That on the field his targe he threw,
Whose brazen studs and tough bull-hide
Had death so often dashed aside;
For, trained abroad his arms to wield,
Fitz-James's blade was sword and shield.
He practised every pass and ward,
To thrust, to strike, to feint, to guard;
While less expert, though stronger far,
The Gael maintained unequal war.
Three times in closing strife they stood,
And thrice the Saxon blade drank blood;
No stinted draught, no scanty tide,
The gushing flood the tartans dyed.
Fierce Roderick felt the fatal drain,
And showered his blows like wintry rain;
And, as firm rock, or castle-roof,
Against the winter shower is proof,
The foe, invulnerable still,
Foiled his wild rage by steady skill;
Till, at advantage ta'en, his brand
Forced Roderick's weapon from his hand,
And backward borne upon the lea,
Brought the proud Chieftain to his knee.
"Now, yield thee, or by Him who made
The world, thy heart's blood dyes my blade!"--
"Thy threats, thy mercy, I defy!
Let recreant yield, who fears to die."
--Like adder darting from his coil,
Like wolf that dashes through the toil,
Like mountain-cat who guards her young,
Full at Fitz-James's throat he sprung;
Received, but recked not of a wound,
And locked his arms his foeman round.--
Now, gallant Saxon, hold thine own!
No maiden's hand is round thee thrown!
That desperate grasp thy frame might feel,
Through bars of brass and triple steel!--
They tug, they strain! down, down they go,
The Gael above, Fitz-James below.
The Chieftain's gripe his throat compressed,
His knee was planted on his breast;
His clotted locks he backward threw,
Across his brow his hand he drew,
From blood and mist to clear his sight,
Then gleamed aloft his dagger bright!--
--But hate and fury ill supplied
The stream of life's exhausted tide,
And all too late the advantage came,
To turn the odds of deadly game;
For, while the dagger gleamed on high,
Reeled soul and sense, reeled brain and eye,
Down came the blow! but in the heath
The erring blade found bloodless sheath.
The struggling foe may now unclasp
The fainting Chief's relaxing grasp;
Unwounded from the dreadful close,
But breathless all, Fitz-James arose.
Scott: "The Lady of the Lake."
THE INDIGNATION OF NICHOLAS NICKLEBY
("Nicholas Nickleby" deals with the gross mismanagement of schools in
Yorkshire, England. Squeers, a vulgar, crafty despot, is head of
Dotheboys Hall. Nicholas is an usher or undermaster in the school;
Smike, a little, friendless, starved pupil who has run away to escape
from drudgery and harshness.)
"He is off," said Mrs. Squeers. "The cow-house and stable are locked up,
so he can't be there; and he's not down-stairs anywhere, for the girl
has looked. He must have gone York way, and by a public road, too."
"Why must he?" inquired Squeers.
"Stupid!" said Mrs. Squeers, angrily. "He hadn't any money, had he?"
"Never had a penny of his own in his whole life, that I know of,"
replied Squeers.
"To be sure," rejoined Mrs. Squeers, "and he didn't take anything to eat
with him; that I'll answer for. Ha! ha! ha!"
"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed Squeers.
"Then, of course," said Mrs. S., "he must beg his way, and he could do
that nowhere but on the public road."
"That's true," exclaimed Squeers, clapping his hands.
"True! yes; but you would never have thought of it for all that, if I
hadn't said so," replied his wife. "Now, if you take the chaise and go
one road, and I borrow Swallow's chaise and go the other, what with
keeping our eyes open, and asking questions, one or other of us is
pretty sure to lay hold of him."
The worthy lady's plan was adopted and put in execution without a
moment's delay. After a hasty breakfast, and the prosecution of some
inquiries in the village, the result of which seemed to show that he was
on the right track, Squeers started forth in the pony-chaise, intent
upon discovery and vengeance. Shortly afterwards, Mrs. Squeers, arrayed
in the white topcoat and tied up in various shawls and handkerchiefs,
issued forth in another chaise in another direction, taking with her a
good-sized bludgeon, several odd pieces of strong cord, and a stout
labouring man; all provided and carried upon the expedition with the
sole object of assisting in the capture, and (once caught) insuring the
safe custody of the unfortunate Smike.
Nicholas remained behind, in a tumult of feeling, sensible that whatever
might be the upshot of the boy's flight, nothing but painful and
deplorable consequences were likely to ensue from it. Death, from want
and exposure to the weather, was the best that could be expected from
the protracted wanderings of so poor and helpless a creature, alone and
unfriended, through a country of which he was wholly ignorant. There was
little, perhaps, to choose between this fate and a return to the tender
mercies of the Yorkshire school: but the unhappy being had established a
hold upon his sympathy and compassion, which made his heart ache at the
prospect of the suffering he was destined to undergo. He lingered on in
restless anxiety, picturing a thousand possibilities, until the evening
of the next day when Squeers returned alone and unsuccessful.
