READINGS IN LITERATURE 
 
 BOOKTWO

 
 CAMBRIDGE 
 READINGS IN LITERATURE 
 
 BOOK TWO
 
 CAMBRIDGE UNIVERSITY PRESS 
 
 C. F. CLAY, Manager 
 
 LONDON: Fetter Lane, E.G. 4 
 
 NEW YORK: G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS 
 
 BOMBAY, CALCUTTA, MADRAS: MACMILLAN AND CO., Ltd. 
 
 TORONTO: J. M. DENT AND SONS, Ltd. 
 
 TOKYO: THE MARUZEN-KAliUSHIKI-KALSHA 
 
 Copyright 
 All rights reserved
 
 lil.AD ()1 A WARRIOR 
 Leonardo da Vinci
 
 CAMBRIDGE 
 READINGS IN LITERATURE 
 
 EDITED BY 
 
 GEORGE SAMPSON 
 
 BOOK TWO 
 
 CAMBRIDGE 
 
 AT THE UNIVERSITY PRESS 
 
 I918 
 
 106:^0
 
 VK\ 
 ■ US 
 
 V - z^ 
 
 PREFACE 
 
 These reading books have been prepared in the first 
 instance for use among pupils of eleven or twelve and 
 above, and are thus suitable for the middle forms of 
 secondary schools, the four years of central and higher 
 grade schools, the upper standards of elementary 
 schools and the literature courses of continuation 
 schools. Admirable use is now made of what are 
 called Continuous Readers; but these should not wholly 
 supplant a miscellany, a collection of extracts good 
 in themselves and representative of great or interesting 
 writers. 
 
 Reading in schools may take three forms — audible 
 reading by individual pupils, silent reading by all 
 members of a class and reading by the teacher to the 
 class. These forms represent three grades of difficulty 
 in matter. Pupils can appreciate poetry and prose 
 well read to them which they could not themselves 
 read aloud with intelligence. Some parts, therefore, 
 of the available material should reach the third grade 
 of difficulty. It must certainly not all be kept down 
 to the level of a stumbler's precarious fluency. Litera- 
 ture should be measured out to readers by their 
 capacity to receive rather than by their abiHty to 
 deliver. 
 
 Young people do not fully understand much of their 
 reading; but they can be deeply impressed even where 
 they do not comprehend; and their selective instincts 
 (very different in different cases) should at least have 
 a chance of working upon noble matter. We must
 
 vi PREFACE 
 
 take the mean, not the meanest, capacity for our 
 standard. Difficulty is not an affair of words. Pupils 
 of fifteen can get more from Wordsworth's Immortality 
 ode than from such apparently simple poems as The 
 Fountain and The Two April Mornings — more, even, 
 from the great narrative passages of Paradise Lost, 
 than from the exquisite traceries of Lycidas. They 
 can understand, in a sense, a scene from Prometheus, 
 but they will hardly understand in any sense a 
 Conversation of Landor. The nearer prose or verse 
 lies to the elemental, the nearer it lies to the young 
 reader's understanding. 
 
 The present collection is purely a miscellany. Some 
 hints of a purpose in the choice and arrangement of 
 passages will be discerned, but this is not emphasised, 
 and, generally, the collection may be said to exist for 
 its parts rather than for any fanciful wholeness. It 
 does not in the least pretend to be representative of 
 any special age or country, or to exhibit the main 
 types of literature, or to have one inflexible standard 
 of inclusion. It is certainly not a selection from the 
 "hundred best books." The editor's aim has been to 
 give young readers the pleasure that is also a profit — 
 to afford them the varied excitements (and incite- 
 ments) of miscellaneous reading, to introduce to their 
 notice certain poems, passages, books and writers 
 great, or famous, or merely entertaining, and to 
 associate with these a few pictures, drawings and 
 engravings of widely differing schools and periods. 
 Perhaps it may be added that special care has been 
 given to the text. 
 
 The general tendency of school reading nowadays is 
 towards a more ordered and therefore more restricted 
 range of English literature, and away from the mis-
 
 PREFACE vii 
 
 cellaneous knowledge that amused the youth of older 
 people. Much has been gained by the change; but 
 something, too, has been lost. It is better, certainly, 
 to know some poems in particular than to know some- 
 thing about poetry in general. The pupil of to-day 
 gets a first-hand acquaintance with some selected 
 examples of English literature, but he misses that 
 general knowledge of books, which, though it may 
 amount to very little in present profit, is a great 
 investment towards future reading. The indiscrimi- 
 nate young reader of old at least got to know some 
 of the landmarks in general literature. To-day, the 
 student of twenty, who can read (say) Francis Thomp- 
 son with appreciation, has been known to refer, in the 
 more expansive moments of his essays, to the epic 
 poems of Plato and the tragic dramas of Dante. The 
 present volumes, as a middle course between too vague 
 general knowledge and too restricted selection, will 
 supplement, without disturbing, any chosen or pre- 
 scribed scheme of study. 
 
 They may even find another use; for books have 
 destinies of their own. The savage satire for men 
 becomes (after due purgation) a playbook for children ; 
 and the children's fairy tale, with its delicate irony, 
 becomes the delight of the elders. Perhaps the present 
 volumes may achieve this extended application, and 
 amuse the grown-up and the growing-up as well as 
 instruct the children. The puzzling question, ''What 
 ought I to read," often asked by young people with 
 a developing sense of responsibility, can be answered, 
 at least in part, by these volumes. To such inquirers 
 it may be said, "Here you will find many clues to 
 the paradise of literature : follow that which leads you 
 through the most attractive way." Had the collection
 
 viii PREFACE 
 
 been designed in the first place for older readers, some 
 passages now included might have been replaced by 
 others less familiar. Still, the familiar has its claim, 
 and, " in vacant or in pensive mood," even a special 
 charm for experienced readers. The day-book of the 
 boy may be welcome as a bedside book for the man. 
 The variety of the entertainment is part of the plan. 
 Neither man nor boy can live by the subhme alone, 
 and so the range of the selection has been made very 
 wide. Modern and even contemporary work has been 
 drawn upon, though one's liberty of choice is here very 
 restricted. Whether wt are teachers or learners, we 
 must not be fearful of the new. For us there should be 
 no " battle of the antient and modern books," but one 
 great stream of literature with all its lesser waters, 
 as full and noble now as ever. 
 
 GEORGE SAMPSON 
 August 19 1 8.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Blake England Awake! i 
 
 „ From Milton i 
 
 Addison The Vision of Mirzah 2 
 
 Tolstoy The Two Pilgrims 7 
 From the translations of the Free Age Press 
 
 Swinburne From Tristram of Lyonesse 28 
 By kind permission of Mr Theodore Watts-Dunton, 
 Messrs Chatto and Windus and Mr Wm Heinemann 
 
 Tennyson Sir Galahad 30 
 
 St Agnes' Eve 33 
 
 Cervantes An Adventure of Don Quixote 34 
 By kind permission of Messrs Smith, Elder and Co. 
 
 Peacock A Rescue by Robin Hood 49 
 
 „ The War Song of Dinas Vawr 66 
 
 FIiLAiRE Belloc The South Country 67 
 By arrangement with Mr Hilaire Belloc 
 
 The Bible Belshazzar's Feast 70 
 
 Borrow A Gipsy of Spain 72 
 
 Blake To the Evening Star 85 
 
 Milton Evening 85 
 
 Goldsmith City Night Piece 86 
 
 Jonson Hymn to Diana 88 
 
 Herbert The Pulley 89 
 
 Keats To Autumn 90
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 Shelley The Cloud 
 
 Froude The Coronation of Anne Boleyn 
 
 Austin Dobson A Ballade to Queen Elizabeth 
 
 By kind permission of Mr Austin Dobson and Kegan Paul, 
 Trench, Triibner and Co. Ltd. 
 
 Drayton Agincourt 
 
 Franklin His Early Years 
 
 MoiRA O'Neill Corrvmeela 
 
 PAGE 
 
 94 
 100 
 
 lOI 
 
 105 
 
 m 
 
 From Songs of the Glens of Aniri?n by arrangement with the author. 
 
 W. B. Yeats The Lake Isle of Innisfree 
 
 By arrangement with Mr T. Fisher Unwin 
 
 114 
 
 Burns 
 
 Auld Lang Syne 
 
 "5 
 
 » 
 
 For A' That 
 
 116 
 
 ?^ 
 
 Bonie Doon 
 
 117 
 
 Anon. 
 
 Fair Helen 
 
 118 
 
 POE 
 
 The Raven 
 
 119 
 
 Voltaire 
 
 Some Adventures of Zadig 
 
 123 
 
 Whitman 
 
 Captain! My Captain! 
 
 137 
 
 >5 
 
 Patrolling Barnegat 
 
 138 
 
 Dickens 
 
 Tempest 
 
 139 
 
 Wordsworth 
 
 Nutting 
 
 151 
 
 '> 
 
 There was a Boy 
 
 152 
 
 >> 
 
 The Simplon Pass 
 
 153 
 
 Disraeli 
 
 Coningsby and Sidonia 
 
 154 
 
 Wordsworth 
 
 Westminster Bridge 
 
 165 
 
 Milton 
 
 On His Blindness 
 
 165 
 
 >» 
 
 The Blindness of Samson 
 
 166
 
 CONTENTS xi 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Milton On His Blindness 167 
 
 Arnold Bennett The Boy Man 168 
 
 By kind permission of Mr Arnold Bennett and Methuen 
 and Co. Ltd. 
 
 Ballad The Wife of Usher's Well 174 
 
 „ The Lyke-Wake Dirge 176 
 
 Mark Twain Whitewashing a Fence 177 
 By arrangement with Messrs Chatto and Windus 
 
 Emerson 
 
 The Rhodora 
 
 182 
 
 Roper 
 
 The Execution of Sir Thomas More 
 
 183 
 
 Tennyson 
 
 Break, Break, Break 
 
 186 
 
 Kinglake 
 
 Cairo to Suez 
 
 187 
 
 William Morris 
 
 Jason and the Golden Fleece 
 
 193 
 
 Scott 
 
 A Rescue from the Rocks 
 
 218 
 
 T. E. Brown 
 
 By kind 
 
 My Garden 
 permission of Macmillan and Co. Ltd. 
 
 238 
 
 Bacon 
 
 Of Gardens 
 
 238 
 
 Addison 
 
 (From The Spectator, No. 477, 
 6 Sept, 1712) 
 
 239 
 
 Marvell 
 
 The Garden 
 
 243 
 
 Tennyson 
 
 Ring out Wild Bells 
 
 245 
 
 H. C. Beeching 
 
 Going down Hill on a Bicycle 
 
 246 
 
 By kind permission of the Very Rev. H. C. Beeching 
 
 Henry Newbolt The Best School of All 247 
 
 From Poems New and Old, by kind permission of the Author 
 and Mr John Murray
 
 LIST OF PICTURES 
 
 Leonardo da Vinci — Head of a Warrior Frontispiece 
 
 Leonardo da Vinci (1452-1519) was a most remai<kable and 
 versatile man, famous as a painter, architect, mathematician, 
 mechanician, and engineer, his speculations including serious 
 attempts to solve the problem of human aviation. Only a few 
 paintings can be identified as genuinely his. One famous picture, 
 the fresco of the Last Supper at Milan, has practically perished, 
 and another, the portrait known as Mona Lisa or La GioconJa, was 
 strangely stolen from the Louvre and strangely recovered. The 
 present picture is from a drawing, now in the British Museum. 
 
 TO FACE PAGE 
 
 Strang — Don Quixote's Fight with Yanguesans 40 
 
 William Strang (b. 1859), a Scottish artist, painter and etcher. 
 The present picture is one of thirty etchings illustrating Don 
 Quixote. 
 
 By kind permission of the artist, W. Strang, A.R.A. 
 Copley Fielding — Sussex Downs 68 
 
 Anthony Vandyke Copley Fielding (1787-18^5), an English 
 landscape artist, is famous for his many water colour pictures of 
 typical English scenes. 
 
 By arrangement with Messrs W. A Mansell & Co. 
 Martin — Belshazzar's Feast 69 
 
 John Martin ( 1 7 89-1 8 54), an English painter, often admired for his 
 grandiose pictures of great Scriptural subjects, such as TheE-vc of the 
 Deluge, The Destruction of Sodom, and ^Joshua commanding the Sun to 
 stand still. The present picture is the best known of his works. 
 
 By arrangement with Methuen & Co. Ltd. 
 Roberts — The Market Place, Carmona 82 
 
 David Roberts (i 796-1 864), a Scottish artist, was the son of a 
 shoemaker, and was at first a house-painter, and then a theatrical 
 scene painter. Many of his pictures are of cathedral interiors. He 
 published several large volumes of sketches illustrating his 
 journeys on the continent and in the east. This picture and the 
 next are from Picturesque Sketches in Spain. 
 
 Roberts — The Fortress of the Alhambra 83
 
 LIST OF PICTURES xiii 
 
 TO FACE PAGE 
 
 Hyde— A Night Scene 88 
 
 William Hyde, a living artist, has made many fine imagin- 
 ative drawings in illustration of the works of Meredith and 
 other writers. This picture is a reproduction of one of William 
 Hyde's illustrations in Edward Garnett's An Imaged World. 
 
 By kind permission of J. M. Dent & Sons, Ltd. 
 Constable — Salisbury 89 
 
 John Constable (1776— 1837), a great English landscape painter, 
 was born in Suffolk, the son of a miller. Few artists have 
 equalled Constable in representing typical English rural scenes 
 with their typical English skies. This picture is at South Ken- 
 sington. 
 
 By arrangement w^ith Emery Walker, Ltd. 
 Millet — The Gleaners 90 
 
 Jean Franfois Millet (i 8 14-1875), a French painter, born in 
 Normandy of peasant stock, is appropriately famous for his 
 rendering of peasant scenes — The Angelus, The Man ivith the 
 Hoe, and the present picture, which is now in the Louvre. 
 Millet was little appreciated in his lifetime, but admiration for 
 his work has steadily grown. 
 
 By arrangement with Messrs W. A. Mansell & Co. 
 
 HoRNEBOLT — Henrv VIII lOO 
 
 Lucas Hornebolt (d. 1 544), to whom this picture is generally 
 attributed, was a Dutch painter in the household of Henry VIIL 
 He was a relative of the more famous Gerard Hornebolt. The 
 picture is in the National Portrait Gallery. 
 
 By arrangement with Messrs W. A. Mansell & Co. 
 HiLLiARn — Design for a Great Seal of Ireland loi 
 
 Nicholas Hilliard (1547-16 19), a miniature painter, was born in 
 Exeter and brought up as a goldsmith and jeweller. He engraved 
 the great seal of England and made the present design for the 
 great seal of Ireland. The drawing is in the British Museum. 
 
 Co ROT — Evening on the Lake 1 14 
 
 Jean Baptiste Camille Corot (i 796-1 875), a French painter, is 
 famous for his landscapes with their happy rendering of the soft 
 misty effects of dawn and sunrise. 
 
 By arrangement with Messrs W. A. Mansell & Co.
 
 xiv LIST OF PICTURES 
 
 TO FACE PAGE 
 
 MoREAu LE JEUNE — Voltaire 124 
 
 Jean Michel Moreau (1741-1815), called Moreau le'jeune, a 
 French painter and engraver, produced very many designs in 
 illustration of the works of Voltaire, Rousseau, Moli^re and 
 other French writers. 
 
 By kind permission of Armand, Colin et Cie 
 
 Constable — Yarmouth Jetty 142 
 
 By arrangement with Messrs W. A. Mansell & Co. 
 
 RusKiN — Rydal Water 152 
 
 John Ruskin (18 19-1900), the author of Modern Painters, Unto 
 this Last, Fors Clai'igera, Praeterita and other famous writings on 
 art and life, was himself an artist of much delicacy and skill, as 
 this drawing indicates. 
 
 By arrangement with the Ruskin Trustees and 
 George Allen & Unwin, Ltd. 
 
 Turner — Simplon Pass 153 
 
 Joseph Mallord William Turner (i 775-1 851), the greatest of 
 English artists, was born in London and showed his artistic 
 gifts at a very early age. Indeed, he drew and painted almost 
 without ceasing from his earliest years to his death. For some 
 time he made sketches for engravings. His most famous work in 
 this form is called Liher Studiorum, a series of seventy drawings 
 in sepia afterwards engraved on copper. Many sketches, too, were 
 made to illustrate the works of famous writers. From 1819, the 
 time of his first visit to Venice, began the series of famous paintings, 
 wonderful in their rendering of light and colour. Most of Turner's 
 great oil pictures and almost innumerable water-colour drawings 
 are in the national collections. The present sketch is an illus- 
 tration in Scott's Life of Napoleon. 
 
 RowLANDSoN AND PuGiN — Westminster Bridge 165 
 
 Thomas Rowlandson (i 756— 1827), a Londoner by birth, became 
 famous for his vigorous drawings and caricatures illustrating the 
 life of his time. 
 
 Augustus Charles Pugin (1762— 1832) was a French artist who 
 fled to England at the Revolution. He was an architectural 
 draughtsman and joined with Rowlandson (who specialised in 
 figures) in producing The Microcosm of London, 
 
 Holbein — Sir Thomas More i86 
 
 Hans Holbein the younger (1497?— 1543) was born at Augsburg 
 in Germany, but is associated chiefly with Basle and England. 
 He died in London. He is alike famous as a painter of religious 
 subjects, a portrait painter and an engraver.
 
 LIST OF PICTURES xv 
 
 TO FACE PAGE 
 
 Beavis — Camels at the Jaffa Gate 187 
 
 Richard Beavis (1824-1896) was esteemed for his pictures of 
 scenes in the east and on the continent of Europe. The present 
 water-colour drawing is in the British Museum. 
 
 Chantrey — Sir Walter Scott 226 
 
 Francis Legatt Chantrey (1781-1842), born in humble circum- 
 stances, became famous as a sculptor, his best known work 
 being The Sleeping Children in Lichfield Cathedral. He left his 
 large fortune to the Royal Academy to be used for the encourage- 
 ment of British art. 
 
 By kind permission of the Keeper of Fine Arts, Ashmolean 
 Museum, Oxford 
 
 The design on the cover is taken from the Luttrell 
 Psalter, a hatm Psalter of the fourteenth century.
 
 WILLIAM BLAKE 
 
 William Blake (1757-1827), painter, engraver and poet, was born in 
 London. His volumes Poetical Sketches, Songs of Innocence and Songs of 
 Experience contain some beautiful poems. He wrote a series of long works — 
 "prophetic books" in Biblical style — from one of which, Jerusalem, the 
 first of the following extracts is taken. The second occurs in Milton, another 
 long poem. Many of Blake's volumes were elaborately illustrated by his 
 own hand, and he drew some remarkable illustrations for other books. He 
 had a strong and simple imagination; and, in the sincerity of his faith, 
 believed that he saw visions of angels and other spiritual beings. 
 
 ENGLAND AWAKE! 
 (From Jerusalem) 
 
 England ! awake ! awake ! awake ! 
 
 Jerusalem thy Sister calls ! 
 Why wilt thou sleep the sleep of death, 
 
 And close her from thy ancient walls ? 
 
 Thy hills and valleys felt her feet 
 Gently upon their bosoms move : 
 
 Thy gates beheld sweet Zion's ways; 
 Then was a time of joy and love. 
 
 And now the time returns again : 
 
 Our souls exult: and London's towers 
 
 Receive the Lamb of God to dwell 
 
 In England's green and pleasant bowers. 
 
 (From Milton) 
 
 And did those feet in ancient time 
 
 Walk upon England's mountains green ? 
 
 And was the holy Lamb of God 
 
 On England's pleasant pastures seen ?
 
 2 WILLIAM BLAKE 
 
 And did the Countenance Divine 
 
 Shine forth upon our clouded hills? 
 And was Jerusalem builded here 
 
 Among these dark Satanic Mills? 
 
 Bring me my bow of burning gold ! 
 
 Bring me my arrows of desire ! 
 Bring me my spear: clouds, unfold ! 
 
 Bring me my chariot of fire ! 
 
 I will not cease from mental fight, 
 Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand, 
 
 Till we have built Jerusalem 
 
 In England's green and pleasant land. 
 
 ADDISON 
 
 Joseph Addison (1672-1719), the son of a Wiltshire clergyman, was educated 
 at Charterhouse and Oxford. He wrote many poems, Including The Campaign, 
 which celebrates the victory at Blenheim. He Is specially admired for the 
 pleasant, good-humoured and charming essays written — some of them In 
 association with Richard Steele — for two famous periodicals, The Tatler 
 and The Spectator. Of these essays those which deal with the life of an 
 imaginary country gentleman Sir Roger de Coverley are perhaps the most 
 popular. Addison was active In political life and held several Important 
 offices. Thackeray's novel Esmond Includes Addison and Steele among Its 
 characters. The essay which follows Is No. i^g oi The Spectator {1 Sept. 171 1). 
 
 THE VISION OF MIRZAH 
 
 Omnem, quse nunc obducta tuenti 
 Mortales hebetat visas tibi, et humida circum 
 Callgat, nubem eripiam. Virg. ,'En. II. 604. 
 
 The cloud, which. Intercepting the clear light, 
 Hangs o'er thy eyes, and blunts thy mortal sight, 
 I will remove. 
 
 When I was at Grand Cairo, I picked up several oriental manu- 
 scripts, which I have still by me. Among others I met with one 
 entitled. The Visions of Mirzah, which I have read over with great 
 pleasure. I intend to give it to the public when I have no other 
 entertainment for them; and shall begin with the first vision, 
 which I have translated word for word as follows:
 
 ADDISON 3 
 
 "On the fifth day of the moon, which according to the custom 
 of my forefathers I always keep holy, after having washed myself, 
 and offered up my morning devotions, I ascended the high hills 
 of Bagdad, in order to pass the rest of the day in meditation and 
 prayer. As I was here airing myself on the tops of the mountains, 
 I fell into a profound contemplation on the vanity of human life; 
 and passing from one thought to another, 'Surely,' said I, 'man 
 is but a shadow, and life a dream.' Whilst I was thus musing, I 
 cast my eyes towards the summit of a rock that was not far from 
 me, where I discovered one in the habit of a shepherd, with a 
 little musical instrument in his hand. As I looked upon him he 
 applied it to his lips, and began to play upon it. The sound of it 
 was exceeding sweet, and wrought into a variety of tunes that 
 were inexpressibly melodious, and altogether different from any 
 thing I had ever heard. They put me in mind of those heavenly 
 airs that are played to the departed souls of good men upon their 
 first arrival in Paradise, to wear out the impressions of their last 
 agonies, and qualify them for the pleasures of that happy place. 
 My heart melted away in secret raptures. 
 
 "I had been often told that the rock before me was the haunt 
 of a genius; and that several had been entertained with music 
 who had passed by it, but never heard that the musician had before 
 made himself visible. When he had raised my thoughts by those 
 transporting airs which he played, to taste the pleasures of his 
 conversation, as I looked upon him like one astonished, he 
 beckoned to me, and by the waving of his hand directed me to 
 approach the place where he sat. I drew near with that reverence 
 which is due to a superior nature; and as my heart was entirely 
 subdued by the captivating strains I had heard, I fell down at his 
 feet and wept. The genius smiled upon me with a look of compas- 
 sion and affability that familiarised him to my imagination, and 
 at once dispelled all the fears and apprehensions with which I 
 approached him. He lifted me from the ground, and taking me 
 by the hand, 'Mirzah,' said he, 'I have heard thee in thy solilo- 
 quies; follow me.' 
 
 "He then led me to the highest pinnacle of the rock, and placing 
 me on the top of it — 'Cast thy eyes eastward,' said he, 'and tell 
 me what thou seest.' — 'I see,' said I, 'a huge valley, and a pro- 
 digious tide of water rolling through it.' — 'The valley that thou
 
 4 ADDISON 
 
 seest,' said he, 'is the Vale of Misery, and the tide of water that 
 thou seest is part of the great tide of eternity.' — 'What is the 
 reason,' said I, ' that the tide I see rises out of a thick mist at one 
 end, and again loses itself in a thick mist at the other?' — 'What 
 thou seest,' said he, 'is that portion of eternity which is called 
 time, measured out by the sun, and reaching from the beginning 
 of the world to its consummation.' — 'Examine now,' said he, 
 ' this sea that is bounded with darkness at both ends, and tell me 
 what thou discoverest in it.' — 'I see a bridge,' said I, 'standing 
 in the midst of the tide.' — 'The bridge thou seest,' said he, 'is 
 human life; consider it attentively.' Upon a more leisurely survey 
 of it, I found that it consisted of threescore and ten entire arches, 
 with several broken arches, which, added to those that were 
 entire, made up the number about a hundred. As I was counting 
 the arches, the genius told me that this bridge consisted at first of 
 a thousand arches: but that a great flood swept away the rest, 
 and left the bridge in the ruinous condition I now beheld it. 'But 
 tell me further,' said he, 'what thou discoverest on it.' — 'I see 
 multitudes of people passing over it,' said I, 'and a black cloud 
 hanging on each end of it.' As I looked more attentively, I saw 
 several of the passengers dropping through the bridge into the 
 great tide that flowed underneath it : and, upon farther examina- 
 tion, perceived there were innumerable trap-doors that lay con- 
 cealed in the bridge, which the passengers no sooner trod upon, 
 but they fell through them into the tide, and immediately 
 disappeared. These hidden pit-falls were set very thick at the 
 entrance of the bridge, so that throngs of people no sooner 
 broke through the cloud, but many of them fell into them. They 
 grew thinner towards the middle, but multiplied and lay closer 
 together towards the end of the arches that were entire. 
 
 "There were indeed some persons, but their number was very 
 small, that continued a kind of hobbling march on the broken 
 arches, but fell through one after another, being quite tired and 
 spent with so long a walk. 
 
 "I passed some time in the contemplation of this wonderful 
 structure, and the great variety of objects which it presented. 
 My heart was filled with a deep melancholy to see several dropping 
 unexpectedly in the midst of mirth and jollity, and catching at 
 every thing that stood by them to save themselves. Some were
 
 ADDISON 5 
 
 looking up towards the heavens in a thoughtful posture, and in the 
 midst of a speculation stumbled and fell out of sight. Multitudes 
 were very busy in the pursuit of bubbles that glittered in their 
 eyes and danced before them; but often when they thought 
 themselves within the reach of them, their footing failed, and 
 down they sank. In this confusion of objects, I observed some 
 with scimitars in their hands, and others with vessels, who ran 
 to and fro upon the bridge, thrusting several persons on trap-doors 
 which did not seem to lie in their way, and which they might 
 have escaped had they not been thus forced upon them. 
 
 "The genius seeing me indulge myself in this melancholy 
 prospect, told me I had dwelt long enough upon it. 'Take thine 
 eyes off the bridge,' said he, 'and tell me if thou yet seest any 
 thing thou dost not comprehend.' Upon looking up, 'What mean,' 
 said I, ' those great flights of birds that are perpetually hovering 
 about the bridge, and settling upon it from time to time? I see 
 vultures, harpies, ravens, cormorants, and among many other 
 feathered creatures several little winged boys, that perch in great 
 numbers upon the middle arches.' — 'These,' said the genius, 'are 
 Envy, Avarice, Superstition, Despair, Love, with the Uke cares 
 and passions that infest human life.' 
 
 "I here fetched a deep sigh. 'Alas,' said I, 'man was made in 
 vain ! how is he given away to misery and mortality ! tortured in 
 life, and swallowed up in death ! ' The genius, being moved with 
 compassion towards me, bid me quit so uncomfortable a prospect. 
 'Look no more,' said he, 'on man in the first stage of his existence, 
 in his setting out for eternity; but cast thine eye on that thick 
 mist into which the tide bears the several generations of mortals 
 that fall into it.' I directed my sight as I was ordered, and (whether 
 or no the good genius strengthened it with any supernatural force, 
 or dissipated part of the mist that was before too thick for the 
 eye to penetrate) I saw the valley opening at the further end, and 
 spreading forth into an immense ocean, that had a huge rock of 
 adamant running through the midst of it, and dividing it into 
 two equal parts. The clouds still rested on one half of it, insomuch 
 that I could discover nothing in it : but the other appeared to me 
 a vast ocean planted with innumerable islands, that were covered 
 with fruits and flowers, and interwoven with a thousand little 
 shining seas that ran among them, I could see persons dressed
 
 6 ADDISON 
 
 in glorious habits, with garlands upon their heads, passing among 
 the trees, lying down by the sides of fountains, or resting on 
 beds of flowers; and could hear a confused harmony of singing- 
 birds, falling water, human voices, and musical instruments. 
 Gladness grew in me upon the discoveiy of so delightful a scene. 
 I wished for the wings of an eagle, that I might fly away to 
 those happy seats : but the genius told me there was no passage 
 to them, except through the gates of death that I saw opening 
 every moment upon the bridge. 'The islands,' said he, 'that lie 
 so fresh and green before thee, and with which the whole face of 
 the ocean appears spotted as far as thou canst see, are more in 
 number than the sands on the sea-shore; there are myriads of 
 islands behind those which thou here discoverest, reaching further 
 than thine eye, or even thine imagination can extend itself. These 
 are the mansions of good men after death, who, according to the 
 degree and kinds of virtue in which they excelled, are distributed 
 among these several islands; which abound with pleasures of 
 different kinds and degrees, suitable to the reHshes and perfections 
 of those who are settled in them; every island is a paradise 
 accommodated to its respective inhabitants. Are not these, 
 Mirzah, habitations worth contending for? Does life appear 
 miserable, that gives thee opportunities of earning such a reward? 
 Is death to be feared, that will convey thee to so happy an existence ? 
 Think not man was made in vain, who has such an eternity 
 reserved for him.' I gazed with inexpressible pleasure on these 
 happy islands. 'At length,' said I, 'show me now, I beseech thee, 
 the secrets that lie hid under those dark clouds which cover the 
 ocean on the other side of the rock of adamant.' The genius 
 making me no answer, I turned about to address myself to him a 
 second time, but I found that he had left me: I then turned again 
 to the vision which I had been so long contemplating; but instead 
 of the rolling tide, the arched bridge, and the happy islands, I saw 
 nothing but the long hollow valley of Bagdad, with oxen, sheep, 
 and camels, grazing upon the sides of it."
 
 TOLSTOY 
 
 Count Leo Nikolaievitch Tolstoy (1828-1910), one of the greatest of 
 Russian writers, was born at Yasnaya Polyana, near Tula, a large town 
 south of Moscow. He came of a famous noble family, and, after a somewhat 
 ill-spent youth at educational institutions in Moscow and Kazan, he entered 
 the army and fought in the Caucasus and the Crimea. His first stories, 
 Childhood, Boyhood and Youth, were written at this period, and his experiences 
 in the war produced the splendid sketches called Sevastopol. He left the 
 army and devoted himself to literature. The longest and, perhaps, the 
 finest of his books is War and Peace, a magnificent story of Napoleon's 
 invasion of Russia. Other famous novels are Anna Karenina and Resurrection. 
 In his later years, he devoted himself to re-stating the rules of life given by 
 Jesus in the Sermon on the Mount, and to uplifting the ignorant peasants 
 of his country. He wrote, therefore, many little books upon religious subjects, 
 and many beautiful short stories, simple enough to be understood by all. 
 The story which follows is one of these tales. Tolstoy lived simply and 
 sparely as if he were himself a poor peasant. His life was so sincere that his 
 personal example has been as great an influence as his writings. 
 
 In connection with the following story, it should be understood that the 
 great ambition of the Russian peasants is to make a pilgrimage to Jerusalem 
 to visit the scenes associated with the life and death of Jesus. They save^ 
 money for many years and go in hundreds on this long journey, enduring 
 all sorts of terrible hardships and discomforts. 
 
 Translated by Madame Kosnakoff and A. C. Fifield. 
 
 THE TWO PILGRIMS 
 
 The woman saith unto him. Sir, I perceive that thou art a prophet. 
 Our fathers worshipped in this mountain; and ye say that in Jerusalem is 
 the place where men ought to worship. 
 
 Jesus saith unto her, Woman, believe me, the hour cometh, when ye shall 
 neither in this mountain, nor yet at Jerusalem, worship the Father. Ye 
 worship ye know not what : we know what we worship : for salvation is of 
 the Jews. But the hour cometh, and now is, when the true worshippers 
 shall worship the Father in spirit and in truth: for the Father seeketh such 
 to worship him. — John iv. 19-23. 
 
 Two old men once agreed to go on a pilgrimage together to 
 worship God in Jerusalem, One was a rich peasant called Yefim 
 Shevelev, the other was not wealthy and was called Elisha Bodrov. 
 
 Yefim was a staid, respectable man, upright and severe. He 
 neither drank brandy nor smoked tobacco, nor took snuff, and 
 he had never in his life used bad language. Twice he had been
 
 8 TOLSTOY 
 
 chosen starosta (president of the village commune), and in neither 
 term had he made any debts. He had a large family: two sons 
 and a married grandson, — and all hved together. He himself was 
 a hale, strong, long-bearded man, and although he was seventy 
 years old his figure was still erect and his beard was only just 
 beginning to show a few gray hairs. 
 
 Elisha was also an old man, and was neither rich nor poor; 
 formerly he had worked as a carpenter, but now he was old he 
 stayed at home and kept bees. One of his sons worked away from 
 home, the other lived with his father. Elisha was a kind-hearted 
 and jovial little old man who liked his brandy and his snuflF, and 
 was fond of singing, but he was very peaceable and inoffensive 
 and lived on good terms with his family and neighbours. He was 
 a short and dark-haired little man, with a little curly beard and 
 a head as bald as that of his patron saint, Elisha the prophet. 
 
 The old men had made their vow and had agreed to go to 
 Jerusalem together long ago, but Yefim's time was always taken 
 up. There was always some business on hand. As soon as one 
 thing was finished, he took up another. First his grandson was to 
 be married; then his son was coming home from the army; and 
 now he had begun to build a new hut. 
 
 One festival dav the old men met, and sat down on some timber 
 to chat. 
 
 "Well, gossip,"' said Elisha, "when shall we set out to fulfil 
 our vow?" 
 
 Yefim frowned: "I must wait," he said; "this is a hard year 
 for me. When I began to build this hut I thought it would cost 
 me about a hundred roubles (^^lo) and I have already spent near 
 three hundred, and it isn't finished yet. We must wait till next 
 summer. Then, God willing, we will certainly go." 
 
