and rather thicker than a man's thumb. He
began to peel this, observing that to ask a good woodman to shoot at a
target so broad as had hitherto been used, was to put shame upon his
skill. "For my own part," he said, "and in the land where I was bred,
men would as soon take for their mark King Arthur's round table, which
held sixty knights around it. A child of seven years old," he said,
"might hit yonder target with a headless shaft; but," added he, walking
deliberately to the other end of the lists, and sticking the willow wand
upright in the ground, "he that hits that rod at five-score yards, I
call him an archer fit to bear bow and quiver before a king."
"My grandsire," said Hubert, "drew a good bow at the battle of Hastings,
and never shot at such a mark in his life--and neither will I. If this
yeoman can cleave that rod, I give him the bucklers--or rather, I yield
to the devil that is in his jerkin, and not to any human skill; a man
can but do his best, and I will not shoot where I am sure to miss. I
might as well shoot at a sunbeam, as at a twinkling white streak which I
can hardly see."
"Cowardly dog!" said Prince John--"Sirrah Locksley, do thou shoot; but,
if thou hittest such a mark, I will say thou art the first man ever did
so. Howe'er it be, thou shalt not crow over us with a mere show of
superior skill."
"I will do my best, as Hubert says," answered Locksley; "no man can do
more."
So saying, he again bent his bow, but on the present occasion looked
with attention to his weapon, and changed the string, which he thought
was no longer truly round, having been a little frayed by the two former
shots. He then took his aim with some deliberation, and the multitude
awaited the event in breathless silence. The archer vindicated their
opinion of his skill: his arrow split the willow rod against which it
was aimed. A jubilee of acclamations followed; and even Prince John, in
admiration of Locksley's skill, lost for an instant his dislike to his
person. "These twenty nobles," he said, "which, with the bugle, thou
hast fairly won, are thine own; we will make them fifty, if thou wilt
take livery and service with us as a yeoman of our body-guard, and be
near to our person. For never did so strong a hand bend a bow, or so
true an eye direct a shaft."
"Pardon me, noble Prince," said Locksley; "but I have vowed, that, if
ever I take service, it should be with your royal brother, King Richard.
These twenty nobles I leave to Hubert, who has this day drawn as brave a
bow as his grandsire did at Hastings. Had his modesty not refused the
trial, he would have hit the wand as well as I."
Hubert shook his head as he received with reluctance the bounty of the
stranger; and Locksley, anxious to escape further observation, mixed
with the crowd, and was seen no more.
Scott: "Ivanhoe."
IN NOVEMBER
The hills and leafless forests slowly yield
To the thick-driving snow. A little while
And night shall darken down. In shouting file
The woodmen's carts go by me homeward-wheeled,
Past the thin fading stubbles, half-concealed,
Now golden-gray, sowed softly through with snow,
Where the last ploughman follows still his row,
Turning black furrows through the whitening field.
Archibald Lampman
AUTUMN WOODS
Ere, in the northern gale,
The summer tresses of the trees are gone,
The woods of Autumn, all around our vale,
Have put their glory on.
The mountains that infold,
In their wide sweep, the coloured landscape round,
Seem groups of giant kings, in purple and gold,
That guard the enchanted ground.
I roam the woods that crown
The upland, where the mingled splendours glow,
Where the gay company of trees look down
On the green fields below.
My steps are not alone
In these bright walks; the sweet south-west, at play
Flies, rustling, where the painted leaves are strown
Along the winding way.
And far in heaven, the while,
The sun, that sends that gale to wander here,
Pours out on the fair earth his quiet smile,--
The sweetest of the year.
Where now the solemn shade,
Verdure and gloom where many branches meet:
So grateful, when the noon of summer made
The valleys sick with heat?
Let in through all the trees
Come the strange rays; the forest depths are bright,
Their sunny-coloured foliage, in the breeze,
Twinkles, like beams of light.
The rivulet, late unseen,
Where bickering through the shrubs its waters run,
Shines with the image of its golden screen
And glimmerings of the sun.
Oh, Autumn! why so soon
Depart the hues that make thy forests glad,
Thy gentle wind and thy fair sunny noon,
And leave thee wild and sad!
Ah! 'twere a lot too blest
Forever in thy coloured shades to stray;
Amid the kisses of the soft south-west
To rove and dream for aye;
And leave the vain low strife
That makes men mad--the tug for wealth and power,
The passions and the cares that wither life,
And waste its little hour.