"No news of the scamp!" said the schoolmaster, who had evidently been
stretching his legs, on the old principle, not a few times during the
journey. "I'll have consolation for this out of somebody, Nickleby, if
Mrs. Squeers don't hunt him down. So I give you fair warning."
"It is not in my power to console you, sir," said Nicholas. "It is
nothing to me."
"Isn't it?" said Squeers, in a threatening manner. "We shall see!"
"We shall," rejoined Nicholas.
"Here's the pony run right off his legs, and me obliged to come home
with a hack cob, that'll cost fifteen shillings besides other expenses,"
said Squeers; "who's to pay for that, do you hear?"
Nicholas shrugged his shoulders and remained silent.
"I'll have it out of somebody, I tell you," said Squeers, his usual
harsh, crafty manner changed to open bullying. "None of your whining
vapourings here, Mr. Puppy: but be off to your kennel, for it's past
your bed-time! Come, get out!"
Nicholas bit his lip and knit his hands involuntarily, for his finger
ends tingled to avenge the insult; but remembering that the man was
drunk, and that it could come to little but a noisy brawl, he contented
himself with darting a contemptuous look at the tyrant and walked, as
majestically as he could, upstairs, and sternly resolved that the
outstanding account between himself and Mr. Squeers should be settled
rather more speedily than the latter anticipated.
Another day came, and Nicholas was scarcely awake when he heard the
wheels of a chaise approaching the house. It stopped. The voice of Mrs.
Squeers was heard, and in exultation, ordering a glass of spirits for
somebody, which was in itself a sufficient sign that something
extraordinary had happened. Nicholas hardly dared to look out of the
window; but he did so, and the very first object that met his eyes was
the wretched Smike; so bedabbled with mud and rain, so haggard and worn,
and wild, that, but for his garments being such as no scarecrow was ever
seen to wear, he might have been doubtful, even then, of his identity.
"Lift him out," said Squeers, after he had literally feasted his eyes in
silence upon the culprit. "Bring him in; bring him in!"
"Take care," cried Mrs. Squeers, as her husband proffered his
assistance. "We tied his legs under the apron and made 'em fast to the
chaise, to prevent him giving us the slip again."
With hands trembling with delight, Squeers unloosed the cord; and Smike,
to all appearances more dead than alive, was brought into the house and
securely locked up in a cellar, until such time as Mr. Squeers should
deem it expedient to operate upon him, in the presence of the assembled
school.
The news that Smike had been caught and brought back in triumph ran like
wild fire through the hungry community, and expectation was on tiptoe
all morning. On tiptoe it was destined to remain, however, until
afternoon; when Squeers, having refreshed himself with his dinner and
further strengthened himself by an extra libation or so, made his
appearance (accompanied by his amiable partner) with a countenance of
portentous import, and a fearful instrument of flagellation, strong,
supple, wax-ended, and new--in short, purchased that morning expressly
for the occasion.
"Is every boy here?" asked Squeers, in a tremendous voice.
Every boy was there, but every boy was afraid to speak; so Squeers
glared along the lines to assure himself; and every eye dropped, and
every head cowered down, as he did so.
"Each boy keep his place," said Squeers, administering his favourite
blow to the desk and regarding with gloomy satisfaction the universal
start it never failed to occasion.
"Nickleby! to your desk, sir."
It was remarked by more than one small observer that there was a very
curious and unusual expression in the usher's face; but he took his seat
without opening his lips in reply. Squeers, casting a triumphant glance
at his assistant and a look of most comprehensive despotism on the boys,
left the room, and shortly afterward returned, dragging Smike by the
collar--or rather by that fragment of his jacket which was nearest to
the place where his collar would have been, had he boasted such a
decoration.
In any other place, the appearance of the wretched, jaded, spiritless
object would have occasioned a murmur of compassion and remonstrance. It
had some effect even there; for the lookers-on moved uneasily in their
seats; and a few of the boldest ventured to steal looks at each other,
expressive of indignation and pity.
They were lost on Squeers, however, whose gaze was fastened on the
luckless Smike, as he inquired, according to custom in such cases,
whether he had anything to say for himself.
"Nothing, I suppose?" said Squeers, with a diabolical grin.
Smike glanced round, and his eyes rested for an instant on Nicholas, as
if he had expected him to intercede; but his look was riveted on his
desk.