 "As I look at it," said Elisha, "we shouldn't put it off. We 
 ought to start now. Spring is the best time." 
 
 "Time! yes, that's the best time, but now that I've begun the 
 hut, how can I leave it?" 
 
 "Haven't you any one at home? Let your son see to it." 
 
 "Yes, I know how he would see to it. He is not to be depended 
 on. He sometimes takes too much to drink." 
 
 "Well, neighbour, when we die, you know, they will have to 
 get on without us. Let your son begin to learn now."
 
 TOLSTOY 9 
 
 "No doubt, no doubt. But somehow I always want to have my 
 eye on everything and finish it myself." 
 
 "Well, you can't finish everything, my friend. The other day 
 my women were scrubbing and cleaning everything for Easter. 
 This had to be done and that had to be done, and there was always 
 something more to do. So my eldest son's wife, who is a sensible 
 woman, said: 'It's a good thing,' says she, 'that the holiday 
 doesn't wait for us, else,' says she 'we should never be done, 
 however much we worked.' " 
 
 Yefim became thoughtful. 
 
 "I have spent a lot of money on this hut," he said, "and I can't 
 start on this journey with empty hands either. A hundred roubles 
 is no small sum." 
 
 Elisha laughed. 
 
 "Don't commit a sin, neighbour," he said. "You have ten 
 times as much as I have, and yet you talk about money ! Only 
 say when you will start, and although I haven't any money, I'll 
 get some." 
 
 Yefim smiled. 
 
 "I didn't know you were such a rich man," he said. "How will 
 you get the money? " 
 
 "Oh, I'll scrape some of it together somehow at home, and as 
 for the rest, I'll let a neighbour have half a score of my bee hives. 
 He has been wanting them a long while." 
 
 "If the swarms turn out good, you'll be sorry." 
 
 "Sorry! Not I, neighbour; I have never in my life been sorry 
 about anything, except my sins. There is nothing dearer than the 
 soul." 
 
 "Yes, that's true, but still it's bad when things go wrongathome." 
 
 "And when things go wrong with the soul? That's much worse. 
 We have made a vow and we must go. Come, don't put it off any 
 longer." 
 
 II 
 
 At last Elisha persuaded his friend. Yefim thought and thought 
 about it, and the next morning he came to Elisha. 
 
 "Well, let us go," he said. "You speak the truth. God is the 
 master of our life and death. We must start while we have life 
 and strength."
 
 10 TOLSTOY 
 
 Within a week the old men were ready. 
 
 Yefim had money in his house. He took a hundred roubles and 
 left two hundred with his old wife. 
 
 EUsha also was ready; he sold his neighbour the ten hives with 
 all the new swarms when they came. He raised seventy roubles 
 by this. The remaining thirty roubles he collected from his family, 
 and fairly cleaned out everyone. His old wife gave him every 
 rouble she had saved up for her funeral; his daughter-in-law also 
 gave him hers. 
 
 Yefim left instructions with his son concerning all household 
 matters : how many fields to rent for haying, what land to manure, 
 and how to finish and roof the hut. He thought about everything, 
 and gave orders how everything was to be done. 
 
 EHsha only told his old wife to be sure to separate the young 
 swarms that were to be sold from his own, and to give them all 
 honestly to the neighbour; and that was all. He did not even 
 speak of household affairs. "You will see for yourself what there 
 is to be done," he said. "You are masters, and you will do what 
 you think best." 
 
 At last everything was ready. The women folk baked a lot of 
 flat cakes, sewed some bags to put them in, gave them new boots, 
 plaited some extra shoes of birch-bark, and cut new strips of linen 
 for the leg-bands (used by Russian peasants instead of stockings). 
 Then the old men set out accompanied by their families as far as 
 the end of the village. There they bade them good-bye and went 
 on their way alone. 
 
 EUsha started with a light heart, and forgot all his cares as soon 
 as he had left the village behind. His only thoughts were how to 
 please his comrade, how to avoid being harsh to anyone, and 
 how to get to the journey's end and home again in peace and love 
 with all men. As he walked he was all the time whispering prayers 
 to himself or repeating what lives of the saints he could remember. 
 When he met people on the road or stopped anywhere for the 
 night, he was always on the watch to do a kindness to anyone, 
 and to say a good word to all. And he went on his way rejoicing. 
 There was only one thing he could not give up. He had meant to 
 give up taking snuff, and had even left his snuff-box at home, 
 but he felt very bad without it, — and then a stranger on the 
 road gave him some. So from time to time he fell behind his
 
 TOLSTOY II 
 
 companion— not to lead him into temptation— and took his 
 pinch. 
 
 Yefim also got on well. He walked steadily, said very httle, 
 and did no wrong; but there was no content in his heart. He could 
 not free his mind from cares about his household matters. He 
 was always thinking of how they were getting on at horne.^ Had 
 he forgotten to give this or that order to his son ? Would his son 
 do what was necessan,-? Whenever he saw potatoes being planted 
 or manure carted along the road he would think, "Is my son doing 
 just as I told him ? " And sometimes he felt almost ready to turn 
 back and show his son how the things ought to be done, or even 
 do them himself. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Five weeks went by. They had worn out their new shoes and 
 had to buy others. At last they came to Little Russia. All through 
 their journey so far they had always had to buy their food and to 
 pay for their night's lodgings, but here in Little Russia all the 
 people seemed eager to invite them freely. They were lodged and 
 fed, and their bags were filled with bread or cakes for the journey, 
 and no one would take any money in return. So they made 
 another seven hundred versts (500 miles) which cost them nothing, 
 crossed into another government, and came to a famine-stricken 
 
 district. 
 
 The people here also let them spend the nights without paym-ent, 
 but they got no food. In some places they could not even get 
 any bread, and no money could buy it. Last year, the people said, 
 the crops had failed altogether. The rich peasants had been ruined, 
 and had sold all they had; those who had been moderately well 
 off were now in misery, and the poor had either perished utterly 
 or had become beggars; a few only remained at home, eating 
 ground corn-husks and tree-bark in the winter. 
 
 One morning, after spending the night in a village, the tAvo 
 pilgrims bought fifteen pounds of bread and started off before 
 sunrise, so as to travel a good bit before the heat of the day. They 
 walked about ten versts (seven miles) and then came to a brook, 
 where they sat do\^•n to rest, filled their cups \vith water, soaked 
 their bread and ate. Then they rested awhile, and changed their
 
 12 TOLSTOY 
 
 leg wrappers. Elisha took out his snuff box. Yefim shook his head 
 at him. 
 
 "Why don't you give up that dirty habit?" he said. 
 
 EUsha waved his hand in despair. "I can't help it," he said; 
 "the sin has got the better of me." 
 
 They rose and went on. After ten more versts they came to a 
 large village which they passed through. The sun was hot by this 
 time and Elisha was tired and wanted to rest and have a drink. 
 But Yefim kept on steadily. He was a stronger walker than 
 Elisha, who found it difficult to keep up with him. 
 
 "I should like a drink," said EHsha. 
 
 "Well, go and get a drink. I am not thirsty." 
 
 Elisha stopped, 
 
 "Don't wait for me," he said. "I'll only go into this cottage 
 and get some water and catch you up in a moment." 
 
 "All right," said Yefim, who continued on his way alone, while 
 Elisha turned towards the cottage. 
 
 It was a small hut with plaster walls, painted black below and 
 white above; but the clay was crumbling away in several places 
 and the roof had fallen in on one side. It was clear the hut had 
 not been repaired for a long time. The entrance was through the 
 yard, so into the yard Elisha went, and there was a gaunt beard- 
 less man lying on the ground near the bench, with his shirt tucked 
 into his trousers after the manner of the Little Russians^. The 
 man had probably lain down in the shade, but now the sun was 
 burning full upon him, and though he was not asleep he lay there 
 without moving. Elisha called to him and asked for water but 
 got no answer. 
 
 "He is either sick or bad-tempered," thought Elisha, and he 
 went to the door. He could hear .a child crying inside. He rapped 
 with the latch ring: "Masters ! " he called. No answer. He tapped 
 the door with his stick. "Christians!" No sound. "Servants of 
 God ! " No reply. Elisha was about to turn away when he seemed 
 to hear some one groaning inside. 
 
 "Something's wrong," he thought. "I had better see." And 
 he approached the door again. 
 
 ^ The peasants of Great Russia wear the shirt outside the trousers, 
 after the manner of a smock frock. — Trans.
 
 TOLSTOY 13 
 
 IV 
 
 Elisha turned the handle — the door was unfastened. He opened 
 it and stepped into the passage. The inner door was open; on the 
 left of the room was the stove, in the corner a sifand with images, 
 and a table; near the table a bench, and on the bench sat an old 
 woman with nothing on but a shirt, resting her bare unkempt 
 head on the table. By her side stood a little boy with a swollen 
 stomach, thin, and white as wax, pulling her by the sleeve, and 
 screaming and sobbing and asking for something to eat. Elisha 
 entered. The stench in the room was suffocating. Behind the 
 oven, on a shelf, lay another woman, her legs twitching convul- 
 sively and her body rolling over from side to side. She lay on her 
 face and did not look up; her throat was rattling, and the stench 
 rose from her shelf. It was clear that she was too ill and weak to 
 get up, and that no one had been attending to her or doing 
 anything for her. The old woman raised her head and saw Elisha. 
 
 "What do you want? " she muttered in Little Russian. "What 
 do you want? We've nothing for you." 
 
 EHsha understood and came near to her. "I want some water, 
 friend," he said. 
 
 "There's no one to get any. And we have none. We have 
 nothing. Go your way." 
 
 "Is there no one to look after this woman? " said EHsha. 
 
 "No, no one. Our man is dying in the yard and we are dying 
 here." 
 
 The boy, who had stopped crying when he saw the stranger, 
 caught the old woman by the sleeve again as soon as she began to 
 talk — "Bread, granny, bread," he cried, sobbing, "give me 
 some bread," 
 
 Elisha was going to question the old woman further, when the 
 man staggered into the hut, and tried to reach the bench by 
 clinging to the wall; but he tottered and fell down in the corner 
 near the door, and lay there unable to rise. Then he began to 
 speak. He brought out one word at a time, gasping for breath 
 between each. 
 
 "We are ill. . . " he muttered, "and starving. . . Look. . .he is 
 dying. . .of hunger!" And he pointed to the little boy and burst 
 into tears.
 
 14 TOLSTOY 
 
 Elisha slipped his arms free from the straps, slung his bag to the 
 floor, lifted it to the bench and opened it. He took out a loaf of 
 bread and a knife, cut off a slice and offered it to the peasant. The 
 peasant shook his head and pointed to the boy; "Give it to them." 
 EHsha offered thi bread to the boy, who stretched out his arms, 
 seized it with both hands, and began to eat it ravenously. Then 
 a little girl crawled out from behind the oven and stared at the 
 bread. Elisha gave her a piece also. Then he cut another slice 
 for the old woman. She took it and tried to munch it. "Will you 
 get some water.?" she said: "their throats are parched. I tried 
 to get some — I don't remember when, — yesterday or to-day, — 
 but I fell down — and could not get there, and the pail must be 
 there still, if no one has taken it." 
 
 Elisha asked where the well was and she told him. He went out, 
 found the pail, and brought water and gave them some to drink. 
 The children and the old woman ate some more bread with the 
 water, but the man refused. "I can't eat," he said. 
 
 The other woman was still unconscious, and lay tossing from 
 side to side on the shelf. 
 
 Elisha went into the village and bought meal, salt, flour and 
 butter. Then he found a hatchet, chopped some wood and lighted 
 the fire; the girl helped him and he made some soup and gruel 
 and fed them all. 
 
 The man ate, and the old woman also, and the children licked 
 the bowl clean and then lay down to sleep in each other's arms. 
 Then the peasant and the old woman began to tell Elisha how it 
 had all happened. 
 
 "We were never rich," said the peasant, "and last year all the 
 crops failed, and since autumn we have been living on what we 
 had laid by. When we had spent everything we had, we asked 
 the good people around to help vis. At first they gave, but after a 
 time they refused. Even those who would have been glad to help 
 us had nothing themselves. And we were ashamed to go on 
 begging — we owed everyone — money, flour and bread. I tried to 
 get work, but there was none to be had. All the people are offering 
 to work these famine days, just for their keep. One day I would 
 have work and the next two I would do nothing but hunt about
 
 TOLSTOY 15 
 
 for a job. The old woman and the girl went begging far away 
 from home, but they got very little. No one had any bread. Still 
 we managed to keep along somehow, hoping to pull through till 
 the new crops. But when spring came no one would help us any 
 more, and then sickness came. We were very bad then. One 
 day we ate and two days we had nothing. Then we began to eat 
 grass. Then my woman fell ill— whether it was from the grass 
 or not I don't know. She couldn't move and I, also, have no 
 strength left. And I don't know how we are going to be cured." 
 
 "I alone managed to keep up a little longer," said the old 
 woman, "but I grew very weak without food and my strength 
 failed. The girl also became very weak and frightened. I tried to 
 send her to the neighbours, but she would not go. She got into a 
 corner and we couldn't get her out. The other day one of our 
 neighbours looked in but when she saw we were sick and hungry 
 she turned and went out. It is true her husband has gone away 
 and she has nothing to feed her children with.. . .And so we lay 
 here, waiting for death." 
 
 EHsha listened to them and changed his mind about trying to 
 join Yefim that day. He stopped the night, and the next morning 
 he set to on the household work as if he had been the master. He 
 made the lire and helped the old woman to mix the bread; then he 
 took the girl and went to the neighbours to get the most needful 
 things. There was nothing in the cottage, neither food nor clothing; 
 everything had been eaten or sold. Elisha began to get the most 
 necessary things together; some he made himself, others he bought. 
 So he lived there three days. The little boy got stronger and 
 began to run about and to make friends with Elisha. The girl 
 became quite bright again and helped Elisha with everything, 
 and followed him about calling him "grandad." The old woman 
 got well enough to go to her neighbours. The peasant himself 
 could walk a little, holding on to the wall. Only the young woman 
 was no better, but on the third day she came to herself and asked 
 for food, 
 
 "Well," thought Elisha, " I must be going now. I never thought 
 to waste so much time."
 
 i6 TOLSTOY 
 
 VI 
 
 The fourth dav was the end of the summer fast from meat-eating, 
 and EHsha thought: "I'll stay and break the fast with them and 
 buy them something for the Saint's Day, and then I can start in 
 the evening." So he went into the village and bought milk and 
 lard and white fiour, and helped the old woman to cook; and next 
 morning he went to church, and came home, and ate the festival 
 meal with them. The young woman got up that day and began 
 to move about feebly. The man shaved, put on a clean shirt which 
 the old woman had washed for him, and went into the village to 
 a rich peasant to ask a favour. His corn and hay fields were 
 mortgaged to this peasant, and now he went to ask whether he 
 might have them till the new crops. In the evening he returned 
 weeping and in despair. The rich peasant had refused. "Bring 
 the money first," he said. 
 
 Elisha grew thoughtful again. 
 
 "How will they live now?" he thought. "People will be hay- 
 making, and he will have nothing because his field is pawned. 
 When the rye ripens and the men are reaping it (and what fine 
 crops there will be too this year), he will have nothing because 
 his three-acre is pledged to the rich peasant. If I go away they 
 will soon be just as they were before. 
 
 So Elisha again changed his mind, and instead of leaving that 
 evening he put it off till the morrow. Then he went to sleep in 
 the yard. He prayed and lay down but he could not sleep. He 
 wanted to go on with his journey; as it was he had spent much, 
 both time and money; and yet he was sorry for the people. "You 
 can't help everybody," he thought. "I wanted to give them a 
 piece of bread each and get them some water, and now this is 
 where I am ! Now I must go and buy out their rye field and their 
 grass land. And when I have done that, I must buy a cow for 
 the children's milk and a horse for the man to cart his crops. 
 You've got caught, friend Elisha. You've slipped your cable, 
 and now you can just get out of it as best you can ! " 
 
 Elisha sat up, pulled his kaftan (long cloth coat) from under 
 his head, got out his snuflF box and took a pinch, hoping to clear 
 his mind. But it was of no use. He thought and thought, but 
 could come to no decision. He must go, yet he was sorry to leave
 
 TOLSTOY 17 
 
 these people. What to do he did not know. So he rolled up his 
 kaftan, put it under his head again, and lay down. He lay till 
 dawn and cock-crowing, and was just falling asleep, when suddenly 
 some one seemed to wake him. He dreamed that he was dressed 
 for the journey, with his bag and his staff, and that he had to pass 
 through the gate which was open only just wide enough to squeeze 
 through. As he was slipping through his bag caught on one side, 
 and while he was busy with this, his leg band caught on the other 
 side, and became unfastened. He bent down to put that right, 
 and tlien he saw that it was not the gate that held him, but the 
 little girl, who clung to him crying: " Granddad, little granddad, 
 bread ! " He looked down and there was the boy clutching his 
 foot, and the old woman and the man were looking out of the 
 window. Elisha awoke and said to himself aloud: "To-morrow I 
 will redeem the rye field and the grass land, and I'll buy a horse, 
 and a cow for the children, and flour to last till the new crops. 
 Else in going to look for Christ beyond the seas, I shall lose him 
 in my own soul. I must help these people." Then he went to 
 sleep till the morning. 
 
 He got up early — went to the rich peasant and redeemed the 
 rye and grass fields. Then he bought a scythe — even that had 
 been sold — and carried it to the cottage. He sent the man to 
 mow his field, and he himself went back into the village. At last 
 he found a horse and cart for sale at the inn, bargained for it, and 
 paid the price; bought a sack of flour which he put into the cart, 
 and went off to buy the cow. On his way he overtook two women 
 who were talking together as they went. He heard what they 
 said, and understood enough of the dialect to know that they were 
 talking of him. 
 
 "At first they thought he was just an ordinary man. He said 
 he had come in to get some water to drink. And then he stayed 
 with them. The things he has bought for them ! To-day I saw 
 him buying a horse and cart for them at the innkeeper's. 
 I have never seen such people in the world. It is a thing to 
 wonder at." 
 
 Elisha understood that they were praising him and he decided 
 not to buy the cow. So he turned back to the inn, paid for the 
 horse, harnessed it and drove to the cottage. At the gate he stopped 
 and got down. When the people saw the horse they were amazed.
 
 i8 TOLSTOY 
 
 and though it seemed plain that he had bought it for them they 
 hardly dared to think so. The man came to open the gate. 
 
 "Where did you get your horse, httle father?" he asked. 
 
 "I bought it. It was going cheap. Better cut some grass to 
 put in the manger for the night; and put the sack in the loft." 
 
 The man unharnessed the horse, took the sack, mowed some 
 grass and put it into the manger. Then all the family lay down to 
 sleep. Elisha lay down in the yard taking his own bag with him. 
 When everyone was asleep he rose, put on his shoes and his 
 haftan, slung his bag on his shoulders and went on his way to 
 find Yefim. 
 
 VII 
 
 EUsha walked on about five versts (three miles) ; the dawn was 
 beginning to break. He sat down under a tree, untied his bag 
 and counted his money. He found he had only seventeen roubles 
 and twenty kopecks left. 
 
 "Well," he thought, "I can't cross the sea with that. And if I 
 begin to beg, I may fall into worse sin than before. Friend Yefim 
 will have to get there alone, and he will burn a candle for me. 
 As for me, I shall never be able to keep my vow, but thanks be 
 to the Master, He is merciful; He will forgive me." 
 
 Elisha arose, put the bag on his shoulders, and turned home- 
 wards. Only he made a sweep in order to avoid the village, so 
 that the people might not see him. He soon reached his home. 
 The outward journey had seemed hard to him ; at times he scarcely 
 had been able to keep up with Yefim. But going back God gave 
 him such strength that he knew no weariness. He walked along 
 lightly, swinging his staff, and making seventy versts a day. 
 
 When he got home he found the harvests already gathered in. 
 His family was delighted to have their old man back again, and 
 questioned him eagerly as to his journey, and how he had lost his 
 companion, and why he had given up his journey and returned 
 home. EHsha however did not tell them how it all came about, 
 but contented himself with saying: 
 
 "Well, God willed it so. I spent the money on the road, and 
 then I lost my companion, and so I had to give it up. Forgive me, 
 for Christ's sake," 
 
 He gave his old wife what remained of the money, and asked
 
 TOLSTOY 19 
 
 about the household matters. All was well, everything had been 
 done, there had been neither mistakes nor carelessness, and all 
 were living in peace and concord. 
 
 Yefim's family heard about Elisha's return that very day, and 
 came to ask him about their old man. He told them the same 
 thing. 
 
 "Yefim was quite well," he said, "when we parted three days 
 before St Peter's day. I wanted to catch him up, but then it 
 so happened that I spent my money, and there was not enough 
 left to go on with, so I came back." 
 
 The people wondered how a sensible man could do such a foolish 
 thing — start on a journey and not finish it and lose all his money 
 instead ! They talked about it and then forgot it. And EHsha also 
 forgot. He took up his house-work again, helped his son to store 
 the wood for the winter and his women to grind the grain; he 
 roofed the barns and hived the bees and gave the ten hives with 
 their increase to the neighbour. 
 
 His old wife wanted to hide the number of young swarms, but 
 EHsha knew very well which of the old hives were swarming and 
 which were not, and he gave the neighbour seventeen instead of 
 ten. When all was finished, EHsha sent his son away to work, and 
 settled down at home for the winter, to plait bark shoes and to 
 make bee-hives. 
 
 VIII 
 
 All that day while Elisha was in the hut with the starving 
 peasan.ts, Yefim was waiting for him. He went only a little way, 
 and then he sat down. He waited and waited, and fell asleep and 
 woke and waited again, but EHsha did not appear. He looked 
 and looked till his eyes ached. The sun had sunk behind the tree. 
 and stiH no Elisha came. "Perhaps he has passed me," he thought, 
 "or perhaps someone gave him a lift and he did not see me while 
 I was sleeping. And yet how could he have missed me ? One sees 
 far in the steppes. If I go back and he is in front we shall lose 
 each other completely, I will go on; we are sure to meet at night." 
 
 He walked on to the next village and asked the Elder, if a little 
 old man came, to send him to the same hut. 
 
 But Elisha did not come, 
 
 Yefim went further, and of every one he asked whether they
 
 20 TOLSTOY 
 
 had seen a littie bald old man. No one had seen him. %'efun 
 wondered and went on his way alone. 
 
 "We shall meet in Odessa," he thought, "or on board ship," 
 and he ceased to trouble about it. 
 
 On the way he met a pilgrim wearing a skull-cap, a cassock, and 
 long hair; he had been to the monastery at Mount Athos and was 
 now going a second time to Jerusalem. They met at a lodging 
 place, fell into conversation, and went on together. 
 
 They reached Odessa, and waited there three days for a ship. 
 Crowds of pilgrims from many lands were waiting there. Yefim 
 again enquired about EUsha, but no one had seen him. 
 
 Yefim got a foreign passport, which cost him five roubles; 
 then he paid forty roubles for the passage to Jerusalem and back, 
 and bought bread and herrings for the journey. 
 
 The pilgrim tried to tell Yefim how he might get on the ship 
 without paying, but Yefim would not listen. "No," he said, "I 
 came prepared to pay, and I prefer to pay." 
 
 The ship was freighted and the pilgrims went on board, Yefim 
 and liis companion among them. The anchor was hfted and they 
 started. The first day was fine, but towards evening a wind arose, 
 the rain came down in torrents, and the ship was tossed about 
 till the waves swept over the deck. The people were terrified ; the 
 women wailed and screamed, and some of the weaker men ran 
 about looking for shelter, 
 
 Yefim also was frightened, only he would not show it; he sat 
 on the deck without moving, on the spot he had chosen on coming 
 aboard, among the Tambov pilgrims, and there he remained the 
 whole night and all the next day. None of them spoke, but all 
 sat holding their bags tightly all the time. On the third day the 
 weather cleared up again, and on the fifth they came to Con- 
 stantinople. 
 
 Some of the pilgrims landed and went to see the church of 
 St Sophia, which is now in the hands of the Turks; but Yefim 
 stayed on board, and only bought some white bread. They stayed 
 there for a day, and then started again. They stopped at Smyrna 
 and then at Alexandria, and at last reached Jaffa. At Jaffa all 
 the pilgrims had to land, and thence to travel seventy versts on 
 foot to Jerusalem. At the landing the pilgrims were greatly 
 frightened. The ship was high, and the people had to jump down
 
 TOLSTOY 21 
 
 into the boats, which tossed to and fro so that you were as likely 
 as not to fall into the water. Two pilgrims did get a wetting, but 
 at last all were safely landed. 
 
 Then they continued their journey on foot, and on the third 
 day, towards noon, they reached Jerusalem. They stopped outside 
 the city, in the Russian quarter; had their passports examined; 
 ate some food, and then went off to see the Holy places. But 
 it was not the proper time for admittance to the grave of Christ. 
 
 So they went to the Patriarchal Monastery, where all the 
 pilgrims were gathered together and the men separated from the 
 women. Then they were told to take off their foot-gear and to sit 
 in a circle. Then a monk appeared with a towel and began to 
 wash their feet. He washed, wiped, and kissed the feet of each 
 pilgrim in turn, and did the same to Yefim. Then the pilgrims 
 attended vespers and matins, said their prayers, burned candles, 
 and offered petitions for their relatives. Here they ate again, also, 
 and wine was given them. 
 
 The next morning they, went to the cell of Mary of Egypt 
 where she had lived in penitence. There also they offered candles 
 and paid for a Te Deum. Then they went to Abraham's Monaster)' 
 and saw the garden of Jehovah, where Abraham nearly sacrificed 
 his son to God. Afterwards they visited the spot where Christ 
 appeared to Mary Magdalen, and to the church of James the 
 brother of Christ. 
 
 All these places were pointed out to Yefim by the pilgrim, who 
 also told him how much money was to be given everywhere. 
 
 They returned to their inn for dinner, and after they had eaten 
 they were getting ready to go to bed, when suddenly the pilgrim 
 began to cry out and to search among his clothes. "They have 
 stolen my purse," he cried, "with tAventy-three roubles. I had 
 two ten rouble notes and three roubles in change." He groaned 
 and mourned, but as there was nothing to be done, they all finally 
 lay dowTi to sleep. 
 
 IX 
 
 Yefim lay without sleeping, and temptation beset him. "No 
 one has stolen his money," he thought; "he never had any. He 
 did not give anywhere. He only told me to give and took a 
 rouble from me."
 
 22 TOLSTOY 
 
 Then Yefim began to blame himself for thinking such things. 
 "Why do I judge the man?" he said to himself. "I am sinning. 
 I will not think about it any more." But he soon forgot his 
 resolution and remembered how greedy the pilgrim seemed about 
 money and how unlikely it sounded when he said that his purse 
 had been stolen. "He never had any money," thought Yefim. 
 "It's only a trick." 
 
 They rose early to go to mass in the great Church of the Resur- 
 rection — the Lord's Sepulchre. The pilgrim stuck to Yefim and 
 followed him about everywhere. 
 
 They reached the Church. There were crowds of pilgrims of all 
 nations: Russians and Greeks and Armenians and Turks and 
 Syrians. They all crowded to the Holy Gate. Then a monk came 
 and guided them past the Turkish sentries to the spot where 
 Christ's body had been taken from the cross and anointed, and 
 where nine great candles were burning. The monk explained and 
 showed everything, and Yefim placed a candle there. 
 
 Then the monks led him to the right up some steps to the hill 
 of Golgotha, where the cross had stood, and Yefim prayed there. 
 They showed him the hole in the earth where it had opened to 
 its nethermost depths, and the spot where the hands and feet of 
 Christ were nailed to the cross. They showed him Adam's grave, 
 where the Lord's blood had fallen upon Adam's bones; the stone 
 on which Christ had sat when he was crowned with the crown of 
 thorns; the post to which he was bound when the soldiers scourged 
 him; the stone with two holes for his feet. 
 
 The monks wanted to show something else, but the people were 
 impatient and all hastened to the cave of the Lord's Sepulchre. 
 The Latin mass was over, and the Orthodox (Greek) mass had 
 just begun. Yefim went with the people into the cave. 
 
 He tried to get rid of the pilgrim, for in his thoughts he sinned 
 against him all the time; but the pilgrim stayed by him and fol- 
 lowed him ever)'where, — to the mass, and to the Lord's Sepulchre. 
 They tried to get to the front but were too late. The crowd was 
 so packed that one could not move a step either forwards or back- 
 wards. So Yefim stood up, looking straight before him and 
 praying and from time to time feeling for his purse. He was not 
 quiet in his mind: on the one hand he thought that the pilgrim 
 was lying to him, and on the other hand, that he might be
 
 TOLSTOY 23 
 
 speaking the truth, and then if the money had been really stolen 
 from him, the same thing might happen to Yefim himself. 
 
 So he stood praying and looking before him into the shrine 
 where the Tomb- itself stood, with thirty-six lamps burning 
 above it. And as he stood gazing over the heads before him he 
 suddenly saw, standing just under the lamps where the sacred 
 fire burns, and in front of all the people — a little old man in a 
 gray kaftan, with his bald head shining in the light, just like 
 Elisha Bodrov. "He looks like EHsha," thought Yefim, "but it 
 cannot be. He could not have got here before me. The last ship 
 started a week before ours. He could not have caught it, and I 
 know he was not on ours, for I saw all the pilgrims." 
 
 Hardly had Yefim thought thus, when the old man began to 
 pray, and bowed three times, first straight before him to God, and 
 then to all the Christian brethren — to right and left. And when 
 he turned his head, Yefim recognised him. It was EHsha himself: 
 he could see his black, curly beard, with the gray hairs on the 
 cheeks, his eyebrows and eyes and nose, and his whole face — it 
 was Elisha without a doubt. 
 
 Yefim was delighted to have found his companion, and wondered 
 how he had managed to arrive before him. 
 
 "There's a clever one," he thought; "he has got on in front of 
 everybody! I suppose he found someone who helped him and 
 brought him there. I will look for him when everyone goes up, 
 and I will get rid of my pilgrim with the skull cap and go with 
 Elisha. I daresay he will find a place for me too in front." 
 
 Yefim stood watching Elisha all the time, not to lose sight of 
 him. When the mass was finished, the crowd surged forward, 
 crushing each other in their haste to kiss the cross, and Yefim was 
 pushed aside. Again fear seized him lest he should lose his purse. 
 He clutched it with one hand and began shouldering his way 
 through the crowd to get into the open. When at last he succeeded, 
 he began to wander backwards and forwards, watching and look- 
 ing for Elisha, both in the court and inside the church. In the 
 cells surrounding the chapel he saw a great many people, some of 
 them eating and drinking wine, and sleeping and reading. But 
 nowhere could he see Elisha. And Yefim went back to the inn
 
 24 TOLSTOY 
 
 without finding him. That evening the pilgrim did not return. 
 He disappeared, and Yefim's rouble with him. And Yefim was 
 left alone. 
 
 The next day he again went to the Holy Sepulchre with an old 
 Tambov peasant who had come on the same ship with him. He 
 tried to get to the front, but was crushed back, so he stood against 
 a pillar and began to prav. He looked forward, and there was 
 EHsha again, standing right in front, beside the Tomb, under the 
 lights, with his arms stretched out like the priest at the altar, and 
 his bald head all shining. "Well," thought Yefim, "I shan't 
 miss him this time." And he pushed his way to the front, but 
 when he got there, EHsha had disappeared. Clearly, he had left 
 his place. On the third day, while Yefim looked, there was EHsha 
 again, standing in full sight on the most sacred spot, with his 
 arms spread out and his face turned upwards, as though he saw 
 something above him; and his bald head shone more than ever. 
 "WeU," thought Yefim, "I must catch him this time, I shall go 
 and wait for him at the entrance. We can't miss each other there." 
 So he went out and stood at the gate, and waited there half the 
 day. All the people passed him, but there was no EHsha. 
 
 Yefim remained six weeks in Jerusalem and went everywhere: 
 to Bethlehem and to Bethany and to the Jordan; and at the 
 Holy Sepulchre he had a seal put on a new shirt, that he might 
 be buried in it; and he took some water from the Jordan in a 
 bottle, and sacred earth, and candles with the sacred flame, and 
 he paid in eight places for prayers for the souls of his relatives, 
 till all his money was spent and he had only just enough to get 
 home with. At last he started on his way back. He reached 
 Jaffa ; got on board a ship that was sailing for Odessa, and thence 
 started home on foot. 
 
 XI 
 
 Yefim followed the road by which he had gone. As he came 
 nearer to his home he was again beset with anxieties as to how 
 things had been going on during his absence. "Much water runs 
 away in a year! It takes a life-time to build a home, but not long 
 to destroy it. Has the son managed the business properly without 
 me? How has the spring opened, and how have the cattle passed 
 the winter, and how has the hut been finished?"
 
 TOLSTOY 25 
 
 Yefim was now near the spot where he had parted with EHsha 
 last year. The people were not to be recognised. Where last year 
 they were starving, now they were living in plenty. The harvest 
 had been good, and the people were better off and had forgotten 
 their former misery. 
 
 One evening Yefim came to the place where Elisha had left 
 him. As he entered the village, a little girl in a white smock ran 
 out from behind one of the huts. 
 
 "Grandad, little grandad ! Come to our house ! " 
 
 Yefim wanted to pass on, but the little girl caught him by his 
 kaftan and dragged him towards the hut, laughing. A woman 
 with a small boy stood in the door-way and beckoned to him. 
 "Come and have supper with us, little grandad; then you can 
 spend the night." 
 
 Yefim entered. "I will just ask about Elisha," he thought. 
 "I believe this was the very hut he went into for some water." 
 
 The woman took the bag from his shoulders, gave him some 
 water to wash himself, and seated him at the table. Then she 
 gave him milk, varenniki (curd dumplings) and gruel. Yefim 
 thanked her, and praised her for being so hospitable to strangers. 
 
 The woman shook her head. "How can we help taking in 
 strangers? " she said. "A stranger gave us life. We lived without 
 remembering God, and God punished us so that we expected 
 nothing but death. Last summer we were all lying in this hut, 
 sick, and with nothing to eat. And we should have died, only 
 God sent us an old man like yourself. He came in one day at noon 
 to drink; and when he saw us he pitied us and stayed with us. 
 He fed us and gave us drink, and helped us, and redeemed our 
 land, and bought a horse and cart and left them with us." 
 