Bryant
IN A CANOE
Among all the modes of progression hitherto invented by restless man,
there is not one that can compare in respect of comfort and luxury with
travelling in a birch-bark canoe. It is the poetry of progression. Along
the bottom of the boat are laid blankets and bedding; a sort of
wicker-work screen is sloped against the middle thwart, affording a
delicious support to the back; and indolently, in your shirt sleeves if
the day be warm, or well covered with a blanket if it is chilly, you sit
or lie on this most luxurious of couches, and are propelled at a rapid
rate over the smooth surface of a lake or down the swift current of some
stream. If you want exercise, you can take a paddle yourself. If you
prefer to be inactive, you can lie still and placidly survey the
scenery, rising occasionally to have a shot at a wild duck; at
intervals reading, smoking, and sleeping. Sleep, indeed, you will enjoy
most luxuriously, for the rapid bounding motion of the canoe as it leaps
forward at every impulse of the crew, the sharp quick beat of the
paddles on the water, and the roll of their shafts against the gunwale,
with the continuous hiss and ripple of the stream cleft by the curving
prow, combine to make a most soothing soporific.
Dreamily you lie side by side--you and your friend--lazily gazing at the
pine-covered shores and wooded islands of some unknown lake, the open
book unheeded on your knee; the half-smoked pipe drops into your lap;
your head sinks gently back; and you wander into dreamland, to awake
presently and find yourself sweeping round the curve of some majestic
river, whose shores are blazing with the rich crimson, brown, and gold
of the maple and other hardwood trees in their autumn dress.
Presently the current quickens. The best man shifts his place from the
stern to the bow, and stands ready with his long-handled paddle to twist
the frail boat out of reach of hidden rocks. The men's faces glow with
excitement. Quicker and quicker flows the stream, breaking into little
rapids, foaming round rocks, and rising in tumbling waves over the
shallows. At a word from the bowman the crew redouble their efforts, the
paddle shafts crash against the gunwale, the spray flies beneath the
bending blades. The canoe shakes and quivers through all its fibres,
leaping bodily at every stroke.
Before you is a seething mass of foam, its whiteness broken by horrid
black rocks, one touch against whose jagged sides would rip the canoe
into tatters and hurl you into eternity. Your ears are full of the roar
of waters; waves leap up in all directions, as the river, maddened at
obstruction, hurls itself through some narrow gorge. The bowman stands
erect to take one look in silence, noting in that critical instant the
line of deepest water; then bending to his work, with sharp, short words
of command to the steersman, he directs the boat. The canoe seems to
pitch headlong into space. Whack! comes a great wave over the bow;
crash! comes another over the side. The bowman, his figure stooped, and
his knees planted firmly against the sides, stands, with paddle poised
in both hands, screaming to the crew to paddle hard; and the crew cheer
and shout with excitement in return. You, too, get wild, and feel
inclined to yell defiance to the roaring, hissing flood that madly
dashes you from side to side. After the first plunge you are in a
bewildering whirl of waters. The shore seems to fly past you. Crash! You
are right on that rock, and (I don't care who you are) you will feel
your heart jump into your mouth, and you will catch the side with a grip
that leaves a mark on your fingers afterwards. No! With a shriek of
command to the steersman, and a plunge of his paddle, the bowman
wrenches the canoe out of its course. Another stroke or two, another
plunge forward, and with a loud exulting yell from the bowman, who
flourishes his paddle round his head, you pitch headlong down the final
leap, and with a grunt of relief from the straining crew glide rapidly
into still water.
Lord Dunraven: "The Great Divide."
[Illustration: PARLIAMENT BUILDINGS. TORONTO]
"With whom is no variableness, neither shadow of turning."
It fortifies my soul to know
That, though I perish, Truth is so:
That, howsoe'er I stray and range,
Whate'er I do, Thou dost not change,
I steadier step when I recall
That, if I slip Thou dost not fall.
Clough
AFTON WATER
Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes,
Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise:
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream,
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.
Thou stock-dove whose echo resounds thro' the glen,
Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den,
Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear,
I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair.
How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring hills,
Far mark'd with the courses of clear, winding rills,
There daily I wander as noon rises high,
My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye.
How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below,
Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow:
There, oft as mild ev'ning weeps over the lea,
The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me.
Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides,
And winds by the cot where my Mary resides;
How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave,
As gathering sweet flow'rets she stems thy clear wave.