"Have you anything to say?" demanded Squeers again, giving his right arm
two or three flourishes to try its power and suppleness.
"Stand a little out of the way, Mrs. Squeers, my dear; I've hardly got
enough room."
"Spare me, sir!" cried Smike.
"Oh! that's all, is it?" said Squeers. "Yes, I'll flog you within an
inch of your life, and spare you that."
"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed Mrs. Squeers, "that's a good un!"
"I was driven to it," said Smike, faintly; and casting another imploring
look about him.
"Driven to it, were you?" said Squeers. "Oh! it wasn't your fault; it
was mine, I suppose--eh?"
"A nasty, ungrateful, pig-headed, brutish, obstinate, sneaking dog,"
exclaimed Mrs. Squeers, taking Smike's head under her arm and
administering a cuff at every epithet; "what does he mean by that?"
"Stand aside, my dear," replied Squeers. "We'll try and find out."
Mrs. Squeers being out of breath with her exertions, complied. Squeers
caught the boy firmly in his grip; one desperate cut had fallen on his
body--he was wincing from the lash and uttering a scream of pain--it was
raised again, and again about to fall--when Nicholas Nickleby, suddenly
starting up, cried "Stop!" in a voice that made the rafters ring.
"Who cried stop?" asked Squeers, turning savagely round.
"I," said Nicholas, stepping forward. "This must not go on."
"Must not go on!" cried Squeers, almost in a shriek.
"No!" thundered Nicholas.
Aghast and stupefied at the boldness of the interference, Squeers
released his hold of Smike, and, falling back a pace, gazed upon
Nicholas with looks that were positively frightful.
"I say must not," repeated Nicholas, nothing daunted; "shall not, I will
prevent it."
Squeers continued to gaze upon him with his eyes starting out of his
head; but astonishment had actually for the moment bereft him of
speech.
"You have disregarded all my quiet interference in this miserable lad's
behalf," said Nicholas; "you have returned no answer to the letter in
which I begged forgiveness for him and offered to be responsible that he
would remain quietly here. Don't blame me for this public interference.
You have brought it upon yourself; not I."
"Sit down, beggar!" screamed Squeers, almost beside himself with rage,
and seizing Smike as he spoke.
"Wretch," rejoined Nicholas, fiercely, "touch him at your peril! I will
not stand by and see it done. My blood is up, and I have the strength of
ten such men as you. Look to yourself, for by Heaven I will not spare
you, if you drive me on!"
"Stand back!" cried Squeers, brandishing his weapon.
"I have a long series of insults to avenge," said Nicholas, flushed with
passion; "and my indignation is aggravated by the dastardly cruelties
practised on helpless infancy in this foul den. Have a care; for if you
do raise the devil within me, the consequences shall fall heavily upon
your own head!"
He had scarcely spoken, when Squeers in a violent outbreak of wrath,
and with a cry like the howl of a wild beast, spat upon him and struck
him a blow across the face with his instrument of torture, which raised
a bar of livid flesh as it was inflicted. Smarting with the agony of the
blow, and concentrating into that one moment all his feelings of rage,
scorn, and indignation, Nicholas sprang upon him, wrested the weapon
from his hand, and pinning him by the throat beat the ruffian till he
roared for mercy.
The boys--with the exception of Master Squeers, who, coming to his
father's assistance, harassed the enemy in the rear--moved not hand or
foot; but Mrs. Squeers, with many shrieks for aid, hung on to the tail
of her partner's coat and endeavoured to drag him from his infuriated
adversary; while Miss Squeers, who had been peeping through the keyhole
in the expectation of a very different scene, darted in at the very
beginning of the attack, and after launching a shower of inkstands at
the usher's head, beat Nicholas to her heart's content; animating
herself, at every blow, with the recollection of his having refused her
proffered love, and thus imparting additional strength to an arm which
(as she took after her mother in this respect) was, at no time, of the
weakest.
Nicholas, in the full strength of his violence, felt the blows no more
than if they had been dealt with feathers; but, becoming tired of the
noise and uproar, and feeling that his arm grew weaker besides, he threw
all his remaining strength into half a dozen finishing cuts, and flung
Squeers from him, with all the force he could muster. The violence of
his fall precipitated Mrs. Squeers completely over an adjacent form;
Squeers, striking his head against it in his descent, lay at his full
length on the ground, stunned and motionless.
Having brought affairs to this happy termination, and ascertained, to
his thorough satisfaction, that Squeers was only stunned, and not dead
(upon which point he had some unpleasant doubts at first), Nicholas left
his family to restore him, and retired to consider what course he had
better adopt. He looked anxiously round for Smike, as he left the room,
but he was nowhere to be seen.