 Here an old woman entered the hut and interrupted the speaker. 
 
 "And up to this day," she said, "we don't know whether he 
 was a man or an angel of God. He loved us all, and pitied us all, 
 and then he went away without saying who he was; and we don't 
 even know whom we should pray to God for. I can see it all now- 
 just so. There I lay waiting for death, when in comes a little 
 old man with a bald head. He didn't seem anything much, and 
 he asked for water. And I sinned and thought: 'What does he 
 want here? ' As soon as he saw us he took off his bag and placed it 
 here and opened it,"
 
 26 TOLSTOY 
 
 "No, granny," said the little girl, "he put it first on the 
 floor in the middle of the room and then he lifted it on to the 
 bench." 
 
 So they disputed, calling to mind all his words and deeds: 
 where he sat and slept, and what he did, and what he said to 
 them. 
 
 Before the night the peasant came home in his cart, and he 
 also began to talk of Elisha and what he had done for them. 
 
 "If he hadn't come to us," he said, "we should all have died 
 in our sins. We were dying in despair, cursing God and man. But 
 he brought us back to life, and through him we learned to know 
 God and to believe in the goodness of men. Christ bless him! 
 We lived like beasts before: and he made us men." 
 
 They gave food and drink to Yefim, and made a place for him 
 to sleep in, and then lay down themselves. 
 
 Yefim lay awake, thinking of Elisha ; his mind full of the three 
 times he had seen him in the chapel at Jerusalem. 
 
 "So that is how he got a place before me," thought Yefim. 
 "Whether God has accepted mv labours or not I don't know. 
 But God has certainly accepted his." 
 
 The next morning the people bade good-bye to Yefim, gave 
 him patties for his journey and went to their work. And Yefim 
 took the road again. 
 
 XII 
 
 Yefim's pilgrimage had lasted a year. It was spring when he 
 returned. 
 
 He reached home in the evening. His son was not at home, he 
 was in the tavern, and when he did appear he was drunk. Yefim 
 questioned him, and soon saw that his son had been making merry 
 during his absence — -had squandered all the money, and neglected 
 all the work. Yefim began to upbraid him and he answered 
 insolently: "Why didn't you stay yourself, instead of going off 
 for a journey? You took all the money, and now you expect me 
 to have some." 
 
 The old man grew angrv and struck his son. 
 
 The next morning Yefim went off to the village headman to 
 speak about his son. As he was passing Elisha's house, he saw 
 Elisha's old wife standing in the doorway and beckoning to him.
 
 TOLSTOY 27 
 
 "Good morning, friend," she said. "How did you make your 
 journey?" 
 
 Yefim stopped, "Glory to God," he said, "all went well with 
 me. I lost your old man, but I hear he has come home." 
 
 The old woman began to talk — she was always glad of a talk. 
 
 "Yes, he came back long ago, our breadwinner," she said. 
 "He came home soon after the Assumption. And glad we were 
 that God had brought him. We were lonesome enough when he 
 wasn't with us. It's true he can't work much now, because his 
 years are great; but still he is our master and we are glad. And 
 how glad the boy was! 'Without him,' he says, 'it's as bad as 
 without sunlight.' Ah ! yes, desired friend, we were lonesome 
 enough without him, and missed him very much, for we love him 
 so." 
 
 "Well, then, is he at home now?" 
 
 "Yes, dear friend, he is at home, in the bee-garden; he is hiving 
 the swarms. He says the bees are swarming finely this year. 
 He says God gives us more than we deserve for our sins. The 
 bees are so strong that he can't remember the like. Go, desired 
 friend, he will be glad to see you." 
 
 Yefim passed through the passage into the yard and the bee- 
 garden. And there stood Elisha in his gray kaftan, under the 
 birch tree, without face-net or gloves, looking upwards, his arms 
 stretched out, and his bald head shining, just as Yefim had seen 
 him. in Jerusalem. And above him through the birch branches, 
 the sunshine gleamed like the sacred fire in the Holy Place, and 
 round his head the golden bees had formed a halo and buzzed 
 gently without stinging him. Yefim stood still. 
 
 The old woman called to Elisha. 
 
 "Gossip," she said, "our friend is here." 
 
 Elisha turned round, was glad, and went to meet him, plucking 
 the bees gently out of his beard. 
 
 "God be with you, neighbour! God be with you, my dear 
 friend ! Well, and did you make your journey? " 
 
 "Yes, my feet made the journey. And I have brought you 
 some holy water from the Jordan. Come home and get it. But 
 I don't know if God has accepted my labour. . . " 
 
 "Well, well, glory to God, Christ save you!" 
 
 Yefim was silent.
 
 28 TOLSTOY 
 
 "My feet were there," he said at last, "but whether my soul 
 was there, or someone else's. . . " 
 
 "God's business, neighbour, God's business." 
 
 "I stopped on the way back at the cottage where you stayed 
 behind..." 
 
 Elisha looked frightened and interrupted him hurriedly: 
 
 "God's business, neighbour, God's business. Well, come in 
 and rest awhile, will you, and I will bring you some honey." 
 
 And Elisha changed the conversation and began to talk about 
 household matters. 
 
 Yefim sighed and did not try again to speak about the people 
 in the hut, or how he had seen Elisha in Jerusalem. But he now 
 understood that the best way to keep one's vows to God and do 
 His will is for each man to show loving-kindness and do good deeds 
 unto others. 
 
 SWINBURNE 
 
 Algernon Charles Swinburne (1837-1909), the son of an English admiral, 
 was born in London and educated at Eton and Oxford. Among his books of 
 verse may b.e named Atalanta in Calydon, Poems and Ballads, Songs before 
 Sunrise, and Tristram of Lyonesse. Swinburne, like Byron, was a good 
 swimmer, and many of his poems refer to the sea. He has written^ too, 
 much about France and Italy and their stirring history. Swinburne's verse 
 is as remarkable for its fulness of language as for its rhythm. The extract 
 which follows is from Tristram of Lyonesse. Sir Tristram, the knight, is 
 bringing the lovely princess Iseult from Ireland to be the bride of his uncle 
 King Mark of Cornwall. 
 
 SIR TRISTRAM ROWS THE SHIP 
 
 And while they sat at speech as at a feast, 
 Came a light wind fast hardening forth of the east 
 And blackening till its might had marred the skies; 
 And the sea thrilled as with heart-sundering sighs 
 One after one drawn, with each breath it drew. 
 And the green hardened into iron blue, 
 And the soft light went out of all its face. 
 Then Tristram girt him for an oarsman's place 
 And took his oar and smote, and toiled with might 
 In the east wind's full face and the strong sea's spite 
 Labouring; and all the rowers rowed hard, but he
 
 SWINBURNE 29 
 
 More mightily than any wearier three. 
 
 And Iseult watched him rowing with sinless eyes 
 
 That loved him but in holy girlish wise 
 
 For noble joy in his fair manUness 
 
 And trust and tender wonder; none the less 
 
 She thought if God had given her grace to be 
 
 Man, and make war on danger of earth and sea, 
 
 Even such a man she would be; for his stroke 
 
 Was mightiest as the mightier water broke, 
 
 And in sheer measure like strong music drave 
 
 Clean through the wet weight of the wallowing wave; 
 
 And as a tune before a great king played 
 
 For triumph was the tune their strong strokes made. 
 
 And sped the ship through with smooth strife of oars 
 
 Over the mid sea's grey foam-paven floors, 
 
 For all the loud breach of the waves at will. 
 
 So for an hour they fought the storm out still, 
 
 And the shorn foam spun from the blades, and high 
 
 The keel sprang from the wave-ridge, and the sky 
 
 Glared at them for a breath's space through the rain; 
 
 Then the bows with a sharp shock plunged again 
 
 Down, and the sea clashed on them, and so rose 
 
 The bright stem like one panting from swift blows, 
 
 And as a swimmer's joyous beaten head 
 
 Rears itself laughing, so in that sharp stead 
 
 The light ship lifted her long quivering bows 
 
 As might the man his buffeted strong brows 
 
 Out of the wave-breach; for with one stroke yet 
 
 Went all men's oars together, strongly set 
 
 As to loud music, and with hearts uplift 
 
 They smote their strong way through the drench and drift : 
 
 Till the keen hour had chafed itself to death 
 
 And the east wind fell fitfully, breath by breath, 
 
 Tired ; and across the thin and slackening rain 
 
 Sprang the face southward of the sun again. 
 
 Then all they rested and were eased at heart; 
 
 And Iseult rose up where she sat apart. 
 
 And with her sweet soul deepening her deep eyes 
 
 Cast the furs from her and subtle embroideries
 
 30 SWINBURNE 
 
 That wrapped her from the storming rain and spray, 
 
 And shining hke all April in one day, 
 
 Hair, face, and throat dashed with the straying showers, 
 
 She stood the first of all the whole world's flowers, 
 
 And laughed on Tristram with her eyes, and said, 
 
 "I too have heart then, I was not afraid." 
 
 TENNYSON 
 
 Alfred Tennyson (1809-92) was the son of a Lincolnshire clergyman. His 
 first poems were published at the age of seventeen before he went up to 
 Trinity College, Cambridge, and other volumes of short pieces followed at 
 intervals during the next sixteen years. His longer poems, The Princess, 
 In Memoriam, Maud and The Idylls of the King, all published later, did not 
 surpass the beauty of his earlier, shorter pieces. Tennyson also wrote a few 
 plays, one of which, Becket, was staged with much success by Henry Irving. 
 
 Sir Galahad, the subject of the first of the poems which follow, was the 
 stainless knight of the Round Table, who achieved the Holy Grail, the 
 Sacred Cup of our Lord which had fallen into the hands of the heathen. 
 
 Saint Agnes, the child martyr (celebrated on 21 January), is the maiden 
 saint as Galahad is the pure knight. 
 
 SIR GALAHAD 
 
 My good blade carves the casques of men. 
 
 My tough lance thrusteth sure, 
 My strength is as the strength of ten, 
 
 Because my heart is pure. 
 The shattering trumpet shrilleth high, 
 
 The hard brands shiver on the steel. 
 The splinter'd spear-shafts crack and fly, 
 
 The horse and rider reel : 
 They reel, they roll in clanging lists. 
 
 And when the tide of combat stands. 
 Perfume and flowers fall in showers. 
 
 That lightly rain from ladies' hands 
 
 How sweet are looks that ladies bend 
 
 On whom their favours fall ! 
 For them I battle till the end, 
 
 To save from shame and thrall:
 
 TENNYSON 31 
 
 But all my heart is drawn above, 
 
 My knees are bow'd in crypt and shrine: 
 I never felt the kiss of love, 
 
 Nor maiden's hand in mine. 
 More bounteous aspects on me beam, 
 
 Me mightier transports move and thrill; 
 So keep I fair thro' faith and prayer 
 
 A virgin heart in work and will. 
 
 When down the stormy crescent goes, 
 
 A light before me swims. 
 Between dark stems the forest glows, 
 
 I hear a noise of hymns : 
 Then by some secret shrine I ride; 
 
 I hear a voice, but none are there; 
 The stalls are void, the doors are wide, 
 
 The tapers burning fair. 
 Fair gleams the snowy altar-cloth, 
 
 The silver vessels sparkle clean. 
 The shrill bell rings, the censer swings. 
 
 And solemn chaunts resound between. 
 
 Sometimes on lonely mountain-meres 
 
 I find a magic bark; 
 I leap on board : no helmsman steers : 
 
 I float till all is dark. 
 A gentle sound, an awful light ! 
 
 Three angels bear the holy Grail : 
 With folded feet, in stoles of white. 
 
 On sleeping wings they sail. 
 Ah, blessed vision ! blood of God ! 
 
 My spirit beats her mortal bars, 
 As down dark tides the glory slides. 
 
 And star-like mingles with the stars. 
 
 When on my goodly charger borne 
 
 Thro' dreaming towns I go, 
 The cock crows ere the Christmas morn. 
 
 The streets are dumb with snow.
 
 32 TENNYSON 
 
 The tempest crackles on the leads, 
 
 And, ringing, springs from brand and mail; 
 But o'er the dark a glory spreads, 
 
 And gilds the driving hail. 
 I leave the plain, I climb the height; 
 
 No branchy thicket shelter yields; 
 But blessed forms in whistling storms 
 
 Fly o'er waste fens and windy fields. 
 
 A maiden knight — to me is given 
 . Such hope, I know not fear; 
 I yearn to breathe the airs of heaven 
 
 That often meet me here. 
 I muse on joy that will not cease, 
 
 Pure spaces clothed in living beams, 
 Pure lilies of eternal peace. 
 
 Whose odours haunt my dreams; 
 And, stricken by an angel's hand, 
 
 This mortal armour that I wear. 
 This weight and size, this heart and eyes, 
 
 Are touched, are turned to finest air. 
 
 The clouds are broken in the sky, 
 
 And thro' the mountain-walls 
 A rolling organ-harmony 
 
 Swells up, and shakes and falls. 
 Then move the trees, the copses nod. 
 
 Wings flutter, voices hover clear: 
 "O just and faithful knight of God! 
 
 Ride on ! the prize is near." 
 So pass I hostel, hall and grange; 
 
 By bridge and ford, by park and pale, 
 All-armed I ride, whate'er betide. 
 
 Until I find the holy Grail.
 
 TENNYSON 33 
 
 ST AGNES' EVE 
 Deep on the convent-roof the snows 
 
 Are sparkHng to the moon : 
 My breath to heaven hke vapour goes: 
 
 May my soul follow soon ! 
 The shadows of the convent-towers 
 
 Slant down the snowy sward, 
 Still creeping with the creeping hours 
 
 That lead me to my Lord: 
 Make Thou my spirit pure and clear 
 
 As are the frosty skies, 
 Or this first snowdrop of the year 
 
 That in my bosom lies. 
 
 As these white robes are soil'd and dark, 
 
 To yonder shining ground ; 
 As this pale taper's earthly spark. 
 
 To yonder argent round ; 
 So shows my soul before the Lamb, 
 
 My spirit before Thee; 
 So in mine earthly house I am, 
 
 To that I hope to be. 
 Break up the heavens, Lord ! and far. 
 
 Thro' all yon starlight keen. 
 Draw me, Thy bride, a glittering star. 
 
 In raiment white and clean. 
 
 He lifts me to the golden doors; 
 
 The flashes come and go; 
 All heaven bursts her starry floors. 
 
 And strows her lights below, 
 And deepens on and up ! the gates 
 
 Roll back, and far within 
 For me the Heavenly Bridegroom waits, 
 
 To make me pure of sin. 
 The sabbaths of Eternity, 
 
 One sabbath deep and wide — 
 A light upon the shining sea — 
 
 The Bridegroom with his bride !
 
 CERVANTES 
 
 Miguel de Cervantes (i 547-161 6), the greatest of Spanish authors, who 
 was born about 17 years before Shakespeare, wrote Don Quixote to ridicule 
 grotesque and highflown romances about knights, magicians, giants and 
 enchanted castles. The book tells how, in La Mancha, a poor village of 
 Spain, dwelt an elderly gentleman named Quixada or Quixana, who had 
 read so many of these fabulous stories that his head became turned. He 
 imagined that he was called upon to become a knight like one of the heroes 
 of the Round Table, and so he habited himself in rusty armour that had been 
 hanging on the walls for generations, and, under the name of Don or Sir 
 Quixote set out to find adventures and right the wrongs of the world. Don 
 Quixote, with all his eccentricity, is a noble-minded gentleman, and his 
 delicate good qualities form an excellent contrast to those of the fat, greedy, 
 good-humoured peasant, Sancho Panza, whom the Don chose as his squire. 
 Don Quixote mounted on a lean and ancient horse (accompanied by Sancho 
 riding on a donkey), and with his kind old head full of the fabulous incidents 
 and elaborate courtesies of the ancient days of chivalry, rides forth into 
 the commonplace, work-a-day world of carters and inn-keepers and country 
 girls, who regard him just as English farm labourers of to-day would regard 
 a tall, thin, grey-haired man in an old suit of armour who came riding over 
 the hills among them, addressing them in elaborate language as noble 
 knights, calling the dairymaids countesses and the cowsheds castles, and 
 assuring them that he was Sir Lancelot or Sir Bedivere. The translation is 
 that of John Ormsby, first published in 1885. 
 
 AN ADVENTURE OF DON QUIXOTE 
 
 Meanwhile Don Quixote worked upon a farm labourer, a neigh- 
 bour of his, an honest man (if indeed that title can be given to 
 him who is poor), but with very little wit in his pate. In a word, 
 he so talked him over, and with such persuasions and promises, 
 that the poor clown made up his mind to sally forth with him and 
 serve him as esquire. Don Quixote, among other things, told 
 him he ought to be ready to go with him gladly, because any 
 moment an adventure might occur that might win an island in 
 the twinkling of an eye and leave him govecnor of it. On these 
 and the like promises Sancho Panza (for so the labourer was 
 called) left wife and children, and engaged himself as esquire to 
 his neighbour. Don Quixote next set about getting some money; 
 and selling one thing and pawning another, and making a bad 
 bargain in every case, he got together a fair sum. He provided 
 himself with a buckler, which he begged as a loan from a friend,
 
 CERVANTES 35 
 
 and, restoring his battered helmet as best he could, he warned 
 bis squire Sancho of the day and hour he meant to set out, that 
 he might provide himself with what he thought most needful. 
 Above all, he charged him to take alforjas^ with him. The other 
 said he would, and that he meant to take also a very good ass that 
 he had, as he was not much given to going on foot. About the 
 ass, Don Quixote hesitated a little, trying whether he could call 
 to mind any knight-errant taking with him an esquire mounted on 
 ass-back, but no instance occurred to his memory. For all that, 
 however, he determined to take him, intending to furnish him 
 with a more honourable mount when a chance of it presented 
 itself, by appropriating the horse of the first discourteous knight 
 he encountered. Himself he provided with shirts and such other 
 things as he could, according to the advice the landlord had given 
 him; all which being settled and done, without taking leave, 
 Sancho Panza of his wife and children, or Don Quixote of his 
 housekeeper and niece, they sallied forth, unseen by anybody, 
 from the village one night, and made such good way in the course 
 of it that by daylight they held themselves safe from discovery, 
 even should search be made for them. 
 
 Sancho rode on his ass like a patriarch with his alforjas and 
 bota^, and longing to see himself soon governor of the island his 
 master had promised him. Don Quixote decided upon taking 
 the same route and road he had taken on his first journey, that 
 over the Campo de Montiel, which he travelled with less discomfort 
 than on the last occasion, for, as it was early morning and the 
 rays of the sun fell on them obliquely, the heat did not distress 
 them. 
 
 And now said Sancho Panza to his master, "Your worship will 
 take care, Sefior Knight-errant, not to forget about the island 
 you have promised me, for be it ever so big I'll be equal to govern- 
 ing it." 
 
 To which Don Quixote replied, "Thou must know, friend 
 Sancho Panza, that it was a practice very m.uch in vogue with 
 the knights-errant of old to make their squires governors of the 
 islands or kingdoms they won, and I am determined that there 
 shall be no failure on my part in so liberal a custom; on the 
 contrary, I mean to improve upon it, for they sometimes, and 
 ^ saddlebags. ^ wine skin. 
 
 3— »
 
 36 CERVANTES 
 
 perhaps most frequently, waited until their squires were old, and 
 then when they had had enough of service and hard days and 
 worse nights, they gave them some title or other, of count, or at 
 the most marquis, of some valley or province more or less; but 
 if thou livest and I live, it may well be that before six days are 
 over, I may have won some kingdom that has others dependent 
 upon it, which will be just the thing to enable thee to be crowned 
 king of one of them. Nor needst thou count this wonderful, for 
 things and chances fall to the lot of such knights in ways so 
 unexampled and unexpected that I might easily give thee even 
 m.ore than I promise thee." 
 
 "In that case," said Sancho Panza, "if I should become a king 
 by one of those miracles your worship speaks of, even Juana 
 Gutierrez, my old woman, would come to be queen and my children 
 infantes." 
 
 "Well, who doubts it?" said Don Quixote. 
 
 "I doubt it," replied Sancho Panza, "because for my part I am 
 persuaded that if God was to shower down kingdoms upon earth, 
 not one of them would fit the head of Mari Gutierrez. Let me tell 
 you, seiior, she is not worth two maravedis for a queen; countess 
 will fit her better, and that only with God's help." 
 
 "Leave it to God, Sancho," returned Don Quixote, "for he 
 will give her what suits her best; but do not undervalue thyself 
 so much as to come to be content with anything less than being 
 governor of a province." 
 
 "I will not, seiior," answered Sancho, "especially as I have a 
 man of such quality for a master in your worship, who will be 
 able to give me all that will be suitable for me and that I can 
 bear." 
 
 At this point they came in sight of thirty or forty windmills 
 that there are on that plain, and as soon as Don Quixote saw them 
 he said to his squire, "Fortune is arranging matters for us better 
 than we could have shaped our desires ourselves, for look there, 
 friend Sancho Panza, where thirty or more monstrous giants 
 present themselves, all of whom I mean to engage in battle and 
 slay, and with whose spoils we shall begin to make our fortunes; 
 for this is righteous warfare, and it is God's good service to sweep 
 so evil a breed from off the face of the earth." 
 
 "What giants?" said Sancho Panza.
 
 CERVANTES 37 
 
 "Those thou seest there," answered his master, "with the long 
 arms, and some have them well-nigh two leagues long." 
 
 "Look, your worship," said Sancho; "what we see there are 
 not giants but windmills, and what seem to be their arms are the 
 sails that turned by the wind make the millstone go." 
 
 "It is easy to see," rephed Don Quixote,-" that thou art not 
 used to this business of adventures; those are giants; and if thou 
 art afraid, away with thee out of this and betake thyself to prayer 
 while I engage them in fierce and unequal combat." 
 
 So saying, he gave the spur to his steed Rocinante, heedless 
 of the cries his squire Sancho sent after him, warning him that 
 most certainly they were windmills and not giants he was going 
 to attack. He, however, was so positive they were giants that he 
 neither heard the cries of Sancho, nor perceived, near as he was, 
 what they were, but made at them shouting, "Fly not, cowards 
 and vile beings, for it is a single knight that attacks you." 
 
 A slight breeze at this moment sprang up, and the great sails 
 began to move, seeing which Don Quixote exclaimed, "Though 
 ye flourish more arms than the giant Briareus, ye have to reckon 
 with me." 
 
 So saying, and commending himself with all his heart to his 
 lady Dulcinea, imploring her to support him in such a peril, with 
 lance in rest and covered by his buckler, he charged at Rocinante's 
 fullest gallop and fell upon the first mill that stood in front of 
 him; but as he drove his lance-point into the sail the wind whirled 
 it round with such force that it shivered the lance to pieces, 
 sweeping with it horse and rider, who went roUing over on the 
 plain, in a sorry plight. Sancho hastened to his assistance as fast 
 as his ass could go, and when he reached him found him unable 
 to move, with such a shock had Rocinante come down with him. 
 "God bless me!" said Sancho, "didn't I tell your worship to 
 mind what you were about, for they were only windmills? and 
 no one could have made any mistake about it but one who had 
 something of the same kind in his head." 
 
 "Hush, friend Sancho," replied Don Quixote, "the fortunes of 
 war more than any other are liable to frequent fluctuations; and 
 moreover I think, and it is the truth, that that same sage Friston 
 who carried off my study and books, has turned these giants into 
 mills in order to rob me of the glory of vanquishing them, such 
 
 1 tl 6 !^ 4 !j
 
 38 CERVANTES 
 
 is the enmity he bears me; but in the end his wicked arts will 
 avail but little against my good sword." 
 
 "God order it as he may," said Sancho Panza, and helping 
 him to rise got him up again on Rocinante, whose shoulder was 
 half out; and then, discussing the late adventure, they followed 
 the road to Puerto Lapice, for there, said Don Quixote, they 
 could not fail to find adventures in abundance and variety, as it 
 was a great thoroughfare. For all that, he was much grieved 
 at the loss of his lance, and saying so to his squire, he added, 
 " I remember having read how a Spanish knight, Diego Perez de 
 Vargas by name, having broken his sword in battle, tore from an 
 oak a ponderous bough or branch, and with it did such things that 
 day, and pounded so many Moors, that he got the surname of 
 Machuca, and he and his descendants from that day forth were 
 called Vargas y Machuca. I mention this because from the first 
 oak I see I mean to rend such another branch, large and stout 
 Hke that, with which I am determined and resolved to do such 
 deeds that thou mayest deem thyself very fortunate in being 
 found worthy to come and see them, and be an eye-witness of 
 things that will with difficulty be beheved." 
 
 "Be that as God will," said Sancho; "I beUeve it all as your 
 worship says it; but straighten yourself a little, for you seem all 
 on one side, may be from the shaking of the fall." 
 
 "That is the truth," said Don Quixote, "and if I make no 
 complaint of the pain it is because knights-errant are not per- 
 mitted to complain of any wound, even though their bowels be 
 coming out through it." 
 
 "If so," said Sancho, "I have nothing to say; but God knows I 
 would rather your worship complained when anything ailed you. 
 For my part, I confess I must complain however small the ache 
 may be; unless indeed this rule about not complaining extends to 
 the squires of knights-errant also." 
 
 Don Quixote could not help laughing at his squire's simplicity, 
 and he assured him he might complain whenever and however he 
 chose, just as he liked, for, so far, he had never read of anything 
 to the contrary in the order of knighthood. 
 
 Sancho bade him remember it was dinner-time, to which his 
 master answered that he wanted nothing himself just then, but 
 that he might eat when he had a mind. With this permission
 
 CERVANTES 39 
 
 Sancho settled himself as comfortably as he could on his beast, 
 and taking out of the alforjas what he had stowed away in them, 
 he jogged along behind his master munching deliberately, and from 
 time to time taking a pull at the bota with a relish that the 
 thirstiest tapster in Malaga might have envied; and while he went 
 on in this way, gulping down draught after draught, he never 
 gave a thought to any of the promises his master had made him, 
 nor did he rate it as hardship but rather as recreation going in 
 quest of adventures, however dangerous they might be. Finally 
 they passed the night among some trees, from one of which Don 
 Quixote plucked a dry branch to serve him after a fashion as a 
 lance, and fixed on it the head he had removed from the broken 
 one. All that night Don Quixote lay awake thinking of his lady 
 Dulcinea, in order to conform to what he had read in his books, 
 how many a night in the forests and deserts knights used to lie 
 sleepless supported by the memory of their mistresses. Not so 
 did Sancho Panza spend it, for having his stomach full of some- 
 thing stronger than chicory water he made but one sleep of it, 
 and, if his master had not called him, neither the rays of the sun 
 beating on his face nor all the cheery notes of the birds welcoming 
 the approach of day would have had power to waken him. On 
 getting up he tried the bota and found it somewhat less full than 
 the night before, which grieved his heart because they did not 
 seem to be on the way to remedy the deficiency readily. Don 
 Quixote did not care to break his fast, for, as has been already 
 said, he confined himself to savoury recollections for nourishment. 
 
 They returned to their former road, leading to Puerto Lapice, 
 and at three in the afternoon they came in sight of it. "Here, 
 brother Sancho Panza," said Don Quixote when he saw it, "we 
 may plunge our hands up to the elbows in what they call ad- 
 ventures; but observe, even shouldst thou see me in the greatest 
 danger in the world, thou must not put a hand to thy sword in 
 my defence, unless indeed thou perceivest that those who assail 
 me are rabble or base folk; for in that case thou mayest very pro- 
 perly aid me; but if they be knights it is on no account permitted 
 or allowed thee by the laws of knighthood to help me until thou 
 hast been dubbed a knight." 
 
 "Most certainly, senor," replied Sancho, "your worship shall 
 be fully obeyed in this matter; all the more as of myself I am
 
 40 CERVANTES 
 
 peaceful and no friend to mixing in strife and quarrels: it is true 
 that as regards the defence of my own person I shall not give 
 much heed to those laws, for laws human and divine allow each 
 one to defend himself against any assailant whatever." 
 
 "That I grant," said Don Quixote, " but in this matter of aiding 
 me against knights thou must hold in check thy natural impetu- 
 osity." 
 
 "I will do so, I promise you," answered Sancho, "and I will 
 keep this precept as carefully as Sunday." 
 
 While they were thus talking there appeared on the road two 
 friars of the order of St Benedict, mounted on two dromedaries, 
 for not less tall were the two mules they rode on. They wore 
 travelling spectacles and carried sunshades; and behind them 
 came a coach attended by four or five persons on horseback and 
 two muleteers on foot. In the coach there was, as afterwards 
 appeared, a Biscay lady on her way to Seville, where her husband 
 was about to take passage for the Indies with an appointment of 
 high honour. The friars, though going the same road, were not 
 in her company; but the moment Don Quixote perceived them he 
 said to his squire, "Either I am mistaken, or this is going to be 
 the most famous adventure that has ever been seen, for those 
 black bodies we see there must be, and doubtless are, magicians 
 who are carrying off some stolen princess in that coach, and with 
 all my might I must undo this wrong." 
 
 "This will be worse than the windmills," said Sancho. "Look, 
 senor; those are friars of St Benedict, and the coach plainly 
 belongs to some travellers: mind, I tell you to mind well what 
 you are about and don't let the devil mislead you." 
 
 "I have told thee already, Sancho," replied Don Quixote, "that 
 on the subject of adventures thou knowest little. What I say is 
 the truth, as thou shalt see presently." 
 
 So saying, he advanced and posted himself in the middle of the 
 road along which the friars were coming, and as soon as he thought 
 they had come near enough to hear what he said, he cried aloud, 
 "Devilish and unnatural beings, release instantly the highborn 
 princesses whom you are carrying off by force in this coach, else 
 prepare to meet a speedy death as the just punishment of your 
 evil deeds." 
 
 The friars drew rein and stood wondering at the appearance of
 
 
 h 
 O 
 
 a 
 
 o 
 
 Q
 
 CERVANTES 41 
 
 Don Quixote as well as at his words, to which they replied, "Senor 
 CabaUero, we are not devilish or unnatural, but two brothers of 
 St Benedict following our road, nor do we know whether or not 
 there are any captive princesses coming in this coach." 
 
 "No soft words with me, for I know you, lying rabble," said 
 Don Quixote, and without waiting for a reply he spurred Rocinante 
 and with levelled lance charged the first friar with such fury and 
 determination, that, if the friar had not flung himself off the mule, 
 he would have brought him to the ground against his will, and 
 sore wounded, if not killed outright. The second brother, seeing 
 how his comrade was treated, drove his heels into his castle of a 
 mule and made off across the country faster than the wind. 
 
 Sancho Panza, when he saw the friar on the ground, dismounting 
 briskly from his ass, rushed towards him and began to strip off 
 his gown. At that instant the friars' muleteers came up and asked 
 what he was stripping him for. Sancho answered them that this 
 fell to him lawfully as spoil of the battle which his lord Don 
 Quixote had won. The muleteers, who had no idea of a joke and 
 did not understand all this about battles and spoils, seeing that 
 Don Quixote was some distance off talking to the travellers in the 
 coach, fell upon Sancho, knocked him down, and leaving hardly 
 a hair in his beard, belaboured him with kicks and left him stretched 
 breathless and senseless on the ground; and without any more 
 delay helped the friar to mount, who, trembHng, terrified, and 
 pale, as soon as he found himself in the saddle, spurred after his 
 companion, who was standing at a distance looking on, watching 
 the result of the onslaught; then, not caring to wait for the end of 
 the affair just begun, they pursued their journey making more 
 crosses than if they had the devil after them. 
 
 Don Quixote was, as has been said, speaking to the lady in the 
 coach: "Your beauty, lady mine," said he, "may now dispose of 
 your person as may be most in accordance with your pleasure, 
 for the pride of your ravishers lies prostrate on the ground through 
 this strong arm of mine; and lest you should be pining to know 
 the name of your deliverer, know that I am called Don Quixote 
 of La Mancha, knight-errant and adventurer, and captive to 
 the peerless and beautiful lady Dulcinea del Toboso: and in 
 return for the service you have received of me I ask no more than 
 that you should return to El Toboso, and on my behalf present
 
 42 CERVANTES 
 
 yourself before that lady and tell her what I have done to set you 
 free." 
 
 One of the squires in attendance upon the coach, a Biscayan, 
 was listening to all Don Quixote was saying, and, perceiving that 
 he would not allow the coach to go on, but was saying it must 
 return at once to El Toboso, he made at him, and seizing his 
 lance addressed him in bad Castilian and worse Biscayan after 
 this fashion, "Begone, caballero, and ill go with thee; by the 
 God that made me, unless thou quittest coach, slayest thee as art 
 here a Biscayan." 
 
 Don Quixote understood him quite well, and answered him 
 very quietly, "If thou wert a knight, as thou art none, I should 
 have already chastised thy folly and rashness, miserable creature." 
 To which the Biscayan returned, "I no gentleman! — I swear to 
 God thou liest as I am Christian: if thou droppest lance and 
 drawest sword, soon shalt thou see thou art carrying water to the 
 cat: Biscayan on land, hidalgo at sea, hidalgo at the devil, and 
 look, if thou sayest otherwise thou liest." 
 
 "You will see presently," repHed Don Quixote; and throwing 
 his lance on the ground he drew his sword, braced his buckler 
 on his arm, and attacked the Biscayan, bent upon taking his life. 
 
 The Biscayan, when he saw him coming on, though he wished 
 to dismount from his mule, in which, being one of those sorry 
 ones let out for hire, he had no confidence, had no choice but to 
 draw his sword; it was lucky for him, however, that he was near 
 the coach, from which he was able to snatch a cushion that 
 served him for a shield; and then they went at one another as if 
 they had been two mortal enemies. The others strove to make 
 peace between them, but could not, for the Biscayan declared in 
 his disjointed phrase that if they did not let him finish his battle 
 he would kill his mistress and everyone that strove to prevent 
 him. The lady in the coach, amazed and terrified at what she 
 saw, ordered the coachman to draw aside a little, and set herself 
 to watch this severe struggle, in the course of which the Biscayan 
 smote Don Quixote a mighty stroke on the shoulder over the top 
 of his buckler, which, given to one without armour, would have 
 cleft him to the waist. Don Quixote, feeling the weight of this 
 prodigious blovv', cried aloud, saying, "O lad\' of my soul, Dulcinea, 
 flower of beauty, come to the aid of this your knight, who, in
 
 CERVANTES 43 
 
 fulfilling his obligations to your beauty, finds himself in this 
 extreme peril." To say this, to lift his sword, to shelter himself 
 well behind his buckler, and to assail the Biscayan was the work 
 of an instant, determined as he was to put all to the venture of a 
 single blow. The Biscayan, seeing him come on in this way, was 
 convinced of his courage by his spirited bearing, and resolved to 
 follow his example, so he waited for him keeping well under cover 
 of his cushion, being unable to execute any sort of manoeuvre 
 with his mule, which, dead tired and never meant for this kind of 
 game, could not stir a step. 
 
 On, then, as aforesaid, came Don Quixote against the wary 
 Biscayan, with uplifted sword and a firm intention of splitting 
 him in half, while on his side the Biscayan waited for him sword 
 in hand, and under the protection of his cushion; and all present 
 stood trembling, waiting in suspense the result of blows such as 
 threatened to fall, and the lady in the coach and the rest of her 
 following were making a thousand vows and offerings to all the 
 images and shrines of Spain, that God might deliver her squire 
 and all of them from this great peril in which they found themselves. 
 
 With trenchant swords upraised and poised on high, it seemed 
 as though the two valiant and wrathful combatants stood 
 threatening heaven, and earth, and hell, with such resolution and 
 determination did they bear themselves. The fiery Biscayan was 
 the first to strike a blow, which was delivered with such force 
 and fury that had not the sword turned in its course, that single 
 stroke would have sufficed to put an end to the bitter struggle 
 and to all the adventures of our knight; but that good fortune 
 which reserved him for greater things, turned aside the sword of 
 his adversary, so that, although it smote him upon the left 
 shouliier, it did him no more harm than to strip all that side of 
 its armour, carrying away a great part of his helmet with half of 
 his ear, all which with fearful ruin fell to the ground, leaving him 
 in a sorrv plight. 
 
 Good God ! Who is there that could properly describe the rage 
 that filled the heart of our Manchegan when he saw himself dealt 
 with in this fashion? All that can be said is, it was such that he 
 again raised himself in his stirrups, and, grasping his sword more 
 firmly with both hands, he came down on the Biscayan with such 
 fury, smiting him full over the cushion and over the head, that —
 
 44 CERVANTES 
 
 even so good a shield proving useless — as if a mountain had fallen 
 on him, he began to bleed from nose, mouth, and ears, reeling as 
 if about to fall backwards from his mule, as no doubt he would 
 have done had he not flung his arms about its neck; at the same 
 time, however, he slipped his feet out of the stirrups and then 
 unclasped his arms, and the mule, taking fright at the terrible 
 blow, made off across the plain, and with a few plunges flung its 
 master to the ground. Don Quixote stood looking on very calmly, 
 and, when he saw him fall, leaped from his horse and with great 
 briskness ran to him, and, presenting the point of his sword to 
 his eyes, bade him surrender, or he would cut his head off. The 
 Biscayan was so bewildered that he was unable to answer a word, 
 and it would have gone hard with him, so blind was Don Quixote, 
 had not the ladies in the coach, who had hitherto been watching 
 the combat in great terror, hastened to where he stood and 
 implored him with earnest entreaties to grant them the great 
 grace and favour of sparing their squire's life; to which Don 
 Quixote replied with much gravity and dignity, "In truth, fair 
 ladies, I am well content to do what you ask of me; but it must 
 be on one condition and understanding, which is that this knight 
 promise me to go to the village of El Toboso, and on my part 
 present himself before the peerless lady Dulcinea, that she deal 
 with him as shall be most pleasing to her." 
 
 The terrified and disconsolate ladies, without discussing Don 
 Quixote's demand or asking who Dulcinea might be, promised 
 that their squire should do all that had been commanded on his part. 
 
 "Then, on the faith of that promise," said Don Quixote, "I 
 shall do him no further harm, though he well deser^'es it of me." 
 
 Now by this time Sancho had risen, rather the worse for the 
 handling of the friars' muleteers, and stood watching the battle 
 of his master, Don Quixote, and praying to God in his heart that 
 it might be his will to grant him the victory, and that he might 
 thereby win some island to make him governor of, as he had 
 promised. Seeing, therefore, that the struggle was now over, and 
 that his master was returning to mount Rocinante, he approached 
 to hold the stirrup for him, and, before he could mount, he went 
 on his knees before him, and taking his hand, kissed it saying, 
 "May it please your worship, Sefior Don Quixote, to give me the 
 government of that island which has been won in this hard fight,
 
 CERVANTES 45 
 
 for be it ever so big I feel myself in sufficient force to be able to 
 govern it as much and as well as anyone in the world who has ever 
 governed islands." 
 
 To which Don Quixote replied, "You must know, brother 
 Sancho, that this adventure and those like it are not adventures 
 of islands, but of cross-roads, in which nothing is got except a 
 broken head or an ear the less : have patience, for adventures will 
 present themselves from which I may make you, not only a 
 governor, but something more." 
 
 Sancho gave him many thanks, and again kissing his hand and 
 the skirt of his hauberk, helped him to mount Rocinante, and 
 mounting his ass himself, proceeded to follow his master, who at 
 a brisk pace, without taking leave, or saying anything further to 
 the ladies belonging to the coach, turned into a wood that was 
 hard by. Sancho followed him at his ass's best trot, but Rocinante 
 stepped out so that, seeing himself left behind, he was forced to 
 call to his master to wait for him. Don Quixote did so, reining in 
 Rocinante until his weary squire came up, who on reaching him 
 said, "It seems to me, sefior, it would be prudent in us to go and 
 take ref ugein some church, for, seeing howmauled he with whom you 
 fought has been left, it will be no wonder if they give information 
 of the affair to the Holy Brotherhood and arrest us, and, faith, if 
 they do, before we come out of gaol we shall have to sweat for it." 
 
 "Peace," said Don Quixote; "where hast thou ever seen or 
 heard that a knight-errant has been arraigned before a court of 
 justice, however many homicides he may have committed?" 
 
 "I know nothing about omecils," answered Sancho, "nor in 
 my life have had anything to do with one; I only know that the 
 Holy Brotherhood looks after those who fight in the fields, and 
 in that other matter I do not meddle." 
 
 "Then thou needst have no uneasiness, my friend," said Don 
 Quixote, "for I will deliver thee out of the hands of the Chaldeans, 
 much more out of those of the Brotherhood. But tell me, as thou 
 livest, hast thou seen a more valiant knight than I in all the 
 known world; hast thou read in history of any who has or had 
 higher mettle in attack, more spirit in maintaining it, more 
 dexterity in wounding or skill in overthrowing?" 
 
 "The truth is," answered Sancho, "that I have never read any 
 history, for I can neither read nor write, but what I will venture
 
 46 CERVANTES 
 
 to bet is that a more daring master than )'Our worship I have 
 never served in all the da)-s of my life, and God grant that this 
 daring be not paid for where I have said; what I beg of your 
 worship is to dress }-our ^vound, for a great deal of blood flows 
 from that ear, and I have here some lint and a little white ointment 
 in the alforjas." 
 
 "All that might be well dispensed with,'' said Don Quixote, "if 
 I had remembered to make a vial of the balsam of Fierabras, 
 for time and medicine are saved by one single drop." 
 
 "W'Tiat vial and what balsam is that?" said Sancho Panza, 
 
 "It is a balsam," answered Don Quixote, "the receipt of which 
 I have in my memor)^ with which one need have no fear of death, 
 or dread dying of any wound; and so when I make it and give it 
 to thee thou hast nothing to do when in some battle thou seest 
 they have cut me in half through the middle of the bod)- — as is 
 wont to happen frequently — but neatly and with great nicet)^, 
 ere the blood congeal, to place that portion of the body which 
 shall have fallen to the ground upon the other half which remains 
 in the saddle, taking care to fit it on evenly and exactly. Then 
 thou shalt give me to drink but two drops of the balsam I have 
 mentioned, and thou shalt see me become sounder than an apple." 
 
 "If that be so," said Panza, "I renounce henceforth the govern- 
 ment of the promised island, and desire nothing more in pajTnent 
 of my many and faithful ser\dces than that your worship give me 
 the receipt of this supreme liquor, for I am persuaded it will be 
 worth more than two reals an ounce anywhere, and I want no 
 more to pass the rest of my life in ease and honour; but it remains 
 to be told if it costs much to make it." 
 
 "With less than three reals six quarts of it may be made," 
 said Don Quixote. 
 
 " Sinner that I am ! " said Sancho, " then why does your worship 
 put off making it and teaching it to me?" 
 
 "Peace, friend," answered Don Quixote; "greater secrets I 
 mean to teach thee and greater favours to bestow upon thee; 
 and for the present let us see to the dressing, for my ear pains 
 me more than I could wish." 
 
 Sancho took out some lint and ointment from the alforjas; but 
 when Don Quixote came to see his helmet shattered, he was like 
 to lose his senses, and clapping his hand upon his sword and
 
 CERVANTES 47 
 
 raising his eyes to heaven, he said, "I swear by the Creator of 
 all things and the four Gospels in their fullest extent, to do as 
 the great Marquis of Mantua did when he swore to avenge the 
 death of his nephew Baldwin (and that was not to eat bread from 
 a table-cloth, nor embrace his wife, and other points which, though 
 I cannot now call them to mind, I here grant as expressed), until 
 I take complete vengeance upon him who has committed such an 
 ofTence against me." 
 
 Hearing this, Sancho said to him, "Your worship should bear 
 in mind, Senor Don Quixote, that if the knight has done what 
 was commanded him in going to present himself before my lady 
 Dulcinea del Toboso, he will have done all that he was bound to 
 do, and does not deserve further punishment unless he commits 
 some new offence." 
 
 "Thou hast said well and hit the point," answered Don Quixote; 
 "and so I recall the oath in so far as relates to taking fresh 
 vengeance on him, but I make and confirm it anew to lead the 
 life I have said until such time as I take by force from some 
 knight another helmet such as this and as good; and think not, 
 Sancho, that I am raising smoke with straw in doing so, for I 
 have one to imitate in the matter, since the very same thmg to a 
 hair happened in the case of Mambrino's helmet, which cost 
 Sacripante so dear." 
 
 "Senor," said Sancho, "to the devil with all such oaths, for 
 they are very pernicious to salvation and hurtful to the conscience; 
 just tell me now, if for several days to come we fall in with no 
 man armed with a helmet, what are we to do? Is the oath to be 
 observed in spite of all the inconvenience and discomfort it will 
 be to sleep in your clothes, and not to sleep in a house, and a 
 thousand other mortifications contained in the oath of that old 
 fool the Marquis of Mantua, which your worship is now wanting 
 to revive? Mind you there are no men in armour travelling on 
 any of these roads, nothing but carriers and carters, who not 
 only do not wear helmets, but perhaps never heard tell of them 
 all their lives." 
 
 "Thou art wrong there," said Don Quixote, "for we shall not 
 have been two hours among these cross-roads before we see more 
 men in armour than came to Albracca to win the fair Angelica." 
 
 "Enough," said Sancho; "so be it then, and God grant us
 
 48 CERVANTES 
 
 success, and that the time for winning that island which is costing 
 me so dear may soon come, and then let me die." 
 
 "I have already told thee, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "not to 
 be uneasy on that score; for if an island should fail, there is the 
 kingdom of Denmark, or of Sobradisa, which will fit thee as ring 
 the finger, and all the more that being on terra jirma thou wilt 
 all the better enjoy thyself. But let us leave that to its own time; 
 see if thou hast anything for us to eat in those alforjas, because 
 we must presently go in quest of some castle where we may lodge 
 to-night and make the balsam I told thee of, for I swear to thee 
 by God, this ear is giving me great pain." 
 
 "I have here an onion and a little cheese and a few scraps of 
 bread," said Sancho, "but they are not victuals fit for a valiant 
 knight like your worship." 
 
 "How little thou knowest about it," answered Don Quixote; 
 "I would have thee to know, Sancho, that it is the glory of 
 knights-errant to go without eating for a month, and even when 
 they do eat, that it should be of what comes first to hand; and 
 this would have been clear to thee hadst thou read as many 
 histories as I have, for, though they are very many, among them 
 all I have found no mention made of knights-errant eating, unless 
 by accident or at some sumptuous banquets prepared for them, 
 and the rest of the time they passed in dalliance. And though 
 it is plain they could not do without eating and performing all 
 the other natural functions, because, in fact, they were men like 
 ourselves, it is plain too that, wandering as they did the most 
 part of their lives through woods and wilds and without a cook, 
 their most usual fare would be rustic viands such as those thou 
 dost now offer me; so that, friend Sancho, let not that distress 
 thee which pleases me, and do not seek to make a new world or 
 pervert knight-errantry." 
 
 "Pardon me, your worship," said Sancho, "for, as I cannot 
 read or write, as I said just now, I neither know nor comprehend 
 the rules of the profession of chivalry: henceforward I will stock 
 the alforjas wdth every kind of dry fruit for your worship, as you 
 are a knight; and for myself, as I am not one, I will furnish them 
 with poultry and other things more substantial." 
 
 "I do not say, Sancho," replied Don Quixote, "that it is 
 imperative on knights-errant not to eat anything else but the
 
 CERVANTES 49 
 
 fruits thou speakest of; only that their more usual diet must be 
 those, and certain herbs they found in the fields which they knew 
 and I know too." 
 
 "A good thing it is," answered Sancho, "to know those herbs, 
 for to my thinking it will be needful some day to put that know- 
 ledge into practice." 
 
 And here taking out what he said he had brought, the pair 
 made their repast peaceably and sociably. But anxious to find 
 quarters for the night, they quickly despatched their poor dry 
 fare, mounted at once, and made haste to reach some habitation 
 before night set in; but daylight and the hope of succeeding in 
 their object failed them close by the huts of some goatherds, so 
 they determined to pass the night there, and it was as much to 
 Sancho's discontent not to have reached a house, as it was to 
 his master's satisfaction to sleep under the open heaven, for he 
 fancied that each time this happened to him he performed an 
 act of ownership that helped to prove his chivalry. 
 
 THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK 
 
 Thomas Love Peacock (1785-1866) was born at Weymouth. His life was 
 passed in easy, quiet circumstances. He held an Important post under the 
 East India Company, and gave his leisure to literature. He was a friend of 
 Shelley (of whose life he wrote a short sketch) and he himself wrote verse — 
 the best of it appearing as songs in his half-humorous, half-satirical novels, 
 with their curious names. Headlong Hall, Nightmare Abbey, Crotchet Castle 
 and Gryll Grange. He wrote two "historical" tales, The Misfortunes of 
 Elphin and Maid Marian. The extract which follows is taken from the last 
 named book. 
 
 A RESCUE BY ROBIN HOOD 
 
 [The outlawed Earl of Huntingdon lived in Sherwood Forest under the 
 name of Robin Hood. He loved Matilda, daughter of the fiery old Baron 
 Fitzwater, and they were about to be wedded when the ceremony was 
 interrupted by the entry of Sir Ralph Montfaucon who had been sent to 
 arrest the Earl. Robin escaped to the forest, and the parted lovers were 
 enabled to meet by the jovial old Brother Michael of Rubygill Abbey. 
 Sir Ralph spent many days searching for Robin Hood.] 
 
 An autumn and a winter had passed away, when the course of 
 his perlustrations brought him one day to a beautiful sylvan 
 valley, where he found a number of young women weaving 
 
 S. L. R. II. 4
 
 50 THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK 
 
 garlands of flowers, and singing over their pleasant occupation. 
 He approached them, and courteously inquired the way to the 
 nearest town. 
 
 "There is no town within several miles," was the answer. 
 
 "A village, then, if it be but large enough to furnish an 
 inn?" 
 
 "There is Gamwell just by, but there is no inn nearer than the 
 nearest town." 
 
 "An abbey, then?" 
 
 "There is no abbey nearer than the nearest inn." 
 
 "A house, then, or a cottage, where I may obtain hospitality 
 for the night ? " 
 
 "Hospitahty !" said one of the young women; "you have not 
 far to seek for that. Do you not know that you are in the neigh- 
 bourhood of Gamwell Hall? " 
 
 "So far from it," said the knight, " that I never heard the name 
 of Gamwell Hall before." 
 
 "Never heard of Gamwell Hall!" exclaimed all the young 
 women together, who could as soon have dreamed of his never 
 having heard of the sky. 
 
 "Indeed, no!" said Sir Ralph; "but I shall be very happy to 
 get rid of my ignorance." 
 
 "And so shall I," said his squire; "for it seems that in this case 
 knowledge will for once be a cure for hunger, wherewith I am 
 grievously afflicted." 
 
 "And why are you so busy, my pretty damsels, weaving these 
 garlands?" said the knight. 
 
 "Why, do you not know, sir," said one of the young women, 
 "that to-morrow is Gamwefl feast?" 
 
 The knight was again obliged, with all humility, to confess his 
 ignorance. 
 
 "Oh! sir," said his informant, "then you will have something 
 to see, that I can tell you ; for we shall choose a Queen of the May, 
 and we shall crown her with flowers, and place her in a chariot 
 of flowers, and draw it with lines of flowers, and we shall hang all 
 the trees with flowers, and we shall strew all the ground with 
 flowers, and we shall dance with flowers, and in flowers, and on 
 flowers, and we shall be all flowers." 
 
 "That you will," said the knight; "and the sweetest and
 
 THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK 51 
 
 brightest of all the flowers of the May, my pretty damsels." On 
 which all the pretty damsels smiled at him and each other. 
 
 "And there will be all sorts of May-games, and there will be 
 prizes for archery', and there will be the knight's ale, and the 
 foresters' venison, and there will be Kit Scrapesqueak with his 
 fiddle, and little Tom Whistlerap with his fife and tabor, and Sam 
 Trumtwangwith his harp, and Peter Muggledrone with his bagpipe, 
 and how I shall dance with Will Whitethorn ! " added the girl, 
 clapping her hands as she spoke, and bounding from the ground 
 with the pleasure of the anticipation. 
 
 A tall, athletic young man approached, to whom the rustic 
 maidens courtesied with great respect; and one of them informed 
 Sir Ralph that it was young Master Wilham Gamwell. The 
 young gentleman invited and conducted the knight to the hall, 
 where he introduced him to the old knight, his father, and to the 
 old lady, his mother, and to the young lady, his sister, and to a 
 number of bold yeomen, who were laying siege to beef, brawn, 
 and plum pie, around a ponderous table, and taking copious 
 draughts of old October. A motto was inscribed over the interior 
 door — 
 
 EAT, DRINK, AND BE MERRY: 
 
 an injunction which Sir Ralph and his squire showed remarkable 
 alacrity in obeying. Old Sir Guy of Gamwell gave Sir Ralph a 
 very cordial welcome, and entertained him during supper with 
 several of his best stories, enforced with an occasional slap on 
 the back, and pointed with a peg in the ribs; a species of vivacious 
 eloquence in which the old gentleman excelled, and which is 
 supposed by many of that pleasant variety of the human species, 
 known by the name of choice fellows, and comical dogs, to be the 
 genuine tangible shape of the cream of a good joke. 
 
 II 
 
 What! shall we have incision i" shall we imbrue? 
 
 Henry IV. 
 
 Old Sir Guy of Gamwell, and young William Gamwell, and fair 
 Alice Gamwell, and Sir Ralph Montfaucon and his squire, rode 
 together the next morning to the scene of the feast. They arrived 
 
 4—2
 
 52 THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK 
 
 on a village-green, surrounded with cottages peeping from among 
 the trees by which the green was completely encircled. The whole 
 circle was hung round with one continuous garland of flowers, 
 depending in irregular festoons from the branches. In the centre 
 of the green was a May-pole hidden in boughs and garlands; and 
 a multitude of round-faced bumpkins and cherry-cheeked lasses 
 were dancing around it, to the quadruple melody of Scrapesqueak, 
 Whistlerap, Trumtwang, and Muggledrone: harmony we must 
 not call it; for, though they had agreed to a partnership in point 
 of time, each, like a true painstaking man, seemed determined to 
 have his time to himself: Muggledrone played allegretto, Trum- 
 twang allegro, Whistlerap presto, and Scrapesqueak prestissimo. 
 There was a kind of mathematical proportion in their discrepancy: 
 while Muggledrone played the tune four times, Trumtwang played 
 it five, Whistlerap six, and Scrapesqueak eight; for the latter 
 completely distanced all his competitors, and indeed worked his 
 elbow so nimbly that its outline was scarcely distinguishable 
 through the mistiness of its rapid vibration. 
 
 While the knight was delighting his eyes and ears with these 
 pleasant sights and sounds, all eyes were turned in one direction; 
 and Sir Ralph, looking round, saw a fair lady in green and gold 
 come riding through the trees, accompanied by a portly friar in 
 gray, and several fair damsels and gallant grooms. On their 
 nearer approach, he recognized the Lady Matilda and her ghostly 
 adviser. Brother Michael. A party of foresters arrived from another 
 direction, and then ensued cordial interchanges of greeting, and 
 collisions of hands and lips, among the Gamwells and the new- 
 comers — "How does my fair coz, Mawd.?" and "How does my 
 sweet coz, Mawd?" and "How does my wild coz, Mawd?" And 
 "Eh! jolly friar, your hand, old boy": and "Here, honest friar": 
 and "To me, merry friar": and "By your favour. Mistress Alice": 
 and "Hey! Cousin Robin": and "Hey! Cousin Will": and 
 "Od's life! merry Sir Guy, you grow younger every year," — 
 as the old knight shook them all in turn with one hand, and slapped 
 them on the back with the other, in token of his affection. A 
 number of young men and women advanced, some drawing, and 
 others dancing round, a floral car; and having placed a crown of 
 flowers on Matilda's head, and saluted her Queen of the May, 
 they drew her to the place appointed for the rural sports.
 
 THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK 53 
 
 A hogshead of ale was abroach under an oak, and a fire was 
 blazing in an open space before the trees to roast the fat deer 
 which the foresters brought. The sports commenced; and, after 
 an agreeable series of bowling, quoiting, pitching, hurhng, racing, 
 leaping, grinning, wrestling or friendly dislocation of joints, and 
 cudgel-playing or amicable cracking of skulls, the trial of archery- 
 ensued. The conqueror was to be rewarded with a golden arrow 
 from the hand of the Queen of the May, who was to be his partner 
 in the dance till the close of the feast. This stimulated the knight's 
 emulation: young Gamwell supplied him with a bow and arrow, 
 and he took his station among the foresters, but had the mortifica- 
 tion to be outshot by them all, and to see one of them lodge the 
 point of his arrow in the golden ring of the centre, and receive the 
 prize from the hand of the beautiful Matilda, who smiled on him 
 with particular grace. The jealous knight scrutinized the successful 
 champion with great attention, and surely thought he had seen 
 that face before. In the meantime the forester led the lady to the 
 station. The luckless Sir Ralph drank deep draughts of love from 
 the matchless grace of her attitudes, as, taking the bow in her 
 left hand, and adjusting the arrow with her right, advancing her 
 left foot, and gently curving her beautiful figure with a slight 
 motion of her head that waved her black feathers and her ringleted 
 hair, she drew the arrow to its head, and loosed it from her open 
 fingers. The arrow struck within the ring of gold, so close to that 
 of the victorious forester that the points were in contact, and the 
 feathers were intermingled. Great acclamations succeeded, and 
 the forester led Matilda to the dance. Sir Ralph gazed on her 
 fascinating motions till the torments of baffled love and jealous 
 rage became unendurable; and approaching young Gamwell, he 
 asked him if he knew the name of that forester who was leading 
 the dance with the Queen of the May? 
 
 "Robin, I beheve," said young Gamwell carelessly; "I think 
 they call him Robin." 
 
 " Is that all you know of him. ? " said Sir Ralph. 
 "What more should I know of him? " said young Gamwell. 
 "Then I can tell you," said Sir Ralph, "he is the outlawed 
 Earl of Huntingdon, on whose head is set so large a price." 
 "Ay, is he? " said young Gamwell, in the same careless manner. 
 "He is a prize worth the taking," said Sir Ralph.
 
 54 THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK 
 
 "No doubt," said young Gamwell. 
 
 "How think you?" said Sir Ralph: "are the foresters his 
 adherents ? " 
 
 " I cannot say," said young Gamwell. 
 
 " Is your peasantry loyal and well-disposed ? " said Sir Ralph. 
 
 "Passing loyal," said young Gamwell. 
 
 "If I should call on them in the king's name," said Sir Ralph, 
 "think you they would aid and assist.? " 
 
 "Most likely they would," said young Gamwell, "one side or 
 the other." 
 
 "Ay, but which side?" said the knight. 
 
 "That remains to be tried," said young Gamwell. 
 
 "I have King Henry's commission," said the knight, "to 
 apprehend this earl that was. How would you advise me to act, 
 being, as you see, without attendant force?" 
 
 "I would advise you," said young Gamwell, "to take yourself 
 off without delay, unless you would relish the taste of a volley 
 of arrows, a shower of stones, and a hailstorm of cudgel-blows, 
 which would not be turned aside by a God save King Henry." 
 
 Sir Ralph's squire no sooner heard this, and saw by the looks 
 of the speaker that he was not likely to prove a false prophet, 
 than he clapped spurs to his horse and galloped off with might and 
 main. This gave the knight a good excuse to pursue him, which 
 he did with great celerity, calling, " Stop, you rascal." When the 
 squire fancied himself safe out of the reach of pursuit, he checked 
 his speed, and allowed the knight to come up with him. They rode 
 on several miles in silence, till they discovered the towers and spires 
 of Nottingham, where the knight introduced himself to the sheriff, 
 and demanded an armed force to assist in the apprehension of the 
 outlawed Earl of Huntingdon. The sheriff, who was willing to 
 have his share of the prize, determined to accompany the knight 
 in person, and regaled him and his man with good store of the 
 best; after which they, with a stout retinue of fifty men, took the 
 way to Gamwell feast. 
 
 "God's my life," said the sheriff, as they rode along, "I had 
 as lief you would tell me of a service of plate. I much doubt if 
 this outlawed earl, this forester Robin, be not the man they call 
 Robin Hood, who has quartered himself in Sherwood Forest, and 
 whom, in endeavouring to apprehend, I have fallen divers times
 
 THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK 55 
 
 into disasters. He has gotten together a band of disinherited 
 prodigals, outlawed debtors, excommunicated heretics, elder sons 
 that have spent all they had, and younger sons that never had 
 anything to spend; and with these he kills the king's deer, and 
 plunders wealthy travellers of five-sixths of their money; but if 
 they be abbots or bishops, them he despoils utterly." 
 
 The sheriff then proceedeci to relate to his companion the ad- 
 venture of the Abbot of Doubleflask (which some grave historians 
 have related of the Abbot of Saint Mary's, and others of the 
 Bishop of Hereford): how the abbot, returning to his abbey in 
 company with his high selerer, who carried in his portmanteau 
 the rents of the abbey-lands, and with a numerous train of 
 attendants, came upon four seeming peasants, who were roasting 
 the king's venison by the king's highway: how, in just indignation 
 at this flagrant infringement of the forest laws, he asked them 
 what they meant, and they answered that they meant to dine: 
 how he ordered them to be seized and bound, and led captive to 
 Nottingham, that they might know wild-flesh to have been 
 destined by Providence for licensed and privileged appetites, and 
 not for the base hunger of unqualified knaves: how they prayed 
 for mercy, and how the abbot swore by Saint Charity that he 
 would show them none : how one of them thereupon drew a bugle- 
 horn from under his smock-frock and blew three blasts, on which 
 the abbot and his train were instantly surrounded by sixty 
 bowmen in green : how they tied him to a tree, and made him say 
 mass for their sins: how they unbound him, and sate him down 
 with them to dinner, and gave him venison and wild-fowl and 
 wine, and made him pay for his fare all the money in his high 
 selerer's portmanteau, and enforced him to sleep all night under 
 a tree in his cloak, and to leave the cloak behind him in the morning: 
 how the abbot, light in pocket, and heavy in heart, raised the 
 country upon Robin Hood, for so he had heard the chief forester 
 called by his men, and hunted him into an old woman's cottage: 
 how Robin changed dresses with the old woman, and how the 
 abbot rode in great triumph into Nottingham, having in custody 
 an old woman in a green doublet and breeches: how the old 
 woman discovered herself: how the merry men of Nottingham 
 laughed at the abbot: how the abbot railed at the old woman, and 
 how the old woman out-railed the abbot, telling him that Robin
 
 56 THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK 
 
 had given her food and firing through the winter, which no abbot 
 would ever do, but would rather take it from her for what he 
 called the good of the Church, by which he meant his own laziness 
 and gluttony; and that she knew a true man from a false thief, 
 and a free forester from a greedy abbot. 
 
 "Thus you see," added the sheriff, "how this villain perverts 
 the deluded people by making them believe that those who tithe 
 and toll upon them for their spiritual and temporal benefit are 
 not their best friends and fatherly guardians; for he holds that 
 in giving to boors and old women what he takes from priests and 
 peers, he does but restore to the former what the latter had taken 
 from them; and this the impudent varlet calls distributive justice. 
 Judge now if any loyal subject can be safe in such neighbourhood." 
 
 While the sheriff was thus enlightening his companion con- 
 cerning the offenders, and whetting his own indignation against 
 them, the sun was fast sinking to the west. They rode on till 
 they came in view of a bridge, which they saw a party approaching 
 from the opposite side, and the knight presently discovered that 
 the party consisted of the Lady Matilda and Friar Michael, young 
 Gamwell, Cousin Robin, and about half-a-dozen foresters. The 
 knight pointed out the earl to the sheriff, who exclaimed, "Here, 
 then, we have him an easy prey"; and they rode on manfully 
 towards the bridge, on which the other party made halt. 
 
 "Who be these," said the friar, "that come riding so fast this 
 way.? Now, as God shall judge me, it is that false knight Sir 
 Ralph Montfaucon and the Sheriff of Nottingham, with a posse 
 of men. We must make good our post, and let them dislodge us 
 if they may." 
 
 The two parties were now near enough to parley; and the 
 sheriff and the knight, advancing in the front of the cavalcade, 
 called on the lady, the friar, young Gamwell, and the foresters, 
 to deliver up that false traitor, Robert, formerly Earl of Hun- 
 tingdon. Robert himself made answer by letting fly an arrow 
 that struck the ground between the fore-feet of the sheriff's horse. 
 The horse reared up from the whizzing, and lodged the sheriff in 
 the dust; and, at the same time, the fair Matilda favoured the 
 knight with an arrow in his right arm, that compelled him to 
 withdraw from the affray. His men lifted the sheriff carefully up, 
 and replaced him on his horse, whom he immediately, with great
 
 THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK 57 
 
 rage and zeal, urged on to the assault, with his fifty men at his 
 heels, some of whom were intercepted in their advance by the 
 arrows of the foresters and Matilda ; while the friar, with an eight- 
 foot staff, dislodged the sheriff a second time, and laid on him 
 with all the vigour of the Church militant on earth, in spite of 
 his ejaculations of "Hey, Friar Michael! What means this, honest 
 friar? Hold, ghostly friar ! Hold, holy friar ! " — till Matilda inter- 
 posed, and delivered the battered sheriff to the care of the foresters. 
 The friar continued flourishing his staff among the sheriff's men, 
 knocking down one, breaking the ribs of another, dislocating the 
 shoulder of a third, flattening the nose of a fourth, cracking the 
 skull of a fifth, and pitching a sixth into the river, till the few who 
 were lucky enough to escape with whole bones, clapped spurs to 
 their horses and fled for their lives, under a farewell volley of 
 arrows. 
 
 Sir Ralph's squire, meanwhile, was glad of the excuse of 
 attending his master's wound, to absent himself from the battle; 
 and put the poor knight to a great deal of unnecessary pain by 
 making as long a business as possible of extracting the arrow, 
 which he had not accomplished, when Matilda approaching, 
 extracted it with great facility, and bound up the wound with her 
 scarf, saying, "I reclaim my arrow, sir knight, which struck where 
 I aimed it, to admonish you to desist from your enterprise. I 
 could as easily have lodged it in your heart." 
 
 "It did not need," said the knight, with rueful gallantry; "you 
 have lodged one there already." 
 
 "If you mean to say that you love me," said Matilda, "it is 
 more than I ever shall you : but if you will show your love by no 
 further interfering with mine, you will at least merit my 
 gratitude." 
 
 The knight made a wry face under the double pain of heart 
 and body caused at the same moment by the material or martial, 
 and the metaphorical or erotic arrow, of which the latter was 
 thus barbed by a declaration more candid than flattering; but he 
 did not choose to put in any such claim to the lady's gratitude as 
 would bar all hopes of her love: he therefore remained silent; and 
 the lady and her escort, leaving him and the sheriff to the care 
 of the squire, rode on till they came in sight of Arlingford Castle, 
 when they parted in several directions. The friar rode off alone;
 
 58 THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK 
 
 and after the foresters had lost sight of him, they heard his voice 
 through the twilight, singing — 
 
 " A stafF, a staff, of a young oak graff, 
 
 That is both stoure and stiff, 
 Is all a good friar can needs desire 
 
 To shrive a proud sheriffc. 
 And thou, fine fellovve, who has tasted so 
 
 Of the forester's greenwood game, 
 Wilt be in no haste thy time to waste 
 
 In seeking more taste of the same : 
 Or this can I read thee, and riddle thee well, 
 Thou hadst better by far be the devil in hell. 
 
 Than the Sheriff of Nottinghame." 
 
 Ill 
 
 Now, master sherif?, what's your will with me? 
 
 Henry IV. 
 
 Matilda had carried her point with the baron of ranging at 
 liberty whithersoever she would, under her positive promise to 
 return home; she was a sort of prisoner on parole: she had obtained 
 this indulgence by means of an obsolete habit of always telling 
 the truth and keeping her word, which our enlightened age has 
 discarded with other barbarisms, but which had the effect of 
 giving her father so much confidence in her that he could not 
 help considering her word a better security than locks and 
 bars. 
 
 The baron had been one of the last to hear of the rumours of 
 the new outlaws of Sherwood, as Matilda had taken all possible 
 precautions to keep those rumours from his knowledge, fearing 
 that they might cause the interruption of her greenwood liberty; 
 and it was only during her absence at Gamwell feast, that the 
 butler, being thrown off his guard by liquor, forgot her injunctions, 
 and regaled the baron with a long story of the right merry adventure 
 of Robin Hood and the Abbot of Doubleflask. 
 