After a brief consideration, he packed up a few clothes in a small
valise, and, finding that nobody offered to oppose his progress, marched
boldly out by the front door, and, shortly afterward, struck into the
road which led to the Greta Bridge.
Dickens: "Nicholas Nickleby."
DICKENS IN THE CAMP
Above the pines the moon was slowly drifting,
The river sang below;
The dim Sierras, far beyond, uplifting
Their minarets of snow.
The roaring camp-fire, with rude humour, painted
The ruddy tints of health
On haggard face and form that drooped and fainted
In the fierce race for wealth;
Till one arose, and from his pack's scant treasure
A hoarded volume drew,
And cards were dropped from hands of listless leisure
To hear the tale anew.
And then, while round them shadows gathered faster,
And as the firelight fell,
He read aloud the book wherein the Master
Had writ of "Little Nell."
Perhaps 'twas boyish fancy,--for the reader
Was youngest of them all,--
But, as he read, from clustering pine and cedar
A silence seemed to fall;
The fir trees, gathering closer in the shadows,
Listened in every spray,
While the whole camp, with "Nell" on English meadows,
Wandered and lost their way.
And so in mountain solitudes--o'ertaken
As by some spell divine--
Their cares dropped from them like the needles shaken
From out the gusty pine.
Lost is that camp and wasted all its fire:
And he who wrought that spell?--
Ah! towering pine and stately Kentish spire,
Ye have one tale to tell!
Lost is that camp, but let its fragrant story
Blend with the breath that thrills
With hopvines' incense all the pensive glory
That fills the Kentish hills.
And on that grave where English oak, and holly,
And laurel wreaths entwine,
Deem it not all a too presumptuous folly,--
This spray of Western pine!
Bret Harte
DOST THOU LOOK BACK ON WHAT HATH BEEN
Dost thou look back on what hath been,
As some divinely gifted man,
Whose life in low estate began
And on a simple village green;
Who breaks his birth's invidious bar,
And grasps the skirts of happy chance,
And breasts the blows of circumstance,
And grapples with his evil star;
Who makes by force his merit known,
And lives to clutch the golden keys,
To mould a mighty state's decrees,
And shape the whisper of the throne;
And moving up from high to higher,
Becomes on Fortune's crowning slope
The pillar of a people's hope,
The centre of a world's desire;
Yet feels, as in a pensive dream,
When all his active powers are still,
A distant dearness in the hill,
A secret sweetness in the stream,
The limit of his narrower fate,
While yet beside its vocal springs
He played at counsellors and kings,
With one that was his earliest mate;
Who ploughs with pain his native lea,
And reaps the labour of his hands,
Or in the furrow musing stands;
"Does my old friend remember me?"
Tennyson: "In Memoriam, LXIV."
THE PASSING OF ARTHUR
And so both hosts dressed them together. And king Arthur took his horse,
and said, Alas this unhappy day, and so rode to his party: and Sir
Mordred in like wise. And never was there seen a more dolefuller battle
in any Christian land. For there was but rushing and riding, foining and
striking, and many a grim word was there spoken either to other, and
many a deadly stroke. But ever king Arthur rode throughout the battle
of Sir Mordred many times, and did full nobly as a noble king should;
and at all times he fainted never. And Sir Mordred that day put him in
great peril. And thus they fought all the long day, and never stinted,
till the noble knights were laid to the cold ground, and ever they
fought still, till it was near night, and by that time was there an
hundred thousand laid dead upon the down.
Then was Arthur wroth out of measure, when he saw his people so slain
from him. Then the king looked about him, and then was he ware of all
his host, and of all his good knights, were left no more alive but two
knights, that was Sir Lucan de Butlere, and his brother Sir Bedivere:
and they full were sore wounded. Jesu mercy, said the king, where are
all my noble knights becomen. Alas that ever I should see this doleful
day. For now, said Arthur, I am come to mine end. But would to God that
I wist where were that traitor Sir Mordred, that hath caused all this
mischief. Then was king Arthur ware where Sir Mordred leaned upon his
sword among a great heap of dead men. Now give me my spear, said Arthur
unto Sir Lucan, for yonder I have espied the traitor that all this woe
hath wrought.