 The baron was one morning, as usual, cutting his way valorously 
 through a rampart of cold provision, wlien his ears w"ere suddenly 
 assailed by a tremendous alarum, and sallying forth, and looking
 
 THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK 59 
 
 from his castle wall, he perceived a large party of armed men on 
 the other side of the moat, who were calling on the warder, in 
 the king's name, to lower the drawbridge and raise the portcullis, 
 which had both been secured by Matilda's order. The baron 
 walked along the battlement till he came opposite to these un- 
 expected visitors, who, as soon as they saw him, called out, 
 "Lower the drawbridge, in the king's name." 
 
 "For what, in the devil's name?" said the baron. 
 
 "The Sheriff of Nottingham," said one, "lies in bed grievously 
 bruised, and many of his men are wounded, and several of them 
 slain; and Sir Ralph Montfaucon, knight, is sore wounded in the 
 arm; and we are charged to apprehend William Gamwell the 
 younger, of Gamwell Hall, and Father Michael, of Rubygill Abbey, 
 and Matilda Fitzwater, of Arlingford Castle, as agents and ac- 
 complices in the said breach of the king's peace." 
 
 "Breach of the king's fiddle-stick!" answered the baron. 
 "What do you mean by coming here with your cock and bull 
 stories of my daughter grievously bruising the Sheriff of Notting- 
 ham? You are a set of vagabond rascals in disguise; and I hear, 
 by-the-by, there is a gang of thieves that has just set up business 
 in Sherwood Forest : a pretty pretence, indeed, to get into my castle 
 with force and arms, and make a famine in my buttery, and a 
 drought in my cellar, and a void in my strong box, and a vacuum 
 in my silver scullery." 
 
 "Lord Fitzwater," cried one, "take heed how you resist lawful 
 authority: we will prove ourselves " 
 
 "You will prove yourselves arrant knaves I doubt not," 
 answered the baron ; " but, villains, you shall be more grievously 
 bruised by me than ever was the sheriff by my daughter (a pretty 
 tale truly !), if you do not forthwith avoid my territory." 
 
 By this time the baron's men had flocked to the battlements, 
 with long-bows and cross-bows, slings and stones, and Matilda, 
 with her bow and quiver, at their head. The assailants, finding the 
 castle so well defended, deemed it expedient to withdraw till 
 they could return in greater force, and rode off to Rubygill Abbey, 
 where they made known their errand to the father abbot, who, 
 having satisfied himself of their legitimacy, and conned over the 
 allegations, said that doubtless Brother Michael had heinously 
 offended; but it was not for the civil law to take cognizance of
 
 6o THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK 
 
 the misdoings of a holy friar; that he would summon a chapter of 
 monks, and pass on the offender a sentence proportionate to his 
 offence. The ministers of civil justice said that would not do. 
 The abbot said it would do and should; and bade them not provoke 
 the meekness of his catholic charity to lay them under the curse 
 of Rome. This threat had its effect, and the party rode off to 
 Gamwell Hall, where they found the Gamwells and their men just 
 sitting down to dinner, which they saved them the trouble of 
 eating by consuming it in the king's name themselves, having 
 first seized and bound young Gamwell ; all which they accomplished 
 by dint of superior numbers, in despite of a most vigorous stand 
 made by the Gamwellites in defence of their young master and 
 their provisions. 
 
 The baron, meanwhile, after the ministers of justice had de- 
 parted, interrogated Matilda concerning the alleged fact of the 
 grievous bruising of the Sheriff of Nottingham. Matilda told him 
 the whole history of Gamwell feast, and of their battle on the 
 bridge, which had its origin in a design of the Sheriff of Notting- 
 ham to take one of the foresters into custody. 
 
 "Ay! ay!" said the baron, "and I guess who that forester was; 
 but truly this friar is a desperate fellow. I did not think there 
 could have been so much valour under a gray frock. And so you 
 wounded the knight in the arm. You are a wild girl, Mawd, — 
 a chip of the old block, Mawd. A wild girl, and a wild friar, and 
 three or four foresters, wild lads all, to keep a bridge against a 
 tame knight, and a tame sheriff, and fifty tame varlets: by this 
 light, the like was never heard! But do you know, Mawd, you 
 must not go about so any more, sweet Mawd: you must stay at 
 home, you must ensconce; for there is your tame sheriff on the 
 one hand, that will take you perforce; and there is your wild 
 forester on the other hand, that will take you without any force 
 at all, Mawd ; your wild forester, Robin, Cousin Robin, Robin Hood 
 of Sherwood Forest, that beats and binds bishops, spreads nets 
 for archbishops, and hunts a fat abbot as if he were a buck: 
 excellent game, no doubt, but you must hunt no more in such 
 company. I see it now: truly I might have guessed before that 
 the bold outlaw Robin, the most courteous Robin, the new thief 
 of Sherwood Forest, was your lover, the earl that has been: I 
 might have guessed it before, and what led you so much to the
 
 THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK 6i 
 
 woods; but you hunt no more in such company. No more May 
 games and Gamwell feasts. My lands and castle would be the 
 forfeit of a few more such pranks ; and I think they are as well in 
 my hands as the king's, quite as well." 
 
 "You know, father," said Matilda, "the condition of keeping 
 me at home: I get out if I can, and not on parole." 
 
 "Ay! ay!" said the baron, "if you can; very true: watch and 
 ward, Mawd, watch and ward is my word: if you can, is yours. 
 The mark is set, and so start fair." 
 
 The baron would have gone on in this way for an hour; but the 
 friar made his appearance with a long oak staff in his hand, 
 singing,— 
 
 " Drink and sing, and eat and laugh, 
 And so go forth to battle : 
 For the top of a skull and the end of a staff 
 Do make a ghostly rattle." 
 
 "Ho ! ho ! friar ! " said the baron — "singing friar, laughing friar, 
 roaring friar, fighting friar, hacking friar, thwacking friar; 
 cracking, cracking, cracking friar; joke-cracking, bottle-cracking, 
 skull-cracking friar ! " 
 
 "And ho! ho!" said the friar — "bold baron, old baron, sturdy 
 baron, wordy baron, long baron, strong baron, mighty baron, 
 flighty baron, mazed baron, crazed baron, hacked baron, thwacked 
 baron, cracked, cracked, cracked baron; bone-cracked, sconce- 
 cracked, brain-cracked baron ! " 
 
 "What do you mean," said the baron, "bully friar, by calling 
 me hacked and thwacked ? " 
 
 "Were you not in the wars," said the friar, "where he who 
 escapes unbacked does more credit to his heels than his arms? 
 I pay. tribute to your valour in caUing you hacked and 
 thwacked." 
 
 "I never was thwacked in my Hfe," said the baron; "I stood 
 my ground manfully, and covered my body with my sword. If I 
 had had the luck to meet with a fighting friar, indeed, I might 
 have been thwacked, and soundly, too; but I hold myself a match 
 for any two laymen; it takes nine fighting laymen to make a 
 fighting friar." 
 
 "Whence come you now, holy father?" asked Matilda.
 
 62 THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK 
 
 "From Rubygill Abbey," said the friar, "whither I never 
 return : 
 
 For I must seek some hermit cell, 
 Where I alone my beads mav tell, 
 And on the wight who that way fares 
 Levy a toll for my ghostly pra}'rs. 
 Levy a toll, levy a toll, 
 Levy a toll for my ghostly pray'rs." 
 
 "What is the matter then, father?" said Matilda. 
 
 "This is the matter," said the friar: "my holy brethren have 
 held a chapter on me, and sentenced me to seven years' privation 
 of wine. I therefore deemed it fitting to take my departure, which 
 they would fain have prohibited. I was enforced to clear the way 
 with my staff. I have grievously beaten my dearly beloved 
 brethren: I grieve thereat; but they enforced me thereto. I have 
 beaten them much; I mowed them down to the right and to the 
 left, and left them like an ill-reaped field of wheat, ear and straw 
 pointing all ways, scattered in singleness and jumbled in masses; 
 and so bade them farewell, saying, Peace be with you. But I must 
 not tarry, lest danger be in my rear: therefore, farewell, sweet 
 Matilda: and farewell, noble baron: and farewell, sweet Matilda, 
 again, the alpha and omega of Father Michael, the first and the 
 last." 
 
 "Farewell, father," said the baron, a Httle softened; "and God 
 send you be never assailed by more than fifty men at a time." 
 
 "Amen," said the friar, "to that good wish." 
 
 "And we shall meet again, father, I trust," said Matilda. 
 
 "When the storm is blown over," said the baron. 
 
 "Doubt it not," said the friar, "though flooded Trent were 
 between us, and fifty devils guarded the bridge." 
 
 He kissed Matilda's forehead, and walked away without a song. 
 
 IV 
 
 Let gallows gape for dog: let man go free. — Henry V. 
 
 A page had been brought up in Gamwell Hall, who, while he 
 was little, had been called Little John, and continued to be so 
 called after he had grown to be a foot taller than any other man 
 in the house. He was full seven feet high. His latitude was worthy
 
 THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK 63 
 
 of his longitude, and his strength was worthy of both; and though 
 an honest man by profession, he had practised archery on the 
 king's deer for the benefit of his master's household, and for the 
 improvement of his own eye and hand, till his aim had become 
 infallible within the range of two miles. He had fought manfully 
 in defence of his young master, took his captivity exceedingly to 
 heart, and fell into bitter grief and boundless rage when he heard 
 that he had been tried in Nottingham, and sentenced to die. Alice 
 Gamwell, at Little John's request, wrote three letters of one 
 tenour; and Little John, having attached them to three blunt 
 arrows, saddled the fleetest steed in old Sir Guy of Gamwell's 
 stables, mounted, and rode first to Arlingford Castle, where he 
 shot one of the three arrows oyer the battlements ; then to Rubygill 
 Abbey, where he shot the second into the abbey garden; then 
 back past Gamwell Hall to the borders of Sherwood Forest, where 
 he shot the third into the wood. Now the first of these arrows 
 lighted in the nape of the neck of Lord Fitzwater, and lodged 
 itself firmly between his skin and his collar; the second rebounded 
 with the hollow vibration of a drumstick from the shaven sconce 
 of the Abbot of Rubygill; and the third pitched perpendicularly 
 into the centre of a venison pasty in which Robin Hood was making 
 incision. 
 
 Matilda ran up to her father in the court of Arlingford Castle, 
 seized the arrow, drew off the letter, and concealed it in her bosom 
 before the baron had time to look round, which he did with many 
 expressions of rage against the impudent villain who had shot a 
 blunt arrow into the nape of his neck. 
 
 "But you know, father," said Matilda, "a sharp arrow in the 
 same place would have killed you ; therefore the sending a blunt 
 one was very considerate." 
 
 "Considerate, with a vengeance ! " said the baron. "Where was 
 the consideration of sending it at all? This is some of your 
 forester's pranks. He has missed you in the forest, since I have 
 kept watch and ward over you, and by way of a love-token and 
 a remembrance to you takes a random shot at me." 
 
 The Abbot of Rubygill picked up the missive-missile or mes- 
 senger arrow, which had rebounded from his shaven crown, with 
 a very unghostly malediction on the sender, which he suddenly 
 checked with a pious and consolatory reflection on the goodness
 
 64 THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK 
 
 of Providence in having blessed him with such a thickness of 
 skull, to which he was now indebted for temporal preservation, as 
 he had before been for spiritual promotion. He opened the letter 
 which was addressed to Father Michael; and found it to contain 
 an intimation that William Gamwell was to be hanged on Monday 
 at Nottingham. 
 
 "And I wish," said the abbot, "Father Michael were to be 
 hanged with him: an ungrateful monster, after I had rescued 
 him from the fangs of civil justice, to reward my lenity by not 
 leaving a bone unbruised among the holy brotherhood of Rubygill." 
 
 Robin Hood extracted from his venison pasty a similar intima- 
 tion of the evil destiny of his cousin, whom he determined, if 
 possible, to rescue from the jaws of Cerberus. 
 
 The Sheriff of Nottingham, though still sore with his bruises, 
 was so intent on revenge, that he raised himself from his bed to 
 attend the execution of William Gamwell. He rode to the august 
 structure of retributive Themis, as the French call a gallows, in 
 all the pride and pomp of shrievalty, and with a splendid retinue 
 of well-equipped knaves and varlets, as our ancestors called 
 honest serving-men. 
 
 Young Gamwell was brought forth with liis arms pinioned 
 behind him; his sister Alice and his father. Sir Guy, attending 
 him in a disconsolate mood. He had rejected the confessor 
 provided by the sheriff, and had insisted on the privilege of choos- 
 ing his OAvn, whom Little John had promised to bring. Little 
 John, however, had not made his appearance when the fatal 
 procession had begun its march; but when they reached the place 
 of execution. Little John appeared, accompanied by a ghostly 
 friar. 
 
 "Sheriff," said young Gamwell, "let me not die with my hands 
 pinioned : give me a sword, and set any odds of your men against 
 me, and let me die the death of a man, like the descendant of a 
 noble house, which has never yet been stained with ignominy." 
 
 "No, no," said the sheriff; "I have had enough of setting odds 
 against you. I have sworn you shall be hanged, and hanged you 
 shall be." 
 
 "Then God have mercy on me," said yoimg Gamwell; "and 
 now, holy friar, shrive my sinful soul." 
 
 The friar approached.
 
 THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK 65 
 
 "Let me see this friar," said the sheriff: "if he be the friar of the 
 bridge, I had as lief have the devil in Nottingham; but he shall 
 find me too much for him here." 
 
 "The friar of the bridge," said Little John, "as you very well 
 know, sheriff, was Father Michael of Rubygill Abbey, and you 
 may easily see that this is not the man." 
 
 " I see it," said the sheriff, " and God be thanked for his absence." 
 
 Young Gamwell stood at the foot of the ladder. The friar 
 approached him, opened his book, groaned, turned up the whites 
 of his eyes, tossed up his arms in the air, and said ^^Dominus 
 vobiscum." He then crossed both his hands on his breast under 
 the folds of his holy robes, and stood a few moments as if in inward 
 prayer. A deep silence among the attendant crowd accompanied 
 this action of the friar; interrupted only by the hollow tone of the 
 death-bell, at long and dreary intervals. Suddenly the friar threw 
 off his holy robes, and appeared a forester clothed in green, with 
 a sword in his right hand and a horn in his left. With the sword he 
 cut the bonds of William Gamwell, who instantly snatched a 
 sword from one of the sheriff's men ; and with the horn he blew a 
 loud blast, which was answered at once by four bugles from the 
 quarters of the four winds, and from each quarter came five and 
 twenty bowmen running all on a rovv. 
 
 "Treason! treason!" cried the sheriff. Old Sir Guy sprung to 
 his son's side, and so did Little John; and the four setting back to 
 back, kept the sheriff and his men at bay till the bowmen came 
 within shot and let fly their arrows among the sheriff's men, who, 
 after a brief resistance, fled in all directions. The forester who 
 had personated the friar sent an arrow after the flying sheriff^, 
 calling with a strong voice, "To the sheriff's left arm, as a keep- 
 sake from Robin Hood." The arrow reached its destiny; the 
 sheriff redoubled his speed, and, with the one arrow in his arm, 
 did not stop to breathe till he was out of reach of another. 
 
 The foresters did not waste time in Nottingham, but were soon 
 at a distance from its walls. Sir Guy returned with AHce to 
 Gamwell Hall ; but thinking he should not be safe there, from the 
 share he had had in his son's rescue, they only remained long 
 enough to supply themselves with clothes and money, and 
 departed, under the escort of Little John, to another seat of the 
 Gamwells in Yorkshire. Young Gamwell, taking it for granted
 
 66 THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK 
 
 that his offence was past remission, determined on joining Robin 
 Hood, and accompanied him to the forest, where it was deemed 
 expedient that he should change his name; and he was rechristened 
 without a priest, and with wine instead of water, by the immortal 
 name of Scarlet. 
 
 THE WAR SONG OF DINAS VAWR 
 
 [This song occurs in The Misfortunes of Elphin, the scene of which is laid 
 in ancient Wales. The song is sung by the noisy warriors of King Melvas in 
 the castle hall of Dinas Vawr.] 
 
 The mountain sheep are sweeter, 
 But the valley sheep are fatter; 
 We therefore deemed it meeter 
 To carry off the latter. 
 We made an expedition ; 
 We met a host, and quelled it; 
 We forced a strong position. 
 And killed the men who held it. 
 
 On Dyfed's richest valley, 
 
 Where herds of kine were browsing, 
 
 We made a mighty sally. 
 
 To furnish our carousing. 
 
 Fierce warriors rushed to meet us; 
 
 We met them, and o'erthrew them: 
 
 They struggled hard to beat us; 
 
 But we conquered them, and slew them. 
 
 As we drove our prize at leisure. 
 The king marched forth to catch us: 
 His rage surpassed all measure. 
 But his people could not match us. 
 He fled to his hall-pillars; 
 And, ere our force we led off. 
 Some sacked his house and cellars, 
 While others cut his head off.
 
 THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK 67 
 
 We there, in strife bewild'ring, 
 Spilt blood enough to swim in : 
 We orphaned many children, 
 And widowed many women. 
 The eagles and the ravens 
 We glutted with our f oemen ; 
 The heroes and the cravens, 
 The spearmen and the bowmen. 
 
 We brought away from battle, 
 
 And much their land bemoaned them, 
 
 Two thousand head of cattle, 
 
 And the head of him who owned them : 
 
 Ednyfed, King of Dyfed, 
 
 His head was borne before us; 
 
 His wine and beasts supplied our feasts. 
 
 And his overthrow, our chorus. 
 
 HILAIRE BELLOC 
 
 HiLAiRE Belloc (b. 1870) is partly French by birth and has served in the 
 French artillery. He was educated at the Oratory School and Oxford. 
 His numerous works include poems, novels, essays, historical sketches and 
 books of travel, the best of them being The Path to Rome. 
 
 THE SOUTH COUNTRY 
 
 When I am living in the Midlands 
 
 That are sodden and unkind, 
 I light my lamp in the evening : 
 
 My work is left behind; 
 And the great hills in the South Country 
 
 Come back into my mind. 
 
 The great hills of the South Country 
 
 They stand along the sea: 
 And it's there walking in the high woods 
 
 That I could wish to be. 
 And the men that were boys when I was a boy 
 
 Walking along with me. 
 
 5—2
 
 68 HILAIRE BELLOC 
 
 The men that Hve in North England 
 
 I saw them for a day: 
 Their hearts are set upon the waste fells, 
 
 Their skies are fast and grey: 
 From their castle-walls a man may see 
 
 The mountains far away. 
 
 The men that live in West England 
 
 They see the Severn strong, 
 A-roUing on rough water brown 
 
 Light aspen leaves along. 
 They have the secret of the Rocks, 
 
 And the oldest kind of song. 
 
 But the men that live in the South Country 
 
 Are the kindest and most wise, 
 They get their laughter from the loud surf, 
 
 And the faith in their happy eyes 
 Comes surely from our Sister the Spring 
 
 When over the sea she flies; 
 The violets suddenly bloom at her feet. 
 
 She blesses us with surprise. 
 
 I never get between the pines. 
 
 But I smell the Sussex air; 
 Nor I never come on a belt of sand 
 
 But my home is there; 
 And along the sky the line of the Downs 
 
 So noble and so bare. 
 
 A lost thing could I never find, 
 Nor a broken thing mend; 
 
 And I fear I shall be all alone 
 When I get towards the end. 
 
 Who will there be to comfort me. 
 Or who will be mv friend ?
 
 is bD 
 
 "^ ti-i 
 
 C/3 O
 
 HILAIRE BELLOC 69 
 
 I will gather and carefully make my friends 
 
 Of the men of the Sussex Weald, 
 They watch the stars from silent folds, 
 
 They stiffly plough the field. 
 By them and the God of the South Country 
 
 My poor soul shall be healed. 
 
 If I ever become a rich man, 
 
 Or if ever I grow to be old, 
 I will build a house with deep thatch 
 
 To shelter me from the cold. 
 And there shall the Sussex songs be sung 
 
 And the story of Sussex told. 
 
 I will hold my house in the high wood 
 
 Within a walk of the sea. 
 And the men that were boys when I was a boy 
 
 Shall sit and drink with me. 
 
 THE ENGLISH BIBLE 
 
 In the time of Queen Elizabeth there existed several translations of the 
 Bible or parts of the Bible into English. The oldest was made by friends and 
 followers of John Wyclif at the end of the fourteenth century; then came 
 Tyndale's (1525-34); next Coverdale's — the Great Bible (1539); next the 
 version made by English reformers settled at Geneva- — the Geneva Bible 
 (1559-60); and then a translation made by certain bishops in Elizabeth's 
 reign — the Bishops' Bible (1568). The Book of Psalms as it appears in the 
 Church of England Prayer Book is, in the main, the work of Coverdale. 
 
 Early in the seventeenth century, King James ordered a new translation 
 of the Bible to be made; it was published in 161 1, and has been known ever 
 since as the Authorised Version. An amended form of this translation 
 published in 188 1-5 is popularly called the Revised Version. 
 
 The Bible of 161 1 found its way to the hearts of the English people, and 
 its splendid language has influenced English thought and speech for over 
 three hundred years. Two supreme glories of the English tongue are two 
 great books published in the reign of James I — the Bible of 161 1 and 
 Mr William Shakespeare' s Comedies, Histories & Tragedies of 1623.
 
 70 THE ENGLISH BIBLE 
 
 BELSHAZZAR'S FEAST 
 
 Belshazzar the king made a great feast to a thousand of his 
 lords, and drank wine before the thousand. Belshazzar, whiles 
 he tasted the wine, commanded to bring the golden and silver 
 vessels which his father Nebuchadnezzar had taken out of the 
 temple which was in Jerusalem, that the king, and his princes, 
 his \vives, and his concubines, might drink therein. Then they 
 brought the golden vessels that were taken out of the temple 
 of the house of God which was at Jerusalem; and the king, and 
 his princes, his wives, and his concubines, drank in them. They 
 drank wine, and praised the gods of gold, and of silver, of brass, 
 of iron, of wood, and of stone. 
 
 In the same hour came forth fingers of a man's hand, and wrote 
 over against the candlestick upon the plaister of the wall of the 
 king's palace: and the king saw the part of the hand that wrote. 
 Then the king's countenance was changed, and his thoughts 
 troubled him, so that the joints of his loins were loosed, and his 
 knees smote one against another. The king cried aloud to bring 
 in the astrologers, the Chaldeans, and the soothsayers. And the 
 king spake, and said to the wise men of Babylon, Whosoever 
 shall read this writing, and shew me the interpretation thereof, 
 shall be clothed with scarlet, and have a chain of gold about his 
 neck, and shall be the third ruler in the kingdom. Then came in 
 all the king's wise men : but they could not read the wTiting, nor 
 make knowen to the king the interpretation thereof. Then was 
 king Belshazzar greatly troubled, and his countenance was 
 changed in him, and his lords were astonied. 
 
 Now the queen, by reason of the words of the king and his lords, 
 came into the banquet house: and the queen spake and said, 
 king, live for ever: let not thy thoughts trouble thee, nor let 
 thy countenance be changed: there is a man in thy kingdom, in 
 whom is the spirit of the holy gods; and in the days of thy father 
 light and understanding and wisdom, like the wisdom of the gods, 
 was found in him; whom the king Nebuchadnezzar thy father, 
 the king, I say, thy father, made master of the magicians, astrolo- 
 gers, Chaldeans, and soothsayers; forasmuch as an excellent 
 spirit, and knowledge, and understanding, interpreting of dreams, 
 and shewing of hard sentences, and dissolving of doubts, were
 
 THE ENGLISH BIBLE 71 
 
 found in the same Daniel, whom the king named Belteshazzar: 
 now let Daniel be called, and he will shew the interpretation. 
 Then was Daniel brought in before the king, and the king spake 
 and said unto Daniel, Art thou that Daniel, which art of the 
 children of the captivity of Judah, whom the king my father 
 brought out of Jewry? I have even heard of thee, that the spirit 
 of the gods is in thee, and that light and understanding and 
 excellent wisdom is found in thee. And now the wise men, the 
 astrologers, have been brought in before me, that they should 
 read this writing, and make knowen unto me the interpretation 
 thereof: but they could not shew the interpretation of the thing. 
 And I have heard of thee, that thou canst make interpretations, 
 and dissolve doubts : now if thou canst read the writing, and make 
 knowen to me the interpretation thereof, thou shalt be clothed with 
 scarlet, and have a chain of gold about thy neck, and shalt be the 
 third ruler in the kingdom. 
 
 Then Daniel answered and said before the king. Let thy gifts 
 be to thyself, and give thy rewards to another; yet I will read the 
 writing unto the king, and make knowen to him the interpretation. 
 thou king, the most high God gave Nebuchadnezzar thy father 
 a kingdom, and majesty, and glory, and honour. And for the 
 majesty that he gave him, all people, nations, and languages, 
 trembled and feared before him: whom he would he slew; and 
 whom he would he kept alive; and whom he would he set up; 
 and whom he would he put down. But when his heart was lifted 
 up, and his mind hardened in pride, he was deposed from his 
 kingly throne, and they took his glory from him. And he was 
 driven from the sons of men; and his heart was made like the 
 beasts, and his dwelling was with the wild asses: they fed him 
 with grass like oxen, and his body was wet with the dew of heaven, 
 till he knew that the most high God ruled in the kingdom of men, 
 and that he appointeth over it whomsoever he will. And thou 
 his son, Belshazzar, hast not humbled thine heart, though thou 
 knewest all this; but hast lifted up thyself against the Lord of 
 heaven; and they have brought the vessels of his house before 
 thee, and thou, and thy lords, thy wives, and thy concubines, 
 have drunk wine in them; and thou hast praised the gods of 
 silver, and gold, of brass, iron, wood, and stone, which see not, 
 nor hear, nor know: and the God in whose hand thy breath is,
 
 11 THE ENGLISH BIBLE 
 
 and whose are all thy ways, hast thou not glorified: then was 
 the part of the hand sent from him; and this writing was 
 written. 
 
 And this is the writing that was written, MENE, MENE, 
 TEKEL, UPHARSIN. This is the interpretation of the thing: 
 MENE; God hath numbered thy kingdom, and finished it. 
 TEKEL; Thou art weighed in the balances, and art found wanting. 
 PERES; Thy kingdom is divided, and given to the Medes and 
 Persians. Then commanded Belshazzar, and they clothed Daniel 
 with scarlet, and put a chain of gold about his neck, and made a 
 proclamation concerning him, that he should be the third ruler 
 in the kingdom. 
 
 In that night was Belshazzar the king of the Chaldeans slain. 
 And Darius the Median took the kingdom. 
 
 GEORGE BORROW 
 
 George Borrow (1803-81) was born at East Dereham, Norfolk, the son of 
 a miHtia officer. The boy's family changed their place of abode frequently 
 during his early years, but settled finally at Norwich. He began very early 
 to gain a knowledge of several little known languages, including Romany, 
 the language of the Gipsies, and this knowledge led to his being employed 
 by the Bible Society in the circulation of the Scriptures in Russia, Portugal 
 and Spain. His chief books, mainly accounts of his own life and adventures, 
 are The Bible in Spain^ Lavcngro^ The Romany Rye and Wild Wales. He 
 died at Oulton, near Lowestoft. The passage that follows is from The Bible 
 in Spain. Antonio is a Spanish gipsy whom Borrow met in Badajoz, and 
 with whom he travelled for some part of his wanderings. Of the many 
 foreign words that occur in the passage a few are Spanish but most are 
 Romany. 
 
 A GIPSY OF SPAIN 
 Nothing further of any account occurred in the gipsy house. 
 The next day Antonio and myself were again in the saddle. We 
 travelled at least thirteen leagues before we reached the Venta^, 
 where we passed the night. We rose early in the morning, my 
 guide informing me that we had a long day's journey to 
 make. "Where are we bound to?" I demanded. "To Trujillo," 
 he replied.
 
 GEORGE BORROW 73 
 
 When the sun arose, which it did gloomily and amidst threaten- 
 ing rain-clouds, we found ourselves in the neighbourhood of a 
 range of mountains which lay on our left, and which Antonio 
 informed me were called the Sierra of San Selvan. Our route, 
 however, lay over wide plains, scantily clothed with brushwood, 
 with here and there a melancholy village, with its old and dilapi- 
 dated church. Throughout the greater part of the day a drizzling 
 rain was falling, which turned the dust of the roads into mud and 
 mire, considerablv impeding our progress. Towards evening we 
 reached a moor, a wild place enough, strewn with enormous stones 
 and rocks. Before us, at some distance, rose a strange conical 
 hill, rough and shaggy, which appeared to be neither more nor 
 less than an immense assemblage of the same kind of rocks which 
 lay upon the moor. The rain had now ceased, but a strong wind 
 rose and howled at our backs. Throughout the journey, I had 
 experienced considerable dilhculty in keeping up with the mule 
 of Antonio. The walk of the horse was slow, and I could discover 
 no vestige of the spirit which the gipsy had assured me lurked 
 within him. We were now upon a tolerably clear spot of the moor. 
 "I am about to see," I said, "whether this horse has any of the 
 quality which you have described." "Do so," said Antonio, and 
 spurred his beast onward, speedily leaving me far behind. I 
 jerked the horse with the bit, endeavouring to arouse his dormant 
 spirit; whereupon he stopped, reared, and refused to proceed. 
 "Hold the bridle loose and touch him with your whip," shouted 
 Antonio from before. I obe\'ed, and forthwith the animal set off 
 at a trot, which gradually increased in swiftness till it became a 
 downright furious, speedy trot. His limbs were now thoroughly 
 lithy, and he brandished his four legs in a manner perfectly 
 wondrous. The mule of Antonio, which was a spirited animal of 
 excellent paces, would fain have competed with him, but was 
 passed in a twinkling. This tremendous trot endured for about a 
 mile, when the animal, becoming yet more heated, broke suddenly 
 into a gallop. Hurrah! no hare ever ran so wildly or blindly; it 
 was literally ventre a terre; and I had considerable difficulty in 
 keeping him clear of rocks, against which he would have 
 rushed in his savage fury, and dashed himself and rider to 
 atoms. 
 
 This race brought me to the foot of the hill, where I waited till
 
 74 GEORGE BORROW 
 
 the gipsy rejoined me. We left the hill, which seemed quite 
 inaccessible on our right, passing through a small and wretched 
 village. The sun went down, and dark night presently came upon 
 us. We proceeded on, however, for nearly three hours, until we 
 heard the barking of dogs and perceived a light or two in the 
 distance. "That is Trujillo," said Antonio, who had not spoken 
 for a long time. "I am glad of it," I repHed. "I am thoroughly 
 tired; I shall sleep soundly in Trujillo." "That is as it may be," 
 said the gipsy, and spurred his mule to a brisker pace. We soon 
 entered the town, which appeared dark and gloomy enough. I 
 followed close behind the gipsy, who led the way I knew not 
 whither, through dismal streets and dark places, where cats were 
 squalling. "Here is the house," said he at last, dismounting 
 before a low, mean hut. He knocked — no answer was returned; 
 he knocked again, but still there was no reply; he shook the door 
 and essayed to open it, but it appeared firmly locked and bolted. 
 "CarambaM" said he, "they are out; I feared it might be so. 
 Now, what are we to do ? " 
 
 "There can be no difficulty," said I, "with respect to what we 
 have to do. If your friends have gone out, it is easy enough to 
 go to a posada^" 
 
 "You know not what you say," rephed the gipsy. "I dare not 
 go^ to the mesuna^, nor enter any house in Trujillo save this, and 
 this is shut. Well, there is no remedy — we must move on; and 
 between ourselves, the sooner we leave this place the better. 
 My own planoro^ was garroted at Trujillo." 
 
 He lighted a cigar by means of a steel and yesca^, sprang on his 
 mule, and proceeded through streets and lanes equally dismal as 
 those which we had already traversed, till we again found our- 
 selves out of the town. 
 
 I confess I did not much like this decision of the gipsy. I felt 
 very slight inclination to leave the town behind and to venture 
 into unknown places in the dark night, amidst rain and mist; for 
 the wind had now dropped, and the rain began again to fall 
 briskly. I was, moreover, much fatigued, and wished for nothing 
 better than to deposit myself in some comfortable manger, where 
 I might sink to sleep, lulled by the pleasant sound of horses and 
 
 ^ An exclamation, or oath. 2 jj^j^_ 
 
 2 brother. * tinder.
 
 GEORGE BORROW 75 
 
 mules dispatching their provender. I had, however, put myself 
 under the direction of the gipsy, and I was too old a traveller to 
 quarrel with my guide under the present circumstances. I there- 
 fore followed close at his crupper, our only light being the glow 
 emitted from the gipsy's cigar. At last he flung it from his mouth 
 into a puddle, and we were then in darkness. 
 
 We proceeded in this manner for a long time. The gipsy was 
 silent; I myself was equally so; the rain descended more and 
 more. I sometimes thought I heard doleful noises, something like 
 the hooting of owls. "This is a strange night to be wandering 
 abroad in," I at length said to Antonio. 
 
 "It is, brother," said he; "but I would sooner be abroad in 
 such a night, and in such places, than in the estaripel^ of 
 Trujillo." 
 
 We wandered at least a league farther, and appeared now to be 
 near a wood, for I could occasionally distinguish the trunks of 
 immense trees. Suddenly Antonio stopped his mule. "Look, 
 brother," said he, "to the left, and tell me if you do not see a 
 Hght; your eyes are sharper than mine." I did as he commanded 
 me. At first I could see nothing, but moving a little farther on, 
 I plainly saw a large light at some distance, seemingly amongst 
 the trees. "Yonder cannot be a lamp or candle," said I; "it is 
 more Hke the blaze of a fire." " Very likely," said Antonio. "There 
 are no queres^ in this place. It is doubtless a fire made by 
 durotunes^. Let us go and join them, for, as you say, it is doleful 
 work wandering about at night amidst rain and mire." 
 
 We dismounted, and entered what I now saw was a forest, 
 leading the animals cautiously amongst the trees and brushwood. 
 In about five minutes we reached a small open space, at the farther 
 side of which, at the foot of a large cork tree, a fire was burning, 
 and by it stood or sat two or three figures. They had heard our 
 approach, and one of them now exclaimed, "Quien viveP"^ 
 "I know that voice," said Antonio, and leaving the horse with 
 me, rapidly advanced towards the fire. Presently I heard an Ola ! 
 and a laugh, and soon the voice of Antonio summoned me to 
 advance. On reaching the fire, I found two dark lads, and a still 
 darker woman of about forty — the latter seated on what appeared 
 to be horse or mule furniture. I likewise saw a horse and two 
 ^ prison. 2 houses. ^ shepherds. * Who goes there?
 
 76 GEORGE BORROW 
 
 donkeys tethered to the neighbouring trees. It was, in fact, a 
 gipsy bivouac. . ."Come forward, brother, and show yourself," 
 said Antonio to me. "You are amongst friends. These are of the 
 Errata^ — the very people whom I expected to find at Trujillo, 
 and in whose house we should have slept." 
 
 "And what," said I, "could have induced them to leave their 
 house in Trujillo and come into this dark forest, in the midst of 
 wind and rain, to pass the night ? " 
 
 "They come on business of Egypt, brother, doubtless," replied 
 Antonio; "and that business is none of ours. Calla boca!^ It is 
 lucky we have found them here, else we should have had no supper 
 and our horses no corn." 
 
 "My ro^ is prisoner at the village yonder," said the woman, 
 pointing with her hand in a particular direction. "He is prisoner 
 yonder for choring a mailla^. We are come to see what we can do 
 on his behalf; and where can we lodge better than in this forest, 
 where there is nothing to pay? It is not the first time, I trow, 
 that Galore^ have slept at the root of a tree." 
 
 One of the striplings now gave us barley for our animals in a 
 large bag, into which we successively introduced their heads, 
 allowing the famished creatures to regale themselves till we con- 
 ceived that they had satisfied their hunger. There was a puchero^ 
 simmering at the fire, half full of bacon, garbanzos*, and other 
 provisions. This was emptied into a large wooden platter, and out 
 of this Antonio and myself supped; the other gipsies refused to 
 join us, giving us to understand that they had eaten before our 
 arrival. They all, liowever, did justice to the leathern bottle of 
 Antonio, which, before his departure from Merida, he had the 
 precaution to fill. 
 
 I was by this time completely overcome with fatigue and sleep. 
 Antonio flung me an immense horse-cloth, of which he bore more 
 than one beneath the huge cushion on which he rode. In this I 
 wrapped myself, and placing my head upon a bundle, and my feet 
 as near as possible to the fire, I lay down. 
 
 Antonio and the other gipsies remained seated by the fire con- 
 versing. I listened for a moment to what they said, but I did not 
 perfectly understand it, and what I did understand by no means 
 
 1 gipsies. 2 Hold your tongue! ^ husband. 
 
 * stealing a donkey. ^ stew-pot. ® peas.
 
 GEORGE BORROW 77 
 
 interested me. The rain still drizzled, but I heeded it not, and was 
 soon asleep. 
 
 The sun was just appearing as I awoke. I made several efforts 
 before I could rise from the ground. My limbs were quite stiff, 
 and my hair was covered with rime; for the rain had ceased, and 
 a rather severe frost set in. I looked around me, but could see 
 neither Antonio nor the gipsies; the animals of the latter had 
 likewise disappeared, so had the horse which I had hitherto rode. 
 The mule, however, of Antonio still remained fastened to the 
 tree. This latter circumstance quieted some apprehensions which 
 were beginning to arise in my mind. "They are gone on some 
 business of Egypt," I said to myself, "and will return anon." I 
 gathered together the embers of the fire, and heaping upon them 
 sticks and branches, soon succeeded in calling forth a blaze, 
 beside which I again placed the puchero, with what remained of 
 the provision of last night. I waited for a considerable time in 
 expectation of the return of my companions; but as they did not 
 appear, I sat down and breakfasted. Before I had well finished 
 I heard the noise of a horse approaching rapidly, and presently 
 Antonio made his appearance amongst the trees with some 
 agitation in his countenance. He sprang from the horse, and 
 instantly proceeded to untie the mule. 
 
 "Mount, brother, mount!" said he, pointing to the horse. 
 "I went with the Callee^ and her chabes^ to the village where the 
 ro is in trouble. The chinobaro^, however, seized them at once 
 with their cattle, and would have laid hands also on me; but I 
 set spurs to the grasti*, gave him the bridle, and was soon far away. 
 Mount, brother, mount ! or we shall have the whole rustic canaille 
 upon us in a twinkling." 
 
 I did as he commanded. We were presently in the road which 
 we had left the night before. Along this we hurried at a great rate, 
 the horse displaying his best speedy trot; whilst the mule, with 
 its ears pricked up, galloped gallantly at his side. "What place 
 is that on the hill yonder ? " said I to Antonio, at the expiration 
 of an hour, as we prepared to descend a deep valley. 
 
 "That is Jaraicejo," said Antonio. "A bad place it is, and a 
 bad place it has ever been for the Calo people." 
 
 1 gipsy (fem.). ^ boys. ^ chief officer. * horse.
 
 78 GEORGE BORROW 
 
 "If it is such a bad place," said I, "I hope we shall not have to 
 pass through it." 
 
 "We must pass through it," said Antonio, "for more reasons 
 than one: first, forasmuch as the road lies through Jaraicejo; and 
 second, forasmuch as it will be necessary' to purchase provisions 
 there, both for ourselves and horses. On the other side of Jaraicejo 
 there is a wild desert, a despoblado^, where we shall find nothing." 
 
 We crossed the valley, and ascended the hill, and as we drew 
 near to the town the gipsy said, "Brother, we had best pass through 
 that town singly. I will go in advance; follow slowly, and when 
 there purchase bread and barley; you have nothing to fear. 'I will 
 await you on the despoblado." 
 
 Without waiting for my answer, he hastened forward, and 
 was speedily out of sight. 
 
 I followed slowly behind, and entered the gate of the town — 
 an old dilapidated place, consisting of little more than one street. 
 Along this street I was advancing, when a man with a dirty 
 foraging-cap on his head, and holding a gun in his hand, came 
 running up to me, "Who are you?" said he, in rather rough 
 accents; "from whence do you come.''" 
 
 "From Badajoz and Trujillo," I repHed. "Why do you ask?" 
 
 "I am one of the National Guard," said the man, "and am 
 placed here to inspect strangers. I am told that a gipsy fellow just 
 now rode through the town. It is well for him that I had stepped 
 into my house. Do you come in his company?" 
 
 "Do I look like a person," said I, "likely to keep company 
 with gipsies ? " 
 
 The National measured me from top to toe, and then looked 
 me full in the face with an expression which seemed to say, 
 "Likely enough." In fact, my appearance was by no means 
 calculated to prepossess people in my favour. Upon my head I 
 wore an old Andalusian hat, which, from its condition, appeared 
 to have been trodden underfoot; a rusty cloak, which had perhaps 
 served half a dozen generations, enwrapped my body; my nether 
 garments were by no means of the finest description, and as far 
 as could be seen were covered with mud, with which my face was 
 likewise plentifully bespattered, and upon my chin was a beard of 
 a week's growth. 
 
 * waste land.
 
 GEORGE BORROW 79 
 
 "Have you a passport?" at length demanded the National. 
 I remembered having read that the best way to win a Spaniard's 
 heart is to treat him with ceremonious civility. I therefore dis- 
 mounted, and taking off my hat, made a low bow to the consti- 
 tutional soldier, saying, " Senor Nacional, you must know that I 
 am an English gentleman travelling in this country for my pleasure. 
 I bear a passport, which on inspecting you will find to be perfectly 
 regular. It was given me by the great Lord Palmerston, minister 
 of England, whom you of course have heard of here. At the 
 bottom you will see his own handwriting. Look at it and rejoice; 
 perhaps you will never have another opportunity. As I put 
 unbounded confidence in the honour of ever}' gentleman, I leave 
 the passport in your hands whilst I repair to the posada to refresh 
 myself. When you have inspected it, you will perhaps oblige me 
 so far as to bring it to me. Cavalier, I kiss your hands." 
 
 I then made him another low bow, which he returned with one 
 still lower, and leaving him now staring at the passport and now 
 looking at myself, I went into a posada, to which I was directed 
 by a beggar whom I met. 
 
 I fed the horse, and procured some bread and barley, as the 
 gipsy had directed me. I likewse purchased three fine partridges 
 of a fowler, who was drinking wine in the posada. He was satisfied 
 with the price I gave him, and offered to treat me with a copita^, 
 to which I made no objection. As we sat discoursing at the table, 
 the National entered with the passport in his hand, and sat down 
 by us. 
 
 National. Caballero, I return you your passport; it is quite in 
 form. I rejoice much to have made your acquaintance. I have 
 no doubt that you can give me some information respecting the 
 present war. 
 
 Myself. I shall be very happy to afford so polite and honourable 
 a gentleman any information in my power. 
 
 National. What is England doing? Is she about to afford any 
 assistance to this country? If she pleased she could put down the 
 war in three months. 
 
 Myself. Be under no apprehension, Senor Nacional; the war 
 will be put down, don't doubt. You have heard of the English 
 
 * small glass.
 
 8o GEORGE BORROW 
 
 legion which my Lord Palmerston has sent over? Leave the 
 matter in their hands, and you will soon see the result. 
 
 National. It appears to me that this Caballero Balmerson 
 must be a very honest man. 
 
 Myselj. There can be no doubt of it. 
 
 National. I have heard that he is a great general. 
 
 Myselj. There can be no doubt of it. In some things neither 
 Napoleon nor the Sawyer^ would stand a chance with him for a 
 moment. Es mucho homhre'^. 
 
 National. I am glad to hear it. Does he intend to head the 
 legion himself? 
 
 Myself. I beheve not; but he has sent over, to head the 
 fighting-men, a friend of his, who is thought to be nearly as much 
 versed in military matters as himself. 
 
 National. I am rejoiced to hear it. I see that the war will soon 
 be over. Caballero, I thank you for your politeness, and for the 
 information which you have afforded me. I hope you will have a 
 pleasant journey. I confess that I am surprised to see a gentleman 
 of your country travelling alone, and in this manner, through 
 such regions as these. The roads are at present very bad. There 
 have of late been many accidents, and more than two deaths in 
 this neighbourhood. The despoblado out yonder has a particularly 
 evil name; be on your guard, Caballero. I am sorry that gipsy 
 was permitted to pass. Should you meet him and not like his 
 looks, shoot him at once, stab him, or ride him down. He is a 
 well-known thief, contrabandista, and murderer, and has com- 
 mitted more assassinations than he has fingers on his hands. 
 Caballero, if you please, we will allow you a guard to the other 
 side of the pass. You do not wish it ? Then farewell. Stay; before 
 I go I should wish to see once more the signature of the Caballero 
 Balmerson. 
 
 I showed him the signature, which he looked upon with pro- 
 found reverence, uncovering his head for a moment; we then 
 embraced and parted. 
 
 1 mounted the horse and rode from the town, at first proceeding 
 very slowly. I had no sooner, however, reached the moor, than 
 
 ^ EI Serrador, a Carlist partisan, who about this period was much talked 
 of in Spain. 
 
 2 He is very much a man.
 
 GEORGE BORROW 8i 
 
 I put the animal to his speedy trot, and proceeded at a tremendous 
 rate for some time, expecting every moment to overtake the gipsy. 
 I, however, saw nothing of him, nor did I meet with a single 
 human being. The road along which I sped was narrow and 
 sandy, winding amidst thickets of broom and brushwood, with 
 which the despoblado was overgrown, and which in some places 
 were as high as a man's head. Across the moor, in the direction 
 in which I was proceeding, rose a, lofty eminence, naked and bare. 
 The moor extended for at least three leagues. I had nearly crossed 
 it, and reached the foot of the ascent. I was becoming very uneasy, 
 conceiving that I might have passed the gipsy amongst the thickets, 
 when I suddenly heard his well-known Ola ! and his black savage 
 head and staring eyes suddenly appeared from amidst a clump 
 of broom. 
 
 "You have tarried long, brother," said he; "I ahnost thought 
 you had played me false." 
 
 He bade me dismount, and then proceeded to lead the horse 
 behind the thicket, where I found the mule picketed to the ground. 
 I gave him the barley and provisions, and then proceeded to 
 relate to him my adventure with the National. 
 
 "I would I had him here," said the gipsy, on hearing the 
 epithets which the former had lavished upon him — "I would I 
 had him here; then should my chuli^ and his carlo ^ become better 
 acquainted." 
 
 "And what are you doing here yourself," I demanded, "in this 
 wild place, amidst these thickets ? " 
 
 " I am expecting a messenger down yon pass," said the gipsy, 
 "and till that messenger arrive I can neither go forward nor 
 return. It is on business of Egypt, brother, that I am here." 
 
 As he invariably used this last expression when he wished to 
 evade my inquiries, I held my peace and said no more. The 
 animals were fed, and we proceeded to make a frugal repast on 
 bread and wine. 
 
 "Why do you not cook the game which I brought ? " I demanded. 
 "In this place there is plenty of materials for a fire." 
 
 "The smoke might discover us, brother," said Antonio. "I am 
 desirous of lying escondido^ in this place until the arrival of the 
 messenger." 
 
 1 knife. ^ heart. ^ hidden. 
 
 SS. T . H. II. O
 
 82 GEORGE BORROW 
 
 It was now considerably past noon. The gipsy lay behind the 
 thicket, raising himself up occasionally and looking anxiously 
 towards the liill which lay over against us. At last, with an 
 exclamation of disappointment and impatience, he flung himself 
 on the ground, where he lay a considerable time, apparently 
 ruminating; at last he lifted up his head and looked me in the 
 face. 
 
 Antonio. Brother, I cannot injagine what business brought you 
 to this country. 
 
 Myself. Perhaps the same which brings you to this moor — 
 business of Eg}'pt. 
 
 Antonio. Not so, brother. You speak the language of Egypt, 
 it is true, but your ways and words are neither those of the Cales 
 nor of the Busne^. 
 
 Myself. Did you not hear me speak in the foros about God and 
 Tebleque^i' It was to declare His glory to the Cales and Gentiles 
 that I came to the land of Spain. 
 
 Antonio. And who sent you on this errand ? 
 
 Myself. You would scarcely understand me were I to inform 
 you. Know, however, that there are many in foreign lands who 
 lament the darkness which envelops Spain, and the scenes of 
 cruelty, robbery, and murder which deform it. 
 
 Antonio. Are they Calore or Busne? 
 
 Myself. What matters it 1 Both Calore and Busne are sons of 
 the same God. 
 
 Antonio. You lie, brother: they are not of one father nor of 
 one Errate^. You speak of robbery, cruelty, and murder. There 
 are too many Busne, brother; if there were no Busne there would 
 be neither robbery nor murder. The Calore neither rob nor 
 murder each other — the Busne do; nor are they cruel to their 
 animals — their law forbids them. When I was a child I was beating 
 a burra*; but my father stopped my hand, and chided me. "Hurt 
 not the animal," said he, "for within it is the soul of your own 
 sister!" 
 
 Myself. And do you beUeve in this wild doctrine, O Antonio? 
 
 Antonio. Sometimes I do, sometimes I do not. There are some 
 who believe in nothing — not even that they live! Long since, 
 
 ^ Gentiles, those not Calds or gipsies. ^ the Saviour. 
 
 * race. * donkey.
 
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 \'ii,' 
 
 THE FOR I RESS OF THE ALHAMBRA 
 David Roberts
 
 GEORGE BORROW 83 
 
 I knew an old Caloro— he was old, very old, upwards of a hundred 
 years — and I once heard him say that all we thought we saw was a 
 lie; that there was no world, no men nor women, no horses nor 
 mules, no olive trees. But whither are we straying? I asked what 
 mduced you to come to this country; you tell me the glory of 
 God and Tebleque. Disparate !i Tell that to the Busne. You have 
 good reasons for coming, no doubt, else you would not be here. 
 Some say you are a spy of the Londone; perhaps you are— I care 
 not. Rise, brother, and tell me whether any one is coming down 
 the pass. 
 
 "I see a distant object," I rephed, "like a speck on the side of 
 the hill." 
 
 The gipsy started up, and we both fixed our eyes on the object. 
 The distance was so great that it was at first with difficulty that 
 we could distinguish whether it moved or not. A quarter of an 
 hour, however, dispelled all doubts, for within this time it had 
 nearly reached the bottom of the hill, and we could descry a figure 
 seated on an animal of some kind. 
 
 II It is a woman," said I at length, "mounted on a gray donkey." 
 "Then it is my messenger," said Antonio, "for it can be no 
 other." 
 
 The woman and the donkey were now upon the plain, and for 
 some time were concealed from us by the copse and brushwood 
 which intervened. They were not long, however, in making their 
 appearance at the distance of about a hundred yards. The donkey 
 was abeautiful creature of a silver gray, and came frisking along, 
 swmging her tail, and moving her feet so quick that they scarcely 
 seemed' to touch the ground. The animal no sooner perceived us 
 than she stopped short, turned round, and attempted to escape 
 by the way she had come. Her rider, however, detained her; 
 whereupon the donkey kicked violently, and would probably 
 have flung the former, had she not sprung nimbly to the ground. 
 The form of the woman was entirely concealed by the large wrap- 
 pmg man's cloak which she wore. I ran to assist her, when she 
 turned her face full upon me, and I instantly recognised the sharp, 
 clever features of Antonia, whom I had seen at Badajoz, the 
 daughter of my guide. She said nothing to me, but advancing to 
 her father, addressed something to him in a low voice which I 
 
 ^ Nonsense ! 
 
 6—2
 
 84 GEORGE BORROW 
 
 did not hear. He started back and vociferated " Todos^! " " Yes," 
 said she in a louder tone, probably repeating the words which I 
 had not caught before, "all are captured." 
 
 The gipsy remained for some time like one astounded, and 
 unwilling to listen to their discourse, which I imagined might 
 relate to business of Egypt, I walked away amidst the thickets. 
 I was absent for some time, but could occasionally hear passionate 
 expressions and oaths. In about half an hour I returned. They 
 had left the road, but I found them behind the broom-clump, 
 where the animals stood. Both were seated on the ground. The 
 features of the gipsy were peculiarly dark and grim. He held his 
 unsheathed knife in his hand, which he would occasionally plunge 
 into the earth, exclaiming, ''■'Todos! Todos!^'' 
 
 "Brother," said he at last, "I can go no farther with you; the 
 business which carried me to Castumba^ is settled: you must now 
 travel by yourself and trust to your baji^. 
 
 "I trust in Undevel*," I replied, "who wrote my fortune long 
 ago. But how am I to journey? I have no horse, for you doubtless 
 want your own." 
 
 The gipsy appeared to reflect. "I want the horse, it is true, 
 brother," he said, "and likewise the macho'^. But you shall not 
 go en pindre^; you shall purchase the burra of Antonia, which I 
 presented her when I sent her upon this expedition." 
 
 "The burra," I replied, "appears both savage and vicious." 
 
 "She is both, brother, and on that account I bought her: a 
 savage and vicious beast has generally four excellent legs. You 
 are a Calo, brother, and can manage her. You shall therefore 
 purchase the savage burra, giving my daughter Antonia a baria' 
 of gold. If you think fit you can sell the beast at Talavera or 
 Madrid, for Estremenianbestis® are highly considered in Castumba." 
 
 In less than an hour I was on the other side of the pass, moimted 
 on the savage burra. 
 
 ^ All! 2 Castile. 3 fortune. « God. 
 
 ^ mule. 8 Qjj foot. ' ounce. * animals.
 
 WILLIAM BLAKE 
 
 TO THE EVENING STAR 
 
 Thou fair-hair'd angel of the evening, 
 
 Now, whilst the sun rests on the mountains, light 
 
 Thy bright torch of love : thy radiant crown 
 
 Put on, and smile upon our evening bed ! 
 
 Smile on our loves, and while thou drawest the 
 
 Blue curtains of the sky, scatter thy silver dew 
 
 On every flower that shuts its sweet eyes 
 
 In timely sleep. Let thy west wind sleep on 
 
 The lake; speak silence with thy glimmering eyes, 
 
 And wash the dusk with silver. — Soon, full soon, 
 
 Dost thou withdraw; then the wolf rages wide, 
 
 And the lion glares through the dun forest: 
 
 The fleeces of our flocks are cover'd with 
 
 Thy sacred dew : protect them with thine influence. 
 
 MILTON 
 
 EVENING 
 (From Paradise Lost) 
 
 Now came still evening on, and twilight gray 
 Had in her sober livery all things clad ; 
 Silence accompanied ; for beast and bird, 
 They to their grassy couch, these to their nests 
 Were slunk, all but the wakeful nightingale; 
 She all night long her amorous descant sung : 
 Silence was pleased. Now glow'd the firmament 
 With living sapphires; Hesperus, that led 
 The starry host, rode brightest, till the moon. 
 Rising in clouded majesty, at length 
 Apparent queen, unveil'd her peerless light, 
 And o'er the dark her silver mantle threw.
 
 OLIVER GOLDSMITH 
 
 Oliver Goldsmith (1728-74) was bom at Pallas, Co. Longford, Ireland, 
 the son of a clergyman; he was educated at several schools and at Trinity 
 College, Dublin. He was somewhat weak and thriftless in character. 
 After being rejected for the church, and failing to make progress in law, he 
 attempted to qualify as a doctor. He went to Edinburgh to study medicine, 
 wandered about Europe and returned to England, where, in South London, 
 he obtained some humble employment. He was given work to do as a 
 writer and translator. His writings began to attract notice and for the rest 
 of his days he lived by his pen. He earned very little, much less than he 
 spent; so he was generally in difficulties. He became acquainted with 
 Dr Johnson, who liked him for his kind-hearted, gentle simpUcity. 
 Goldsmith died in the Temple, where he is buried. His best works are 
 She Stoops to Conquer (a play), The Deserted Village (a poem). The Vicar of 
 Wakefield (a novel) and The Citizen of the World (a collection of essays). 
 The passage that follows is Letter cxiv from the last-named book. 
 
 CITY NIGHT PIECE 
 
 The clock just struck two, the expiring taper rises and sinks in 
 the socket, the watchman forgets the hour in slumber, the laborious 
 and the happy are at rest, and nothing wakes but meditation, 
 guilt, revelry, and despair. The drunkard once more fills the 
 destroying bowl, the robber walks his midnight round, and the 
 suicide lifts his g-uilty arm against his own sacred person. 
 
 Let me no longer waste the night over the page of antiquity, 
 or the sallies of co-temporar)' genius, but pursue the solitary 
 walk, where vanity, ever changing, but a few hours past, walked 
 before me, where she kept up the pageant, and now, like a froward 
 child, seems hushed with her ovvti importunities. 
 
 What a gloom hangs all around; the dying lamp feebly emits a 
 yellow gleam, no sound is heard but of the chiming clock, or the 
 distant watch-dog. All the bustle of human pride is forgotten, 
 an hour like this may well display the emptiness of human vanity. 
 
 There will come a time, when this temporary sohtude may be 
 made continual, and the city itself, like its inhabitants, fade 
 away, and leave a desert in its room. 
 
 What cities, as great as this, have once triumphed in existence, 
 had their victories as great, joy as just, and as unbounded, and 
 with short sighted presumption, promised themselves immortality.
 
 OLIVER GOLDSMITH 87 
 
 Posterity can hardly trace the situation of some. The sorrowful 
 traveller wanders over the awful ruins of others; and as he beholds, 
 he learns wisdom, and feels the transience of every sublunary 
 possession. 
 
 Here, he cries, stood their citadel, now grown over with weeds ; 
 there their senate-house, but now the haunt of every noxious 
 reptile; temples and theatres stood here, now only an undistin- 
 guished heap of ruin. They are fallen, for luxury and avarice 
 first made them feeble. The rewards of state were conferred on 
 amusing, and not on useful, members of society. Their riches and 
 opulence invited the invaders, who, though at first repulsed, 
 returned again, conquered by perseverance, and at last swept 
 the defendants into undistinguished destruction. 
 
 How few appear in those streets, which but some few hours 
 ago were crowded; and those who appear, now no longer wear 
 their daily mask, nor attempt to hide their lewdness or their 
 misery. 
 
 But who are those who make the streets their couch, and find a 
 short repose from wretchedness at the doors of the opulent? 
 These are strangers, wanderers, and orphans, whose circumstances 
 are too humble to expect redress, and whose distresses are too 
 great even for pity. Their wretchedness excites rather horror 
 than pity. Some are without the covering even of rags, and others 
 emaciated with disease; the world has disclaimed them; society 
 turns its back upon their distress, and has given them up to 
 nakedness and hunger. 
 
 Why, why was I born a man, and yet see the suffering of 
 wretches I cannot relieve ! Poor houseless creatures ! the .world 
 will give you reproaches, but will not give you relief. The slightest 
 misfortunes of the great, the most imaginary uneasinesses of the 
 rich, are aggravated with all the power of eloquence, and held up 
 to engage our attention and sympathetic sorrow. The poor weep 
 unheeded, persecuted by every subordinate species of tyranny; 
 and every law, which gives others security, becomes an enemy to 
 them. 
 
 Why was this heart of mine formed with so much sensibility ! 
 or why was not my fortune adapted to its impulse ! Tenderness, 
 without a capacity of relieving, only makes the man who feels it 
 more wretched than the object which sues for assistance. Adieu.
 
 BEN JONSON 
 
 Ben Jonson (i 573-1 637)^ dramatist and poet, author of some beautiful 
 short poems and of several fine plays including Every Man in his Humour 
 and The Alchemist. The following hymn to the moon is one of his finest 
 poems. "Drink to me only with thine eyes" is even more familiar from its 
 musical setting. He wrote a beautiful poem on the death of a child actor 
 called Salathiel Pavy. 
 
 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 wished 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 !
 
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 GEORGE HERBERT 
 
 George Herbert (i 593-1633), sweetest of English religious poets, was 
 born in Montgomery Castle. He was educated at Westminster and Trinity 
 College, Cambridge, and intended to enter public life at the court of James I; 
 but he was gradually drawn towards the Church. He became vicar of 
 Bemerton (near Salisbury) where he died. His chief book is a volume of 
 religious poems called The Temple. A charming life of Herbert was written 
 by Izaak Walton, author of The Compleat Angler. 
 
 THE PULLEY 
 
 When God at first made man, 
 Having a glass of blessings standing by; 
 Let us (said he) pour on him all we can : 
 Let the world's riches, which dispersed lie, 
 
 Contract into a span. 
 
 So strength first made a way; 
 Then beauty flow'd, then wisdom, honour, pleasure: 
 When almost all was out, God made a stay, 
 Perceiving that alone, of all his treasure, 
 
 Rest in the bottom lay. 
 
 For if I should (said he) 
 Bestow this jewel also on my creature, 
 He would adore my gifts instead of me, 
 And rest in Nature, not the God of Nature: 
 
 So both should losers be. 
 
 Yet let him keep the rest, 
 But keep them with repining restlessness : 
 Let him be rich and wear}-', that at least, 
 If goodness lead him not, yet weariness 
 
 May toss him to my breast.
 
 KEATS 
 
 John Keats (1795-1821) was the son of the head ostler in a livery stable 
 at the sign of the Swan and Hoop, Finsbury. He was born there in October, 
 1795, and educated at an Enfield school. It was intended that he should 
 be a doctor, and he became a student at Guy's and St Thomas's Hospital. 
 He was drawn, however, to literature, and, encouraged by admiring friends, 
 he wrote and published a volume of verses in 1817. This was followed in 
 the next year by Endymion, a long poem; and in 1820 appeared a volume 
 containing his best work, Lamia^ Isabella, The Eve of St Agnes, the Ode to a 
 Nightingale and other poems. Keats fell ill with consumption and left 
 England to seek health in Italy. He died in Rome at the age of twenty-five. 
 His work had been unfairly attacked by certain reviewers, and Shelley, 
 his friend and fellow-poet, was inspired to write in his defence a noble poem 
 called Adonais, which will for ever unite the names of the young poets. 
 
 TO AUTUMN 
 
 Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, 
 
 Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun ; 
 Conspiring with him how to load and bless 
 
 With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run ; 
 To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees, 
 
 And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; 
 
 To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells 
 
 With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, 
 And still more, later flowers for the bees, 
 
 Until they think warm days will never cease, 
 
 For Summer has o'erbrimm'd their clammy cells. 
 
 Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store ? 
 
 Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find 
 Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, 
 
 Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; 
 Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep, 
 
 Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
 
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 KEATS 91 
 
 Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers: 
 And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep 
 Steady thy laden head across a brook; 
 Or by a cyder-press, with patient look, 
 
 Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Where are the songs of Spring ? Ay, where are they ? 
 
 Think not of them, thou hast thy music too — 
 While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day, 
 
 And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue; 
 Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn 
 
 Among the river sallows, borne aloft 
 
 Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies ; 
 And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn; 
 
 Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft 
 
 The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft ; 
 And gathering swallows twitter in the skies. 
 
 SHELLEY 
 
 Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822) was born near Horsham in Sussex, 
 the son of a county gentleman. He was educated at Eton and at Oxford, 
 whence he was sent down after a year. He wrote verses and romances at 
 an early age, and his pen was always busy with poems, and with pamphlets 
 in favour of social reform. Like Byron, with whom he was on terms of 
 friendship, Shelley lived much in Italy, where he wrote some of his best 
 poems and several delightful descriptive letters. Among his works in verse 
 may be named Prometheus Unbound^ Hellas, Adonais, The Witch of Atlas, 
 the Ode to the West Wind and To a Skylark. His shorter poems include 
 some of the loveliest lyrics in our language. Shelley was drowned when 
 his schooner, the Ariel, was wrecked by a sudden storm in the bay of 
 Spezzia. His body was washed ashore, and burnt in the presence of Byron 
 and Leigh Hunt; the ashes were buried at Rome in the cemetery where 
 lies the body of Keats. 
 
 THE CLOUD 
 
 I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers, 
 
 From the seas and the streams; 
 I bear light shade for the leaves when laid 
 
 In their noonday dreams.
 
 92 SHELLEY 
 
 From my wings are shaken the dews that waken 
 
 The sweet buds every one, 
 When rocked to rest on their mother's breast, 
 
 As she dances about the sun. 
 I wield the flail of the lashing hail, 
 
 And whiten the green plains under, 
 And then again I dissolve it in rain, 
 
 And laugh as I pass in thunder. 
 
 I sift the snow on the mountains below. 
 
 And their great pines groan aghast; 
 And all the night 'tis my pillow white, 
 
 While I sleep in the arms of the blast. 
 Sublime on the towers of my skiey bowers. 
 
 Lightning my pilot sits; 
 In a cavern under is fettered the thunder. 
 
 It struggles and howls at fits; 
 Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion. 
 
 This pilot is guiding me. 
 Lured by the love of the genii that move 
 
 In the depths of the purple sea; 
 Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills, 
 
 Over the lakes and the plains. 
 Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream, 
 
 The Spirit he loves remains; 
 And I all the while bask in Heaven's blue smile, 
 
 Whilst he is dissolving in rains. 
 
 The sanguine Sunrise, with his meteor eyes. 
 
 And his burning plumes outspread. 
 Leaps on the back of my sailing rack, 
 
 When the morning star shines dead ; 
 As on the jag of a mountain crag, 
 
 Which an earthquake rocks and swings. 
 An eagle alit one moment may sit 
 
 In the light of its golden wings.
 
 SHELLEY 93 
 
 And when Sunset may breathe, from the Ht sea beneath, 
 
 Its ardours of rest and of love, 
 And the crimson pall of eve may fall 
 
 From the depth of Heaven above, 
 With wings folded I rest on mine aery nest, 
 
 As still as a brooding dove. 
 
 That orbed maiden with white fire laden, 
 
 Whom mortals call the Moon, 
 Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor. 
 
 By the midnight breezes strewn ; 
 And wherever the beat of her unseen feet, 
 
 Which only the angels hear. 
 May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof, 
 
 The stars peep behind her and peer; 
 And I laugh to see them whirl and flee, 
 
 Like a swarm of golden bees. 
 When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent, 
 
 Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas. 
 Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high, 
 
 Are each paved with the moon and these. 
 
 I bind the Sun's throne with a burning zone. 
 
 And the Moon's with a girdle of pearl ; 
 The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim. 
 
 When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl. 
 From cape to cape, with a bridge-hke shape. 
 
 Over a torrent sea. 
 Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof, — 
 
 The mountains its columns be. 
 The triumphal arch through which I march 
 
 With hurricane, fire, and snow. 
 When the Powers of the air are chained to my chair. 
 
 Is the million-coloured bow; 
 The sphere-fire above its soft colours wove. 
 
 While the moist Earth was laughing below.
 
 94 SHELLEY 
 
 I am the daughter of Earth and Water, 
 
 And the nursHng of the Sky; 
 I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores; 
 
 I change, but I cannot die. 
 For after the rain, when with never a stain 
 
 The paviUon of Heaven is bare, 
 And the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleams 
 
 Build up the blue dome of air, 
 I silently laugh at my own cenotaph, 
 
 And out of the caverns of rain. 
 Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb, 
 
 I arise and unbuild it again. 
 
 J. A. FROUDE 
 
 James Anthony Froude (1818-94), the son of a clergyman, was born in 
 Devonshire, and educated at Westminster and Oxford. His writings are 
 mainly historical. Among them may be named a History of England during 
 part of the Tudor period. Short Studies on Great Subjects (a collection of 
 essays) and Oceana, an account of his visit to Australia and New Zealand, 
 The passage that follows is taken from his History. The court at Dunstable 
 referred to at the beginning is the court that decreed a divorce between 
 Henry VHI and his first wife Catherine of Aragon. 
 