Then the king gat his spear in both his hands, and ran toward Sir
Mordred, crying, Traitor, now is thy death day come. And when Sir
Mordred heard Sir Arthur, he ran until him with his sword drawn in his
hand. And then king Arthur smote Sir Mordred under the shield, with a
foin of his spear throughout the body more than a fathom. And when Sir
Mordred felt that he had his death's wound, he thrust himself, with the
might that he had, up to the bur of king Arthur's spear. And right so he
smote Arthur with his sword holden in both his hands, on the side of the
head, that the sword pierced the helmet and the brain-pan, and
therewithal Sir Mordred fell stark dead to the earth. And the noble
Arthur fell in a swoon to the earth, and there he swooned oft-times. And
Sir Lucan de Butlere and Sir Bedivere oft-times heaved him up, and so
weakly they led him betwixt them both to a little chapel not far from
the sea side.
Then Sir Lucan took up the king the one part, and Sir Bedivere the other
part, and in the lifting, the king swooned, and Sir Lucan fell in a
swoon with the lift and therewith the noble knight's heart burst. And
when king Arthur came to himself again, he beheld Sir Lucan how he lay
foaming at the mouth. Alas, said the king, this is unto me a full heavy
sight to see this noble duke so die for my sake, for he would have
holpen me that had more need of help than I. Alas, he would not complain
him, his heart was so set to help me. Now Jesu have mercy upon his soul.
Then Sir Bedivere wept for the death of his brother. Leave this mourning
and weeping, said the king, for all this will not avail me: for, wit
thou well, and I might live myself the death of Sir Lucan would grieve
me evermore; but my time hieth fast, said the king.
Therefore, said Arthur, take thou Excalibur, my good sword, and go with
it to yonder water side, and when thou comest there, I charge thee throw
my sword in that water, and come again, and tell me what thou there
seest. My lord, said Bedivere, your commandment shall be done, and
lightly bring you word again. So Sir Bedivere departed, and by the way
he beheld that noble sword, that the pommel and haft were all of
precious stones, and then he said to himself, If I throw this rich sword
in the water, thereof shall never come good, but harm and loss. And then
Sir Bedivere hid Excalibur under a tree. And as soon as he might he
came again unto the king, and said he had been at the water, and had
thrown the sword into the water. What sawest thou there? said the king.
Sir, he said, I saw nothing but waves and winds. That is untruly said of
thee, said the king; therefore go thou lightly again, and do my command
as thou art to me lief and dear, spare not, but throw it in.
Then Sir Bedivere returned again, and took the sword in his hand; and
then him thought sin and shame to throw away that noble sword; and so
eft he hid the sword, and returned again, and told to the king that he
had been at the water, and done his commandment. What sawest thou there?
said the king. Sir, he said, I saw nothing but the waters wap and the
waves wan. Ah traitor, untrue, said king Arthur, now hast thou betrayed
me twice. Who would have wend that thou that hast been to me so lief and
dear, and thou art named a noble knight, and would betray me for the
riches of the sword. But now go again lightly, for thy long tarrying
putteth me in great jeopardy of my life, for I have taken cold. And
unless if thou do now as I bid thee, if ever I may see thee, I shall
slay thee with mine own hands, for thou wouldest for my rich sword see
me dead.
Then Sir Bedivere departed, and went to the sword, and lightly took it
up, and went to the water side, and there he bound the girdle about the
hilts, and then he threw the sword as far into the water as he might,
and there came an arm and an hand above the water, and met it, and
caught it, and so shook it thrice and brandished, and then vanished away
the hand with the sword in the water. So Sir Bedivere came again to the
king, and told him what he saw. Alas, said the king, help me hence, for
I dread me I have tarried over long.
Then Sir Bedivere took the king upon his back, and so went with him to
that water side. And when they were at the water side, even fast by the
bank hoved a little barge, with many fair ladies in it, and among them
all was a queen, and all they had black hoods, and all they wept and
shrieked when they saw king Arthur. Now put me into the barge, said the
king: and so he did softly. And there received him three queens with
great mourning, and so they set him down, and in one of their laps king
Arthur laid his head, and then that queen said, Ah, dear brother, why
have ye tarried so long from me? Alas, this wound on your head hath
caught over much cold. And so then they rowed from the land; and Sir
Bedivere beheld all those ladies go from him.
Then Sir Bedivere cried, Ah, my lord Arthur, what shall become of me now
ye go from me, and leave me here alone among mine enemies. Comfort
thyself, said the king, and do as well as thou mayest, for in me is no
trust for to trust in. For I will into the vale of Avilion, to heal me
of my grievous wound. And if thou hear never more of me, pray for my
soul. But ever the queens and the ladies wept and shrieked, that it was
pity to hear. And as soon as Sir Bedivere had lost the sight of the
barge, he wept and wailed, and so took the forest.
Sir Thomas Malory
Read: Tennyson's Morte D'Arthur.
THE ARMADA