 THE CORONATION OF ANNE BOLEYN 
 
 In anticipation of the timely close of the proceedings at Dun- 
 stable, notice had been given in the city early in May, that 
 preparations should be made for the coronation on the first of 
 the following month. Queen Anne was at Greenwich, but, 
 according to custom, the few preceding days were to be spent at 
 the Tower; and on the 19th of May, she was conducted thither 
 in state by the lord mayor and the city companies, with one of 
 those splendid exhibitions upon the water which in the days when 
 the silver Thames deserved its name, and the sun could shine 
 down upon it out of the blue summer sky, were spectacles scarcely 
 rivalled in gorgeousness by the world-famous wedding of the 
 Adriatic. The river was crowded with boats, the banks and the 
 ships in the pool swarmed with people; and fifty great barges 
 formed the procession, all blazing with gold and banners. The
 
 J. A. FROUDE 95 
 
 queen herself was in her own barge, close to that of the lord mayor; 
 and in keeping with the fantastic genius of the time, she was 
 preceded up the water by "a foyst or wafter full of ordnance, in 
 which was a great dragon continually moving and casting wildfire, 
 and round about the foyst stood terrible monsters and wild men, 
 casting fire and making hideous noise." So, with trumpets blowing, 
 cannon pealing, the Tower guns answering the guns of the ships, 
 in a blaze of fireworks and splendour, Anne Boleyn was borne 
 along to the great archway of the Tower, where the king was 
 waiting on the stairs to receive her. 
 
 And now let us suppose eleven days to have elapsed, the 
 welcome news to have arrived at length from Dunstable, and the 
 fair summer morning of life dawning in treacherous beauty after 
 the long night of expectation. No bridal ceremonial had been 
 possible; the marriage had been huddled over like a stolen love- 
 match, and the marriage feast had been eaten in vexation and 
 disappointment. These past mortifications were to be atoned for 
 by a coronation pageant which the art and the wealth of the 
 richest city in Europe should be poured out in the most lavish 
 profusion to adorn. 
 
 On the morning of the 31st of May, the famiUes of the London 
 citizens were stirring early in all houses. From Temple Bar to 
 the Tower, the streets were fresh strewed with gravel, the foot- 
 paths were railed off along the whole distance, and occupied on 
 one side by the guilds, their workmen, and apprentices, on the 
 other by the city constables and officials in their gaudy uniforms, 
 "with their staves in hand for to cause the people to keep good 
 room and order." Cornhill and Gracechurch Street had dressed 
 their fronts in scarlet and crimson, in arras and tapestry, and the 
 rich carpet-work from Persia and the East. Cheapside, to outshine 
 her rivals, was draped even more splendidly in cloth of gold, and 
 tissue, and velvet. The sheriffs were pacing up and down on their 
 great Flemish horses, hung with liveries, and all the windows 
 were thronged with ladies crowding to see the procession pass. 
 At length the Tower guns opened, the grim gates rolled back, and 
 under the archway in the bright May sunshine, the long column 
 began slowly to defile. Two states only permitted their represen- 
 tatives to grace the scene with their presence — Venice and France. 
 It was, perhaps, to make the most of this isolated countenance.
 
 96 J. A. FROUDE 
 
 that the French ambassador's train formed the van of the cavalcade. 
 Twelve French knights came riding foremost in surcoats of blue 
 velvet with sleeves of yellow silk, their horses trapped in blue, 
 with white crosses powdered on their hangings. After them followed 
 a troop of English gentlemen, two and two, and then the Knights 
 of the Bath, "in gowns of violet, with hoods purfled with miniver 
 Like doctors." Next, perhaps at a little interval, the abbots passed 
 on, mitred, in their robes; the barons followed in crimson velvet, 
 the bishops then, and then the earls and marquises, the dresses 
 of each order increasing in elaborate gorgeousness. All these 
 rode on in pairs. Then came alone Audeley, lord-chancellor, and 
 behind him the Venetian ambassador and the Archbishop of 
 York; the Archbishop of Canterbury', and Du Bellay, Bishop of 
 Bayonne and of Paris, not now with bugle and hunting-frock, 
 but solemn with stole and crozier. Next, the lord mayor, with the 
 city mace in hand, the Garter in his coat of arms; and then Lord 
 William Howard — Belted Will Howard, of the Scottish Border, 
 Marshal of England. The officers of the queen's household suc- 
 ceeded the marshal in scarlet and gold, and the van of the pro- 
 cession was closed by the Duke of Suffolk, as high constable, with 
 his silver wand. It is no easy matter to picture to ourselves the 
 blazing trail of splendour which in such a pageant must have 
 drawn along the London streets, — those streets which now we 
 know so black and smoke-grimed, themselves then radiant with 
 masses of colour, gold, and crimson, and violet. Yet there it was, 
 and there the sun could shine upon it, and tens of thousands of 
 eyes were gazing on the scene out of the crowded lattices. 
 
 Glorious as the spectacle was, perhaps however, it passed 
 unheeded. Those eyes were watching all for another object, which 
 now drew near. In an open space behind the constable there was 
 seen approaching "a white chariot," drawn by two palfreys in 
 white damask which swept the ground, a golden canopy borne 
 above it making music with silver bells: and in the chariot sat 
 the observed of all observers, the beautiful occasion of all this 
 glittering homage; fortune's plaything of the hour, the Queen of 
 England — queen at last — borne along upon the waves of this sea 
 of glory, breathing the perfumed incense of greatness which she 
 had risked her fair name, her delicacy, her honour, her self-respect, 
 to win; and she had won it.
 
 J. A. FROUDE 97 
 
 There she sat, dressed in white tissue robes, her fair hair 
 flowing loose over her shoulders, and her temples circled with a 
 light coronet of gold and diamonds — most beautiful — loveliest — 
 most favoured perhaps, as she seemed at that hour, of all England's 
 daughters. Alas! "within the hollow round" of that coronet — 
 
 Kept death his court, and there the antick sate, 
 Scoffing her state and grinning at her pomp. 
 Allowing her a little breath, a little scene 
 To monarchise, be feared, and kill with looks, 
 Infusing her with self and vain conceit. 
 As if the flesh which walled about her life 
 Were brass impregnable ; and humoured thus. 
 Bored through her castle walls; and farewell. Queen. 
 
 Fatal gift of greatness ! so dangerous ever ! so more than dangerous 
 in those tremendous times when the fountains are broken loose 
 of the great deeps of thought; and nations are in the throes of 
 revolution; — when ancient order and law and tradition are splitting 
 in the social earthquake; and as the opposing forces wrestle to 
 and fro, those unhappy ones who stand out above the crowd 
 become the symbols of the struggle, and fall the victims of its 
 alternating fortunes. And what if into an unsteady heart and 
 brain, intoxicated with splendour, the outward chaos should find 
 its way, converting the poor silly soul into an image of the same 
 confusion,— if conscience should be deposed from her high place, 
 and the Pandora box be broken loose of passions and sensualities 
 and folhes; and at length there be nothing left of all which man 
 or woman ought to value, save hope of God's forgiveness. 
 
 Three short years have yet to pass, and again, on a summer 
 morning, Queen Anne Boleyn will leave the Tower of London — 
 not radiant then with beauty on a gay errand of coronation, but 
 a poor wandering ghost, on a sad tragic errand, from which she 
 will never more return, passing away out of an earth where she 
 may stay no longer, into a presence where, nevertheless, we know 
 that all is well — for all of us — and therefore for her. 
 
 But let us not cloud her shortlived sunshine wdth the shadow 
 of the future. She went on in her loveliness, the peeresses following 
 in their carriages, with the royal guard in their rear. In Fenchurch 
 Street she was met by the children of the city schools; and at
 
 98 J. A. FROUDE 
 
 the corner of Gracechurch Street a masterpiece had been prepared 
 of the pseudo-classic art, then so fashionable, by the merchants 
 of the Styll Yard. A Mount Parnassus had been constructed, and 
 a Helicon fountain upon it playing into a basin with four jets of 
 Rlienish wine. On the top of the mountain sat Apollo with CaUiope 
 at his feet, and on either side the remaining Muses, holding lutes 
 or harps, and singing each of them some "posy" or epigram in 
 praise of the queen, which was presented, after it had been sung, 
 written in letters of gold. 
 
 From Gracechurch Street, the procession passed to Leadenhall, 
 where there was a spectacle in better taste, of the old English 
 Catholic kind, quaint perhaps and forced, but truly and even 
 beautifully emblematic. There was again a "little mountain," 
 which was hung with red and white roses ; a gold ring was placed 
 on the summit, on which, as the queen appeared, a white falcon 
 was made to "descend as out of the sky" — "and then incontinent 
 came down an angel with great melody, and set a close crov\'n of 
 gold upon the falcon's head; and in the same pageant sat Saint 
 Anne with all her issue beneath her; and Mary Cleophas with her 
 four children, of the which children one made a goodly oration to 
 the queen, of the fruitfulness of St Anne, trusting that like fruit 
 should come of her." 
 
 With such "pretty conceits," at that time the honest tokens 
 of an English welcome, the new queen was received by the citizens 
 of London. These scenes must be multiplied by the number of 
 the streets, where some fresh fancy met her at every turn. To 
 preserve the festivities from flagging, every fountain and conduit 
 within the walls ran all day with wine; the bells of every steeple 
 were ringing; children lay in wait with song, and ladies with posies, 
 in which all the resources of fantastic extravagance were ex- 
 hausted; and thus in an unbroken triumph — and to outward 
 appearance received with the warmest affection — she passed 
 under Temple Bar, down the Strand by Charing Cross to West- 
 minster Hall. The king was not with her throughout the day; 
 nor did he intend to be with her in any part of the ceremony. 
 She was to reign without a rival, the undisputed sovereign of the 
 hour. 
 
 Saturday being passed in showing herself to the people, she 
 retired for the night to " the king's manour house at Westminster,"
 
 J. A. FROUDE 99 
 
 where she slept. On the following morning, between eight and 
 nine o'clock, she returned to the hall, where the lord mayor, the 
 city council, and the peers were again assembled, and took her 
 place on the high dais at the top of the stairs under the cloth of 
 state; while the bishops, the abbots, and the monks of the abbey 
 formed in the area. A railed way had been laid with carpets 
 across Palace Yard and the Sanctuary to the abbey gates, and 
 when all was ready, preceded by the peers in their robes of 
 parliament, the Knights of the Garter in the dress of the order, 
 she swept out under her canopy, the bishops and the monks 
 "solemnly singing." The train was borne by the old Duchess of 
 Norfolk her aunt, the Bishops of London and Winchester on 
 either side "bearing up the lappets of her robe." The Earl of 
 Oxford carried the crown on its cushion immediately before 
 her. She was dressed in purple velvet furred with ermine, 
 her hair escaping loose, as she usually wore it, under a wreath 
 of diamonds. 
 
 On entering the abbey, she was led to the coronation chair 
 where she sat while the train fell into their places, and the pre- 
 liminaries of the ceremonial were despatched. Then she was 
 conducted up to the high altar, and anointed Queen of England, 
 and she received from the hands of Cranmer, fresh come in haste 
 from Dunstable, with the last words of his sentence upon Catherine 
 scarcely silent upon his lips, the golden sceptre, and St Edward's 
 crown. 
 
 Did any twinge of remorse, any pang of painful recollection, 
 pierce at that moment the incense of glory which she was inhaling? 
 Did any vision flit across her of a sad mourning figure which once 
 had stood where she was standing, now desolate, neglected, sinking 
 into the darkening l"wihght of a life cut short by sorrow: Who 
 can tell? At such a time, that figure would have weighed heavily 
 upon a noble mind, and a wise mind would have been taught by 
 the thought of it, that although life be fleeting as a dream, it is 
 long enough to experience strange vicissitudes of fortune. But 
 Anne Boleyn was not noble and was not wise, — too probably she 
 felt nothing but the delicious, all-absorbing, all-intoxicating 
 present, and if that plain, suffering face presented itself to her 
 memory at all, we may fear that it was rather as a foil to her o^vn 
 surpassing loveliness. Two years later, she was able to exult 
 
 7—2
 
 100 J. A. FROUDE 
 
 over Catherine's death; she is not Hkely to have thought of her 
 wdth gentler feelings in the first glow and flush of triumph. 
 
 We may now leave these scenes. The}' concluded in the usual 
 EngUsh stvle, with a banquet in the great hall, and with all 
 outward signs of enjo^Tnent and pleasure. There must have been 
 but few persons present however who did not feel that the sunshine 
 of such a dav might not last for ever, and that over so dubious a 
 marriage no Englishman could exult with more than half a heart. 
 
 AUSTIN DOBSON 
 
 Henry Austin Dobson, b. 1840, wTiter of much delightful verse and of 
 Eighteenth Century Vignettes, a series of papers on persons and places of that 
 period. 
 
 A BALLADE TO QUEEN ELIZABETH 
 
 King PhiHp had vaunted his claims; 
 
 He had sworn for a year he would sack us ; 
 With an army of heathenish names 
 
 He was coming to fagot and stack us; 
 
 Like the thieves of the sea he would track us, 
 And shatter our ships on the main ; 
 
 But we had bold Neptune to back us, — 
 And where are the galleons of Spain ? 
 
 His carackes were christened of dames 
 
 To the kirtles whereof he would tack us; 
 With his saints and his gilded stern-frames, 
 
 He had thought like an egg-shell to crack us; 
 
 Now Howard may get to his Flaccus, 
 And Drake to his Devon again, 
 
 And Hawkins bowl rubbers to Bacchus, — 
 For where are the galleons of Spain ? 
 
 Let his Majesty hang to St James 
 
 The axe that he whetted to hack us; 
 He must play at some lustier games 
 
 Or at sea he can hope to out-thwack us;
 
 HENRY VIII 
 
 Attributed to Lucas Horncbolt
 
 QUEEN ELIZABETH: DESIGN FOR A GREAT 
 SEAL OF IRELAND 
 
 Nicholas Hilliurd
 
 AUSTIN DOBSON loi 
 
 To his mines of Peru he would pack us 
 To tug at his bullet and chain; 
 
 Alas that his Greatness should lack us ! — ■ 
 But where are the galleons of Spain ? 
 
 Envoy 
 
 Gloriana ! — the Don may attack us 
 Whenever his stomach be fain ; 
 
 He must reach us before he can rack us, . . . 
 And where are the galleons of Spain? 
 
 MICHAEL DRAYTON 
 
 Michael Drayton (1563-1631) wrote many works in verse, among them 
 being Polyolbion, a long description of various parts of England, and 
 Nymphidia^ a fairy poem. 
 
 AGINCOURT 
 
 Fair stood the wind for France, 
 When we our sails advance; 
 Nor now to prove our chance 
 
 Longer will tarry. 
 But putting to the main, 
 At Caux, the mouth of Seine, 
 With all his martial train, 
 
 Landed King Harry. 
 
 And taking many a fort 
 Furnished in warlike sort, 
 Marcheth towards Agincourt 
 
 In happy hour; 
 Skirmishing, day by day. 
 With those that stopp'd his way, 
 Where the French Gen'ral lay 
 
 With all his power. 
 
 Which, in his height of pride. 
 King Henry to deride; 
 His ransom to provide. 
 To the King sending.
 
 102 MICHAEL DRAYTON 
 
 Which he neglects the while, 
 As from a nation vile; 
 Yet, with an angry smile, 
 Their fall portending. 
 
 And turning to his men. 
 Quoth our brave Henry then: 
 "Though they to one be ten 
 
 Be not amazed ! 
 Yet have we well begun : 
 Battles so bravely won 
 Have ever to the sun 
 
 By Fame been raised ! " 
 
 "And for myself," quoth he, 
 "This my full rest shall be: 
 England ne'er mourn for me. 
 
 Nor more esteem me ! 
 Victor I will remain. 
 Or on this earth lie slain: 
 ■ Never shall She sustain 
 
 Loss to redeem me ! 
 
 "Poitiers and Cressy tell. 
 When most their pride did swell. 
 Under our swords they fell. 
 
 No less our skill is. 
 Than when our Grandsire great. 
 Claiming the regal seat, 
 By many a warlike feat 
 
 Lopped the French lilies." 
 
 The Duke of York so dread 
 The eager vaward led ; 
 With the Main, Henry sped 
 
 Amongst his henchmen : 
 Exeter had the Rear, 
 A braver man not there ! 
 O Lord, how hot they were 
 
 On the false Frenchmen !
 
 MICHAEL DRAYTON 103 
 
 They now to fight are gone; 
 Armour on armour shone; 
 Drum now to drum did groan: 
 
 To hear, was wonder. 
 That, with the cries they make, 
 The very earth did shake; 
 Trumpet, to trumpet spake ; 
 
 Thunder, to thunder. 
 
 Well it thine age became, 
 O noble Erpingham ! 
 Which didst the signal aim 
 
 To our hid forces : 
 When, from a meadow by. 
 Like a storm suddenly, 
 The English Archery 
 
 Stuck the French horses. 
 
 With Spanish yew so strong; 
 Arrows a cloth-yard long. 
 That like to serpents stung, 
 
 Piercing the weather. 
 None from his fellow starts; 
 But, playing manly parts, 
 And like true English hearts, 
 
 Stuck close together. 
 
 When down their bows they threw; 
 And forth their bilbowesi drew 
 And on the French they flew: 
 
 Not one was tardy. 
 Arms were from shoulders sent. 
 Scalps to the teeth were rent, 
 Down the French peasants went: 
 
 Our men were hardy. 
 
 This while our noble King, 
 His broad sword brandishing, 
 Down the French host did ding 
 As to o'erwhelm it. 
 ^ swords.
 
 104 MICHAEL DRAYTON 
 
 And many a deep wound lent; 
 His arms with blood besprent, 
 And many a cruel dent 
 Bruised his helmet. 
 
 Gloucester that Duke so good, 
 Next of the royal blood, 
 For famous England stood 
 
 With his brave brother. 
 Clarence, in steel so bright. 
 Though but a Maiden Knight; 
 Yet in that furious fight. 
 
 Scarce such another ! 
 
 Warwick, in blood did wade; 
 Oxford, the foe invade. 
 And cruel slaughter made, 
 
 Still as they ran up. 
 Suffolk his axe did ply; 
 Beaumont and Willoughby 
 Bare them right doughtily : 
 
 Ferrers, and Fanhope. 
 
 Upon Saint Crispin's Day, 
 Fought was this noble Fray; 
 Which Fame did not delay 
 
 To England to carry. 
 when shall English men 
 With such acts fill a pen ? 
 Or England breed again 
 
 Such a King Harry ? 
 
 BENJAMIN FRANKLIN 
 
 Benjamin Franklin (1706-90) was born at Boston, in America, and appren- 
 ticed, while still a child, to the trade of printing. He worked steadily, not 
 only at his trade but at his own education. He came to England and 
 followed his calling for nearly two years. On his return to America, he took 
 a leading part in the politics of Pennsylvania, the state in which he had 
 settled. He studied electricity, proved that lightning is a form of electricity 
 and first suggested the use of lightning-conductors for the protection of 
 tall buildings. He came to England again as representative of his State;
 
 BENJAMIN FRANKLIN 105 
 
 and he made a third visit to try to settle the dangerous troubles that had 
 arisen between England and the American Colonies. He was treated with 
 haughtiness by some members of the governmenjt and when next he came 
 to Europe it was to seek help from France against England. In this he was 
 successful; and when American independence had been won, Franklin 
 became the United States ambassador to Paris. He wrote much, the best 
 of his books being his Autobiography from which the passage that follows is 
 taken. 
 
 FRANKLIN'S EARLY YEARS 
 
 From a child I was fond of reading, and all the little money 
 that came into my hands was ever laid out in books. Pleased 
 with the Pilgrim's Progress, my first collection was of John 
 Bunyan's works in separate little volumes. I afterward sold them 
 to enable me to buy R. Burton's Historical Collections; they 
 were small chapmen's books, and cheap, 40 or 50 in all. My father's 
 little hbrary consisted chiefly of books in polemic divinity, most 
 of which I read, and have since often regretted that, at a time 
 when I had such a thirst for knowledge, more proper books had 
 not fallen in my way, since it was now resolved I should not be 
 a clergyman. Plutarch's Lives there was in which I read abun- 
 dantly, and I still think that time spent to great advantage. There 
 was also a book of De Foe's, called an Essay on Projects, and 
 another of Dr Mather's, called Essays to do Good, which perhaps 
 gave me a turn of thinking that had an influence on some of the 
 principal future events of my life. 
 
 This bookish inclination at length determined my father to 
 make me a printer, though he had already one son (James) of 
 that profession. In 171 7 my brother James returned from England 
 with a press and letters to set up his business in Boston. I liked 
 it much better than that of my father, but still had a hankering 
 for the sea. To prevent the apprehended effect of such an inclina- 
 tion, my father was impatient to have me bound to my brother. 
 I stood out some time, but at last was persuaded, and signed the 
 indentures when I was yet but twelve years old. I was to serve 
 as an apprentice till I was twenty-one years of age, only I was to 
 be allowed journeyman's wages during the last year. In a Httle 
 time I made great proficiency in the business, and became a 
 useful hand to my brother. I now had access to better books. 
 An acquaintance with the apprentices of booksellers enabled me 
 sometimes to borrow a small one, which I was careful to return
 
 io6 BENJAMIN FRANKLIN 
 
 soon and clean. Often I sat up in my room reading the greatest 
 part of the night, when the book was borrowed in the evening 
 and to be returned early in the morning, lest it should be missed 
 or wanted. 
 
 And after some time an ingenious tradesman, Mr Matthew 
 Adams, who had a pretty collection of books, and who frequented 
 our printing-house, took notice of me, invited me to his library, 
 and very kindly lent me such books as I chose to read. I now took 
 a fancy to poetry, and made some little pieces; my brother, 
 thinking it might turn to account, encouraged me, and put me 
 on composing occasional ballads. One was called 7he Lighthouse 
 Tragedy, and contained an account of the drowning of Captain 
 Worthilake, with his two daughters : the other was a sailor's song, 
 on the taking of Teach (or Blackbeard) the pirate. They were 
 wretched stuff, in the Grub-street-ballad style; and when they 
 were printed he sent me about the town to sell them. The first 
 sold wonderfully, the event being recent, having made a great 
 noise. This flattered my vanity; but my father discouraged me 
 by ridicuUng my performances, and telling me verse-makers were 
 generally beggars. So I escaped being a poet, most probably a 
 very bad one; but as prose writing has been of great use to me in 
 the course of my life, and was a prmcipal means of my advance- 
 ment, I shall tell you how, in such a situation, I acquired what 
 little ability I have in that way. 
 
 There was another bookish lad in the town, John Collins by 
 name, with whom I was intimately acquainted. We sometimes 
 disputed, and very fond we were of argument, and very desirous 
 of confuting one another, which disputatious turn, by the way, 
 is apt to become a very bad habit, making people often extremely 
 disagreeable in company by the contradiction that is necessary to 
 bring it into practice; and thence, besides souring and spoiHng 
 the conversation, is productive of disgusts and, perhaps, enmities 
 where you may have occasion for friendship. I had caught it by 
 reading my father's books of dispute about religion. Persons of 
 good sense, I have since observed, seldom fall into it, except 
 lawyers, university men, and men of all sorts that have been bred 
 at Edinburgh. 
 
 A question was once, somehow or other, started between 
 Collins and me, of the propriety of educating the female sex in
 
 BENJAMIN FRANKLIN 107 
 
 learning, and their abilities for study. He was of opinion that it 
 was improper, and that they were naturally unequal to it. I took 
 the contrary side, perhaps a little for dispute's sake. He was 
 naturally more eloquent, had a ready plenty of words; and some- 
 times, as I thought, bore me down more by his fluency than by 
 the strength of his reasons. As we parted without settling the 
 point, and were not to see one another again for some time, I sat 
 down to put my arguments in writing, which I copied fair and 
 sent to him. He answered, and I replied. Three or four letters 
 of a side had passed, when my father happened to find my papers 
 and read them. Without entering into the discussion, he took 
 occasion to talk to me about the manner of my writing; observed 
 that, though I had the advantage of my antagonist in correct 
 speUing and pointing (which I owed to the printing-house), I fell 
 far short in elegance of expression, in method and in perspicuity, 
 of which he convinced me by several instances. I saw the justice 
 of his remarks, and thence grew more attentive to the manner in 
 writing, and determined to endeavour at improvement. 
 
 About this time I met with an odd volume of the Spectator. 
 It was the third. I had never before seen any of them. I bought 
 it, read it over and over, and was much delighted with it. I thought 
 the writing excellent, and wished, if possible, to imitate it. With 
 this view I took some of the papers, and, making short hints of 
 the sentiment in each sentence, laid them by a few days, and then, 
 without looking at the book, tried to complete the papers again, 
 by expressing each hinted sentiment at length, and as fully as it 
 had been expressed before, in any suitable words that should 
 come to hand. Then I compared my Spectator with the original, 
 discovered some of my faults, and corrected them. But I found 
 I wanted a stock of words, or a readiness in recollecting and using 
 them, which I thought I should have acquired before that time 
 if I had gone on making verses; since the continual occasion for 
 words of the same import, but of different length, to suit the 
 measure, or of different sound for the xYcfmQ, would have laid 
 me under a constant necessity of searching for variety, and also 
 have tended to fix that variety in my mind, and make me master 
 of it. Therefore I took some of the tales and turned them into 
 verse; and, after a time, when I had pretty well forgotten the 
 prose, turned them back again. I also sometimes jumbled my
 
 io8 BENJAMIN FRANKLIN 
 
 collections of hints into confusion, and after some weeks 
 endeavoured to reduce them into the best order, before I began to 
 form the full sentences and complete the paper. This was to 
 teach me method in the arrangement of thoughts. By comparing 
 my work afterwards with the original, I discovered many faults and 
 amended them; but I sometimes had the pleasure of fancying 
 that, in certain particulars of small import, I had been lucky 
 enough to improve the method or the language, and this en- 
 couraged me to think I might possibly in time come to be a 
 tolerable English writer, of which I was extremely ambitious. 
 My time for these exercises and for reading was at night, after 
 work or before it began in the morning, or on Sundays, when 
 I contrived to be in the printing-house alone, evading as much 
 as I could the common attendance on public worship which my 
 father used to exact on me when I was under his care, and which 
 indeed I still thought a duty, though I could not, as it seemed to 
 me, afford time to practise it. 
 
 When about i6 years of age I happened to meet with a book, 
 written by one Tryon, recommending a vegetable diet. I deter- 
 mined to go into it. My brother, being yet unmarried, did not 
 keep house, but boarded himself and his apprentices in another 
 family. My refusing to eat flesh occasioned an inconveniency, 
 and I was frequently chid for my singularity. I made myself 
 acquainted with Tryon's manner of preparing some of his dishes, 
 such as boihng potatoes or rice, making hasty pudding, and a 
 few others, and then proposed to my brother, that if he would 
 give me, weekly, half the money he paid for my board, I would 
 board myself. He instantly agreed to it, and I presently found 
 that I could save half what he paid me. This was an additional 
 fund for buying books. But I had another advantage in it. My 
 brother and the rest going from the printing-house to their meals, 
 I remained there alone, and, despatching presently my light repast, 
 which often was no more than a biscuit or a slice of bread, a 
 handful of raisins or a tart from the pastry-cook's, and a glass of 
 water, had the rest of the time till their return for study, in which 
 I made the greater progress, from that greater clearness of head 
 and quicker apprehension which usually attend temperance in 
 eating and drinking. 
 
 And now it was that, being on some occasion made ashamed of
 
 BENJAMIN FRANKLIN 109 
 
 my ignorance in figures, which I had twice failed in learning when 
 at school, I took Cocker's book of Arithmetic, and went through 
 the whole by myself wdth great ease. I also read Seller's and 
 Shermy's books of Navigation, and became acquainted with the 
 little geometry they contain; but never proceeded far in that 
 science. And I read about this time Locke On Human Under- 
 standing, and the Art of Thinking, by Messrs du Port Royal. 
 
 While I was intent on improving my language, I met with an 
 EngHsh grammar (I think it was Greenwood's), at the end of 
 which there were two little sketches of the arts of rhetoric and 
 logic, the latter finishing with a specimen of a dispute in the 
 Socratic method; and soon after I procured Xenophon's Memorable 
 Things of Socrates, wherein there are many instances of the same 
 method. I was charmed wdth it, adopted it, dropped my abrupt 
 contradiction and positive argumentation, and put on the humble 
 inquirer and doubter. And being then, from reading Shaftesbury 
 and Collins, become a real doubter in many points of our religious 
 doctrine, I found this method safest for myself and very embar- 
 rassing to those against whom I used it ; therefore I took a delight 
 in it, practised it continually, and grew very artful and expert 
 in drawing people, even of superior knowledge, into concessions, 
 the consequences of which they did not foresee, entangling them 
 in difficulties out of which they could not extricate themselves, 
 and so obtaining victories that neither myself nor my cause 
 always deserved. I continued this method some few years, but 
 gradually left it, retaining only the habit of expressing myself in 
 terms of modest difiidence; never using, when I advanced any- 
 thing that may possibly be disputed, the words certainly, un- 
 doubtedly, or any others that give the air of positiveness to an 
 opinion; but rather say, I conceive or apprehend a thing to he so 
 and so ; it appears to me, or / should think it so or so, for such and 
 such reasons ; or / imagine it to be so ; or // is so, if I am not mistaken. 
 This habit, I believe, has been of great advantage to me when I 
 have had occasion to inculcate my opinions, and persuade men 
 into measures that I have been from, time to time engaged in 
 promoting; and, as the chief ends of conversation are to inform 
 or to be informed, to please or to persuade, I wish well-meaning, 
 sensible men would not lessen their power of doing good by a 
 positive, assuming manner, that seldom fails to disgust, tends to
 
 no BENJAMIN FRANKLIN 
 
 create opposition, and to defeat every one of those purposes for 
 which speech was given to us, to wit, giving or receiving infor- 
 mation or pleasure. For, if you would inform, a positive and 
 dogmatical manner in advancing your sentiments may provoke 
 contradiction and prevent a candid attention. If you wish 
 information and improvement from the knowledge of others, and 
 yet at the sdme time express yourself as firmly fixed in your 
 present opinions, modest, sensible men, who do not love disputa- 
 tion, will probably leave you undisturbed in the possession of 
 your error. And by such a manner, you can seldom hope to 
 recommend yourself in pleasing your hearers, or to persuade 
 those whose concurrence you desire. Pope says, judiciously: 
 
 Men should be taught as if you taught them not. 
 And things unknown proposed as things forgot ; 
 
 farther recommending to us 
 
 To speak, tho' sure, with seeming diffidence. 
 
 And he might have coupled with this line that which he has 
 coupled with another, I think, less properly, 
 
 For want of modesty is want of sense. 
 
 If you ask. Why less properly? I must repeat the lines, 
 
 Immodest words admit of no defence, 
 For want of modesty is want of sense. 
 
 Now, is not want of sense (where a man is so unfortunate as to 
 want it) some apology for his want of modesty ? and would not the 
 lines stand more justly thus? 
 
 Immodest words admit but this defence, 
 That want of modesty is want of sense. 
 
 This, however, I should submit .to better judgments. 
 
 My brother had, in 1720 or 1721, begun to print a newspaper. 
 It was the second that appeared in America, and was called the 
 New England Courant. The only one before it was the Boston 
 News-Letter. I remember his being dissuaded by some of his 
 friends from the undertaking, as not likelv to succeed, one news- 
 paper being, in their judgment, enough for America. At this 
 time (1771) there are not less than five-and-twenty. He went on,
 
 BENJAMIN FRANKLIN in 
 
 however, with the undertaking, and after having worked in 
 composing the types and printing off the sheets, I was employed 
 to carry the papers through the streets to the customers. 
 
 He had some ingenious men among his friends, who amused 
 themselves by writing little pieces for this paper, which gained 
 it credit and made it more in demand, and these gentlemen often 
 visited us. Hearing their conversations, and their accounts of 
 the approbation their papers were received with, I was excited 
 to try my hand among them; but, being still a boy, and suspecting 
 that my brother would object to printing anything of mine in 
 his paper if he knew it to be mine, I contrived to disguise my hand, 
 and, writing an anonymous paper, I put it in at night under the 
 door of the printing-house. It was found in the morning, and 
 communicated to his writing friends when they called in as usual. 
 They read it, commented on it in my hearing, and I had the 
 exquisite pleasure of finding it met with their approbation, and 
 that, in their different guesses at the author, none were named 
 but men of some character among us for learning and ingenuity. 
 I suppose now that I was rather lucky in my judges, and that 
 perhaps they were not really so very good ones as I then esteemed 
 them. 
 
 Encouraged, however, by this, I wrote and conveyed in the 
 same way to the press several more papers which were equally 
 approved; and I kept my secret till my small fund of sense for 
 such performances was pretty well exhausted, and then I dis- 
 covered it, when I began to be considered a little more by my 
 brother's acquaintance, and in a manner that did not quite please 
 him, as he thought, probably with reason, that it tended to make 
 me too vain. And, perhaps, this might be one occasion of the 
 differences that we began to have about this time. Though a 
 brother, he considered himself as my master, and me as his 
 apprentice, and, accordingly, expected the same services from 
 me as he would from another, while I thought he demeaned me too 
 much in some he required of me, who from a brother expected 
 more indulgence. Our disputes were often brought before our 
 father, and I fancy I was either generally in the right, or else a 
 better pleader, because the judgment was generally in my favour. 
 But my brother was passionate, and had often beaten me, which 
 I took extremely amiss; and, thinking my apprenticeship very
 
 112 BENJAMIN FRANKLIN 
 
 tedious, I was continually wishing for some opportunity of 
 shortening it, which at length offered in a manner unexpected^. 
 
 One of the pieces in our newspaper on some political point, 
 which I have now forgotten, gave offence to the Assembly. He 
 was taken up, censured, and imprisoned for a month, by the 
 speaker's warrant, I suppose, because he would not discover his 
 author. I too was taken up and examined before the council; but, 
 though I did not give them any satisfaction, they contented them- 
 selves with admonishing me, and dismissed me, considering me, 
 perhaps, as an apprentice, who was bound to keep his master's 
 secrets. 
 
 During my brother's confinement, which I resented a good 
 deal, notwithstanding our private differences, I had the manage- 
 ment of the paper; and I made bold to give our rulers some rubs 
 in it, which my brother took very kindly, while others began to 
 consider me in an unfavourable light, as a young genius that had 
 a turn for libelling and satire. My brother's discharge was ac- 
 companied with an order of the House (a very odd one), that 
 ''^ James Franklin should no longer print the paper called the New 
 England C our ant." 
 
 There was a consultation held in our printing-house among his 
 friends, what he should do in this case. Some proposed to evade 
 the order by changing the name of the paper; but my brother, 
 seeing inconveniences in that, it was finally concluded on as a 
 better way, to let it be printed for the future under the name of 
 Benjamin Franklin ; and to avoid the censure of the Assembly, 
 that might fall on him as still printing it by his apprentice, the 
 contrivance was that my old indenture should be returned to me, 
 with a full discharge on the back of it, to be shown on occasion, 
 but to secure to him the benefit of my service, I was to sign new 
 indentures for the remainder of the term, which were to be kept 
 private. A very flimsy scheme it was; however, it was immediately 
 executed, and the paper went on accordingly, under my name 
 for several months. 
 
 At length, a fresh difference arising between my brother and 
 me, I took upon me to assert my freedom, presuming that he 
 
 ^ I fancy his harsh and tyrannical treatment of me might be a means of 
 impressing me with that aversion to arbitrary power that has stuck to me 
 through my whole life.
 
 BENJAMIN FRANKLIN 113 
 
 would not venture to produce the new indentures. It was not 
 fair in me to take this advantage, and this I therefore reckon one 
 of the first errata of my Hfe; but the unfairness of it weighed Httle 
 with me, when under the impressions of resentment for the blows 
 his passion too often urged him to bestow upon me, though he 
 was otherwise not an ill-natured man: perhaps I was too saucy 
 and provoking. 
 
 When he found I would leave him, he took care to prevent my 
 getting employment in any other printing-house of the town, by 
 going round and speaking to every master, who accordingly refused 
 to give me work. I then thought of going to New York, as the 
 nearest place where there was a printer; and I was rather inclined 
 to leave Boston when I reflected that I had already made myself 
 a little obnoxious to the governing party, and, from the arbitrary 
 proceedings of the Assembly in my brother's case, it was likely 
 I might, if I stayed, soon bring myself into scrapes; and farther, 
 that my indiscreet disputations began to make me pointed at 
 with horror by good people. I determined on the point, but my 
 father now siding with my brother, I was sensible that, if I 
 attempted to go openly, means would be used to prevent me. 
 My friend Collins, therefore, undertook to manage a little for me. 
 He agreed with the captain of a New York sloop for my passage, 
 under the notion of my being a young acquaintance of his, that 
 had got into trouble, and therefore I could not appear or come 
 away publicly. So I sold some of my books to raise a little money, 
 was taken on board privately, and as we had a fair wind, in three 
 days I found myself in New York, near 300 miles from home, 
 a boy of but 17, without the least recommendation to, or know- 
 ledge of any person in the place, and with very little money in 
 my pocket. 
 
 MOIRA O'NEILL 
 
 An Irish lady, who has written a volume called Songs of the Glens of Antrim, 
 The poem which follows is one of these songs. 
 
 CORRYMEELA 
 
 Over here in England I'm helpin' wi' the hay, 
 An' I wisht I was in Ireland the livelong day; 
 Weary on the English hay, an' sorra take the wheat ! 
 Och ! Corrymeela an' the blue sky over it.
 
 114 MOIRA O'NEILL 
 
 There's a deep dumb river flowin' by beyont the heavy trees, 
 This livin' air is moithered wi' the bummin' o' the bees; 
 I wisht I'd hear the Claddagh burn go runnin' through the heat 
 Past Corrymeela, wi' the blue sky over it. 
 
 The people that's in England is richer nor the Jews, 
 There's not the smallest young gossoon but thravels in his shoes ! 
 I'd give the pipe between me teeth to see a barefut child, 
 Och! Corrymeela an' the low south wind. 
 
 Here's hands so full o' money an' hearts so full o' care, 
 By the luck o' love ! I'd still go light for all I did go bare. 
 "God save ye, colleen dhas" I said: the girl she thought me wild. 
 Far Corrymeela, an' the low south wind. 
 
 D'ye mind me now, the song at night is mortial hard to raise, 
 The girls are heavy goin' here, the boys are ill to plase; 
 When one'st I'm out this workin' hive, 'tis I'll be back again — 
 Ay, Corrymeela, in the same soft rain. 
 
 The puff of smoke from one ould roof before an English town ! 
 For a shaugh wid Andy Feelan here I'd give a silver crown. 
 For a curl o' hair like Mollie's ye'U ask the like in vain. 
 Sweet Corrymeela, an' the same soft rain. 
 
 W. B. YEATS 
 
 William Butler Yeats, born in Dublin in 1865, an Irish poet and play- 
 wright, author of Deirdre^ On Bailees Strand, The Shadoivy Waters, Kathleen 
 Ni Houlihan and other Plays for an Irish Theatre. 
 
 THE LAKE ISLE OF INNISFREE 
 
 I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree, 
 And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made; 
 Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee, 
 And live alone in the bee-loud glade. 
 
 And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow, 
 Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings; 
 There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow, 
 And evening full of the linnet's wings.
 
 u
 
 W, B. YEATS 115 
 
 I will arise and go now, for always night and day 
 I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore; 
 While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements gray, 
 I hear it in the deep heart's core. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS 
 
 Robert Burns (1759-96) was born at Alloway, near Ayr, the son of a small 
 farmer. He was much influenced by popular Scottish songs and ballads 
 and most of his finest poems are written in the language of his native land! 
 Some of the very best of these he wrote to fit the music of old Scottish airs." 
 The hfe of the poet was not prosperous. He failed to succeed as a farmer" 
 and received, at the age of thirty, a small government post as an exciseman! 
 It IS difficult to think of any other national writer so beloved as Burns is 
 by his countrymen. 
 
 AULD LANG SYNE 
 Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 
 
 And never brought to mind ? 
 Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 
 
 And auld lang syne? 
 
 For auld lang syne, my dear, 
 
 For auld lang syne, 
 We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, 
 
 For auld lang syne. 
 
 And surely ye'll be^ your pint stowp ! 
 
 And surely I'll be mine ! 
 And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, 
 
 For auld lang syne. 
 
 We twa hae run about the braes. 
 
 And pou'd the gowans^ fine. 
 But we've wander'd monie a weary fit, 
 
 Sin' auld lang syne. 
 
 We twa hae paidl'd in the burn, 
 
 Frae morning sun till dine; 
 But seas between us braid hae roar'd 
 
 Sin' auld lang syne. 
 
 1 pay for. 2 dalgjes.
 
 ii6 ROBERT BURNS 
 
 And there's a hand, my trusty fiere^ ! 
 
 And gie's a hand o' thine ! 
 And we'll talc a right guid-wilUe waught^, 
 
 For auld lang syne. 
 
 FOR A* THAT 
 
 Is there for honest poverty 
 
 That hings his head, an' a' that ? 
 The coward slave — we pass him by, 
 
 We dare be poor for a' that ! 
 For a' that, an' a' that. 
 
 Our toils obscure an' a' that. 
 The rank is but the guinea's stamp, 
 
 The man's the gowd for a' that. 
 
 What though on hamely fare we dine, 
 
 Wear hoddin grey, an' a' that? 
 Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine, 
 
 A man's a man for a' that. 
 For a' that, an' a' that, 
 
 Their tinsel show, an' a' that. 
 The honest man, the' e'er sae poor. 
 
 Is king o' men for a' that. 
 
 Ye see yon birkie^ ca'd a lord, 
 
 Wha struts, an' stares, an' a' that; 
 Tho' hundreds worship at his word, 
 
 He's but a cuif* for a' that. 
 For a' that, an' a' that, 
 
 His ribband, star, an' a' that. 
 The man o' independent mind 
 
 He looks an' laughs at a' that. 
 
 A prince can mak a belted knight, 
 
 A marquis, duke, an' a' that; 
 But an honest man's aboon his might, 
 Gude faith, lie maunna fa'^ that! 
 friend. ^ goodwill drink. ^ fdlow. * booby. ^ claim.
 
 ROBERT BURNS 117 
 
 For a' that, an' a' that, 
 
 Their dignities an' a' that, 
 The pith o' sense an' pride o' worth 
 
 Are higher rank than a' that. 
 
 Then let us pray that come it may, 
 
 (As come it will for a' that). 
 That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth, 
 
 Shall bear the gree, an' a' that ! 
 For a' that, an' a' that, 
 
 It's coming yet for a' that, 
 That man to man, the world o'er, 
 
 Shall brithers be for a' that. 
 
 BONIE DOON 
 
 Ye flowery banks o' bonie Doon, 
 
 How can ye bliime sae fair? 
 How can ye chant, ye little birds, 
 
 And I sae fu' o' care? 
 
 Thou'll break my heart, thou bonie bird, 
 
 That sings upon the bough: 
 Thou minds me o' the happy days 
 
 When my fause Luve was true ! 
 
 Thou'll break my heart, thou bonie bird, 
 
 That sings beside thy mate: 
 For sae I sat, and sae I sang, 
 
 And wist na o' my fate ! 
 
 Aft hae I rov'd by bonie Doon 
 
 To see the woodbine twine. 
 And ilka bird sang o' its luve, 
 
 And sae did I o' mine. 
 
 Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose 
 
 Frae aff its thorny tree, 
 And my fause luver staw my rose. 
 
 But left the thorn wi' me.
 
 ANONYMOUS 
 
 FAIR HELEN 
 
 I wish I were where Helen Hes, 
 Night and day on me she cries; 
 O that I were where Helen lies, 
 On fair Kirconnell Lee ! 
 
 Curst be the heart that thought the thought, 
 And curst the hand that fired the shot, 
 When in my arms burd Helen dropt, 
 And died to succour me ! 
 
 think na ye my heart was sair, 
 
 When my love dropt down and spak nae mair ! 
 There did she swoon wi' meikle care, 
 On fair Kirconnell Lee. 
 
 As I went down the water-side. 
 None but my foe to be my guide, 
 None but my foe to be my guide. 
 On fair Kirconnell Lee; 
 
 1 lighted down my sword to draw, 
 I hacked him in pieces sma', 
 
 I hacked him in pieces sma'. 
 
 For her sake that died for me. 
 
 O Helen fair, beyond compare ! 
 I'll make a garland of thy hair. 
 Shall bind my heart for evermair. 
 Until the day I die. 
 
 O that I were where Helen lies ! 
 Night and day on me she cries; 
 Out of my bed she bids me rise, 
 
 Says, "Haste and come to me!" 
 
 O Helen fair ! O Helen chaste ! 
 If I were with thee, I were blest. 
 Where thou lies low and takes thy rest 
 On fair Kirconnell Lee.
 
 ANONYMOUS 119 
 
 I wish my grave were growing green, 
 A winding-sheet drawn ower my een, 
 And I in Helen's arms lying, 
 On fair Kirconnell Lee. 
 
 I wish I were where Helen lies ! 
 Night and day on me she cries, 
 And I am weary of the skies, 
 
 For her sake that died for me. 
 
 EDGAR ALLAN POE 
 
 Edgar Allan Poe (1809-49), a great American writer, was born at Boston. 
 Part of his boyhood was spent in England, and he attended a school in the 
 north of London. His career as a student at the university of Virginia and 
 as a cadet at West Point was unsuccessful owing to his dissipated habits. 
 He published his first poems at the age of eighteen, and added to them at 
 intervals. His best known verses are Annabel Lee, The Haunted Palace, 
 The Bells and the poem which follows. More widely known are his many 
 tales — some very horrible, and some very fine in their wild, imaginative 
 way. He wrote three of the earliest and best of detective stories {The 
 Murders in the Rue Morgue, The Mystery of Marie Roget and The Purloined 
 Letter), and a fine story The Gold Bug, combining the excitements of a 
 cryptogram and buried treasure. Much of his life was passed in misery and 
 poverty, due partly to bad luck and partly to his intemperate habits. 
 
 THE RAVEN 
 
 Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, 
 Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore. 
 While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, 
 As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. 
 "'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door — 
 Only this, and nothing more." 
 
 Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December, 
 And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. 
 Eagerly I wished the morrow; — vainly I had sought to borrow 
 From my books surcease of sorrow — sorrow for the lost Lenore — 
 For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore — 
 Nameless here for evermore.
 
 120 EDGAR ALLAN POE 
 
 And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain 
 Thrilled me — filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; 
 So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating 
 "'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door — 
 Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; — 
 This it is, and nothing more." 
 
 Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, 
 "Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; 
 But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, 
 And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, 
 That I scarce was sure I heard you" — here I opened wide the 
 door : — 
 
 Darkness there, and nothing more. 
 
 Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, 
 
 fearing. 
 Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before; 
 But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token. 
 And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, 
 
 "Lenore!" 
 This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, 
 
 "Lenore!" 
 
 Merely this, and nothing more. 
 
 Back into the chamber turning, all my soul wathin me burning, 
 Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before. 
 "Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice; 
 Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore — 
 Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; — 
 'Tis the wind, and nothing more." 
 
 Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter. 
 In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore. 
 Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed 
 
 he; 
 But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door — 
 Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door — 
 Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
 
 EDGAR ALLAN POE 121 
 
 Then this ebony bird beguihng my sad fancy into smiling, 
 By the grave and stem decorum of the countenance it wore, 
 "Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure 
 
 no craven. 
 Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly 
 
 shore — 
 Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore ! " 
 Quoth the raven, "Nevermore." 
 
 Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, 
 Though its answer little meaning — little relevancy bore; 
 For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being 
 Ever yet was blest with seeing bird above his chamber door — 
 Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door. 
 With such name as "Nevermore." 
 
 But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only 
 That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. 
 Nothing further then he uttered — not a feather then he fluttered — 
 Till I scarcely more than muttered, "Other friends have flown 
 
 before — 
 On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before." 
 Then the bird said, "Nevermore." 
 
 Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, 
 "Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store, 
 Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster 
 Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore, — 
 Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore 
 Of 'Never — nevermore.'" 
 
 But the raven still beguihng all my fancy into smiling, 
 
 Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and 
 
 door; 
 Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking 
 Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore — 
 What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of 
 
 yore 
 
 Meant in croaking "Nevermore."
 
 122 EDGAR ALLAN POE 
 
 This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing 
 To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core; 
 This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining 
 On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er, 
 But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er 
 She shall press, ah, nevermore ! 
 
 Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen 
 
 censer 
 Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor. 
 "Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee — by these angels 
 
 He hath sent thee 
 Respite — respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore ! 
 Quaff, oh, quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore ! " 
 Quoth the raven, "Nevermore." 
 
 " Prophet ! " said I, " thing of evil ! — prophet still, if bird or devil ! — 
 Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here 
 
 ashore, 
 Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted — 
 On this home by Horror haunted — tell me truly, I implore,— 
 Is there, — is there balm in Gilead? — tell me — tell me, I implore!" 
 Quoth the raven, "Nevermore." 
 
 "Prophet ! " said I, "thing of evil ! — prophet still, if bird or devil ! 
 By that Heaven that bends above us — by that God we both adore — 
 Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, 
 It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore — 
 Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore." 
 Quoth the raven, "Nevermore." 
 
 "Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, 
 
 upstarting, — 
 "Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore! 
 Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken ! 
 Leave my loneliness unbroken ! — quit the bust above my door ! 
 Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my 
 
 door!" 
 
 Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."
 
 EDGAR ALLAN POE 123 
 
 And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting 
 On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; 
 And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming. 
 And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor ; 
 And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor 
 Shall be lifted — nevermore ! 
 
 VOLTAIRE 
 
 Francois Marie Arouet de Voltaire (1694-1778), one of the greatest 
 writers of the world, was born in Paris. He was educated for the law, but he 
 took a dislike to that profession. He began very early to write satirical 
 poems, some against the crimes of very important personages; and for one 
 of these poems he was imprisoned in the Bastile. He was thrown into that 
 famous prison a second time for an attack on a prominent noble, and was 
 liberated on condition of exile to England. In this country he met the poet 
 Pope and the statesman Bolingbroke, and he gained some acquaintance 
 with English literature. He saw, too, the difference between the liberty of 
 thought and government in England and the state of tyranny that prevailed 
 in France. In all his many writings he courageously attacked the abuses of 
 government and religion, and his work prepared the way for the French 
 Revolution. He wrote poems, tragedies, histories and treatises of various 
 kinds, as well as some tales in the eastern manner, the best of which is 
 Zadig, from which the following passages are taken. His fame spread through- 
 out Europe. He was admired by the empress of Russia and was invited to 
 the court of Frederic the Great. He spent nearly three years in Berlin; but, 
 in the end, he and his royal admirer quarrelled bitterly. Much of his life 
 was passed at Ferney near Geneva where he wrote a great deal and managed 
 his affairs in a business-like manner. His mocking, malicious spirit expressed 
 itself in a style of penetrating simplicity, and his works had great influence 
 upon European life and thought. 
 
 Zadig, the chief character in the story from which the following passages 
 are taken, is a rich young man dwelling in the city of Babylon. He marries a 
 beautiful maiden named Azora, who makes great profession of her faith- 
 fulness; but when, to test her, Zadig feigns to be dead, she is soon ready 
 not only to wed someone else, but even to cut off the nose of her supposed 
 deceased husband in order to cure a sickness of her new lover — who, in fact, 
 was a disguised friend of Zadig. 
 
 The translation is by Mrs G. Sampson. 
 
 SOME ADVENTURES OF ZADIG. 
 I 
 
 The Dog and the Horse 
 
 Zadig found that, as it is written in the Zend-Avesta, the first 
 month of marriage is a month of honey, but the second is a
 
 124 VOLTAIRE 
 
 month of wormwood. He was soon obliged to get rid of Azora, 
 who had become too difhcult to live with, and he sought happiness 
 in the study of nature. "Nobody," said he, "is happier than a 
 philosopher who reads the great book that God has spread before 
 us. The truths that he discovers are his own; he feeds and 
 elevates his soul, he lives in peace, he fears no man, and his 
 gentle wife does not come to cut off his nose." 
 
 Full of these ideas he retired to a country house on the banks 
 of the Euphrates. He did not spend his time there in reckoning 
 how many inches of water ran in one second under the arches of 
 a bridge, or if a cubic foot more rain fell in the mouse-month, than 
 in the sheep-month. He did not try to make silk out of spiders' 
 webs, nor porcelain out of broken bottles; but he studied specially 
 the characteristics of animals and plants, and soon acquired a 
 discernment that showed him a thousand differences where ordi- 
 nary men would perceive none. 
 
 One day, while walking near a little wood, he saw running 
 towards him one of the queen's men-servants, followed by several 
 ofhcers who seemed to be in the greatest anxiety, and who ran 
 wildly hither and thither like men seeking a precious possession 
 which they have lost. "Young man," said the chief servant "have 
 you seen the queen's dog? " Zadig replied modestly, "It is a very 
 small female spaniel, she limps with the left fore-foot, and has 
 very long ears." " Then you have seen her ? " said the chief servant 
 breathlessly. "No," replied Zadig, "I have never seen her and 
 I did not even know that the queen had a dog." 
 
 Exactly at the same time by one of fortune's usual freaks, the 
 finest horse in the king's stable had escaped from the hands of a 
 groom on the plains of Babylon. The grand huntsman and all 
 the other officers ran after h with as much anxiety as the chief 
 servant had run after the dog. The grand huntsman came to 
 Zadig and asked if he had seen the king's horse. "It is the best 
 galloper," said Zadig, "it is five feet high, it has small hoofs, it 
 has a tail three and a half feet long, its bit is embossed with 
 twenty-three carat gold, its shoes are of eleven pennyweight 
 silver." "Which way did it go? Where is it?" demanded the 
 grand huntsman, "I have not seen it at all," rephed Zadig, "and 
 have never even heard it mentioned." 
 
 The grand huntsman and the chief servant were certain that
 
 VOLTAIRE 
 
 Moreau le jeune
 
 VOLTAIRE 125 
 
 Zadig had stolen the king's horse and the queen's dog; so they took 
 him before the assembly of the Grand Desterham who condemned 
 him to be knouted and sent to Siberia for life. The sentence 
 had scarcely been passed when the horse and the dog were found. 
 The judges were under the grievous necessity of amending their 
 decision; but they sentenced Zadig to pay four hundred ounces of 
 gold for having denied seeing what he had seen: Zadig was at 
 first obliged to pay this fine, after which he was allowed to plead his 
 cause in the council of the Grand Desterham; he spoke as follows: 
 
 "Stars of justice, unfathomable wells of wisdom, mirrors of 
 truth, who have the weightiness of lead, the hardness of iron, 
 the brilliance of the diamond, and great affinity with gold, since 
 I am permitted to speak before this august assembly I swear 
 to you by Ormuzd that I have never seen the queen's most 
 respectable dog nor the sacred horse of the king of kings. 
 This is what happened. I was walking towards the little wood 
 where I afterwards met the venerable chief servant and the 
 illustrious grand huntsman. I saw on the sand the traces of an 
 animal and I easily discerned that they were the foot-prints of a 
 small dog. Certain marks which had disturbed the surface of the 
 sand at the sides of the front feet told me that she had very long 
 ears, and as I noticed that the sand was less indented by one foot 
 than by the other three I inferred that the dog of our august 
 queen was a little lame, if I may dare to say so. 
 
 "With regard to the horse of the king of kings, you must 
 know that, while walking in the paths of this wood, I saw the 
 marks of a horse's shoes; they were all at equal distances. 
 *That,' said I, 'is a horse' who has a perfect gallop.' In a narrow 
 path only seven feet across, the dust of the trees was brushed off 
 a Uttle to right and left, three and a half feet from the middle of 
 the path. 'This horse,' said I, 'has a tail three and a half feet 
 long which by its waving from side to side has swept off the dust.' 
 Under the trees which formed a bower five feet high I saw leaves 
 newly broken from the branches; I knew that the horse had 
 touched them and that therefore he was five feet high. As to his 
 bit, it must be of twenty-three carat gold for he knocked the 
 bosses of it against a touchstone which I have tested. By the 
 marks which his shoes left on some pebbles of another kind, I 
 decided that he was shod with silver of eleven pennyweights."
 
 126 VOLTAIRE 
 
 All the judges admired Zadig's profound and subtle discern- 
 ment; the fame of it reached the king and queen. Nothing but 
 Zadig was talked of in the ante-chambers, the throne-room, and 
 the private apartments ; and although several of the Magi thought 
 he ought to be burnt as a sorcerer, the king ordered him to be 
 given back the fine of four hundred ounces of gold which he had 
 had to pay. The recorder, the ushers, and the attorneys came 
 to his house in grand array to bring back his four hundred ounces; 
 they kept only three hundred and ninety-eight for the law ex- 
 penses, and their servants demanded fees. 
 
 Zadig saw how dangerous it is sometimes to be too clever, and 
 resolved on the next occasion to keep silent about what he had seen. 
 This opportunity soon occurred. A state prisoner escaped: he 
 passed under the windows of Zadig's house. Zadig was questioned: 
 he gave no answer, but it was proved that he had looked out of 
 the window. For this crime he was condemned to pay five 
 hundred ounces of gold, and he thanked the judges for their 
 clemency, according to Babylonian custom. "Good heavens!" 
 said he to himself, "how distressing it is to walk in a wood where 
 the queen's dog and the king's horse have passed; how dangerous 
 it is even to stand at a window : and how difficult it is ever to be 
 happy in this life ! " 
 
 The Envious Man 
 
 To console himself for his ill-fortune Zadig turned to philosophy 
 and friendship. In one of the suburbs of Bab)'lon he had a house, 
 adorned with taste, where he gathered all the arts and pastimes 
 worthy of a cultivated man. In the morning his library was open 
 to all the learned men; in the evening his table was free to good 
 company. But he soon discovered how dangerous learned men 
 can be. A great discussion arose about a law of Zoroaster which 
 forbade the eating of the griflSn. "How can the griffin be forbidden 
 if no such animal exists?" said some. "It must exist," said the 
 others, "since Zoroaster does not wish it to be eaten." Zadig 
 tried to reconcile them by saying, " If there are griffins do not let 
 us eat them; if there are none still less will we eat them; and 
 in that way we shall all obey Zoroaster." 
 
 A scholar who had written thirteen volumes on the pecuHar
 
 VOLTAIRE 127 
 
 properties of the griffin and who was, too, a great magician 
 hastened to go and accuse Zadig before an archimage named 
 Yebor, the most stupid and fanatical of the Chaldeans. This man 
 would have impaled Zadig for the greater glory of the sun, and 
 would then have recited the breviary of Zoroaster with a more 
 gratified air; but friend Cador (one friend is worth a hundred 
 priests) sought out old Yebor and said to him : 
 
 "Long live the sun and the griffins 1 Beware of punishing Zadig; 
 he is a saint; he has griffins in his back-yard and does not eat 
 them ; his accuser is a heretic who dares to maintain that rabbits 
 have cloven feet and are not unclean." "Well," said Yebor, 
 wagging his bald head, "Zadig must be impaled for having thought 
 badly of griffins and the other for having spoken badly of rabbits." 
 Cador, however, settled the matter. Nobody was impaled, although 
 several doctors grumbled and prophesied the downfall of Babylon. 
 "Where is happiness?" cried Zadig, "everyone persecutes me in 
 this world, even creatures that don't exist." He cursed the 
 learned men and determined to live in future only in good company. 
 
 He gathered at his house the most agreeable men and the most 
 charming women in Babylon; he gave dainty suppers, often 
 preceded by concerts, and enlivened by interesting conversations, 
 from which he was careful to banish the anxiety to be witty, which 
 is the surest way of being dull and of spoiling the most brilliant 
 society. His choice neither of friends nor of dishes was made out 
 of vanity; for in everything he preferred the reality to the appear- 
 ance, and by this he won a real esteem to which he laid no claim. 
 
 Opposite his house lived Ahrimazd, a man whose wicked soul 
 was depicted on his coarse face. He was eaten up with envy and 
 puffed up with pride, and to crown all was a thoroughly tiresome 
 person. Never having been able to succeed in the world he took 
 his revenge by slandering it. Rich as he was, he could hardly 
 get even flatterers to visit him. To hear carriages going 
 to Zadig's house in the evening annoyed him, and to hear 
 Zadig praised irritated him still more. Sometimes he went to 
 Zadig's house and sat at his table uninvited, spoiHng all the 
 gaiety of the company, as harpies, it is said, taint the food they 
 touch. One day it happened that Ahrimazd wished to entertain 
 a lady who, instead, went to sup with Zadig. Another day while 
 talking together in the palace, they met a minister who invited
 
 128 VOLTAIRE 
 
 Zadig to supper, but did not askAhrimazd. The most bitter hatreds 
 often have a basis just as triviaL This man, called "the envious 
 man" in Babylon, wished to ruin Zadig because he was called 
 "the happy man." Opportunities of doing harm occur a hundred 
 times a day while the chance of doing good comes only once in a 
 year, as Zoroaster says. 
 
 The envious man went to Zadig's house and found him walking 
 in the garden with two friends, and a lady to whom he was paying 
 compliments without any serious intention. The conversation 
 turned on a war which the king had just happily ended against the 
 Prince of Hyrcania his vassal. Zadig, who had shown his courage 
 in this short campaign, praised the king much, but the lady more. 
 He took his tablets and wrote four lines of verse that he composed 
 at the moment and gave them to the lady to read. His friends 
 begged to be allowed to see them, but modesty, or rather a natural 
 pride, made him refuse. He knew that impromptu verses are good 
 only to those in whose honour they are made. He broke in two 
 the tablet on which he had written, and threw the pieces into a 
 thicket of roses where one might seek for them in vain. A light 
 shower drove the guests indoors. The envious man, who had stayed 
 in the garden, searched until he found one piece of the tablet. It 
 had been broken in such a way that each half-line of verse made 
 sense, and even poetry in a shorter metre; but by a still stranger 
 chance this little verse was found to contain horrible accusations 
 against the king; it read: 
 
 Through the foulest of crimes 
 Firmly placed on the throne, 
 In these soft peaceful times 
 He the foe is alone : 
 
 The envious man was happy for the first time in his life; he had 
 in his hands the means of ruining a kind and noble gentleman. 
 Full of this cruel joy he took care that this lampoon written in 
 Zadig's hand should reach the king. Zadig, his two friends and the 
 lady were all imprisoned. He was tried at once without even a 
 hearing. When he went to receive his sentence, the envious man 
 met him on his way and said aloud that his verses were worthless, 
 Zadig did not pride himself on being a good poet, but he was in 
 despair at being condemned as guilty of high-treason, and at
 
 VOLTAIRE 129 
 
 seeing a fair lady and two of his friends kept in prison for a 
 crime that he had not committed. He was not allowed to 
 speak because his tablets spoke for him. Such was the law of 
 Babylon. He was obliged to go to his execution through an 
 inquisitive mob, not one of whom dared to pity him, but who only 
 rushed to stare at his face to see if he would die bravely. Only 
 his parents were distressed, because they inherited nothing; three 
 quarters of his goods were confiscated by the king and the other 
 quarter went to the envious man. 
 
 While he was preparing himself for death, the king's parrot 
 flew from its balcony and alighted in Zadig's garden upon a rose 
 bush. A peach from a neighbouring tree had been blown there 
 by the wind; it had fallen on a piece of a writing tablet to which it 
 had stuck. The bird picked up the peach and the tablet with it 
 and carried it to the king's lap. The monarch's curiosity was 
 aroused by the sight of some words which made no sense, and 
 which seemed to be the ends of rhymed lines. He loved poetrv, 
 and princes who love poetry are never dull : his parrot's adventure 
 set him thinking. The queen, who remembered what Zadig had 
 written on the broken tablet, sent for it. The two pieces were put 
 together and fitted perfectly. The lines then appeared as Zadig 
 had composed them: 
 
 Through the foulest of crimes I have seen the world smart ; 
 Firmly placed on the throne, our king Is our shield. 
 In these soft peaceful times none but Love wields the dart, 
 He the foe is alone : to him only we yield. 
 
 The king immediately ordered that Zadig should be brought 
 before him, and that his two friends and the fair lady should be 
 set free. Zadig prostrated himself before the king and queen, and 
 humbly asked their pardon for having written such poor verses. 
 He spoke with so much wit, wisdom, and eloquence that the 
 king and queen wished to see more of him. He came again and won 
 still greater favour. He was given all the goods of the envious 
 man whc? had unjustly accused him^, but Zadig gave them back 
 and the envious man was touched, but only by the joy of not 
 losing his possessions. The king's good opinion of Zadig grew 
 from day to day. He included him in all his pleasures and con- 
 sulted him in all his business. The queen henceforth regarded
 
 130 VOLTAIRE 
 
 him with an affection which bid fair to become dangerous for her, 
 for the king her august consort, for Zadig, and for the kingdom 
 itself. Zadig began to think that it is not difficult to be happy. 
 
 [Zadig becomes prime minister; but he arouses the jealousy of the king 
 and has to flee for his life. He wanders into distant countries and has many 
 adventures. He returns to Babylon and takes part in a tournament, the 
 victor at which is to marry the Queen (the king having perished in battle) 
 if he can prove his wisdom by answering certain riddles. Zadig, clad in 
 white armour, overcomes the great champion Otama; but while he is resting 
 after the battle, a green-armoured rival named Itobad steals his white 
 armour and claims to have been the victor. In despair he leaves the city 
 and wanders away to the river Euphrates.] 
 
 Ill 
 The Hermit 
 
 As he was walking he met a hermit whose white and venerable 
 beard hung down to his waist. In his hand he held a book which 
 he was reading attentively. Zadig stopped and made him a low 
 bow. The hermit saluted him in so noble and kind a manner that 
 Zadig had the curiosity to engage him in conversation. He asked 
 what book he was reading. "It is the book of fate," said the 
 hermit; "would you like to read therein?" He handed the book 
 to Zadig who, well-versed as he was in several languages, could 
 not decipher a single letter of it. This increased his curiosity. 
 "You seem cast down," said the good father. "Alas! I have 
 cause to be," replied Zadig. "If you will allow me to accompany 
 you perhaps I can be of some use," rejoined the old man, "I have 
 sometimes brought consolation to an unhappy soul." Zadig felt 
 respect for the manner, the beard, and the book of the hermit 
 and found that he conversed hke a superior being. The hermit 
 spoke of fate, of justice, of morals, of sovereign good, of human 
 weakness, of virtues and vices, with an eloquence so moving, 
 that Zadig felt himself drawn towards him by an irresistible 
 spell. He begged the hermit not to leave him until they returned 
 to Babylon. "I myself ask you this favour," said the old man. 
 "Swear by Ormuzd that you will not part from me for several 
 days, whatever I do." Zadig promised and they set out together. 
 
 The two travellers arrived that evening at a splendid castle. 
 The hermit besought hospitality for himself and the young man
 
 VOLTAIRE 131 
 
 who accompanied him. The door-keeper, who might have been 
 taken for a lord, admitted them with condescending good-nature. 
 They were presented to the head-servant who showed them his 
 master's magnificent apartments. They were seated at the 
 lower end of the table without the lord of the castle's honouring 
 them with a glance : but they were served Hke the rest with taste 
 and profusion. They were given a golden bowl, set with emeralds 
 and rubies, to wash in; they were put to sleep in a fine room, and 
 the next morning a servant brought each of them a piece of gold; 
 after which they were dismissed upon their way. 
 
 "The master of the house," said Zadig, as they walked along, 
 "seems a generous man though rather proud; he dispenses 
 hospitahty nobly." As he spoke he noticed that a large pocket 
 that the hermit wore seemed prominent and distended; in it 
 he saw the jewelled golden bowl, which the hermit had stolen. 
 He was astounded, but dared not take any notice of it at first. 
 
 Towards midday the hermit presented himself at the door of a 
 very small house in which lived a rich miser; he asked hospitalitv 
 for a few hours. An old badly-dressed servant received him roughly, 
 and took him and Zadig to a stable, where they were given some 
 rotten olives, mouldy bread and sour beer. The hermit ate and 
 drank as contentedly as on the previous day; then turning to 
 the old serv^ant, who was watching them both to see that they stole 
 nothing, and kept urging them to go, he gave him the two gold 
 pieces that he had received in the morning and thanked him for 
 all his attentions. " I pray you," added the hermit, " let me speak 
 to your master." The astonished servant took the travellers into 
 him. "Illustrious lord," said the hermit, "I can but offer you our 
 very humble thanks for the noble manner in which you have 
 received us; deign to accept this golden bowl as a slight token 
 of my gratitude." The miser nearly collapsed. The hermit gave 
 him no time to recover from his seizure, but set off swiftly 
 with his young companion. "Father," said Zadig, "what is all 
 this that I see ? You seem to be unlike other men in all things ; you 
 steal a jewelled golden bowl from a lord who receives you magni- 
 ficently and you give it to a miser who treats you with indignity." 
 "My son," replied the old man, "this fine lord, who receives 
 strangers only out of vanity that they may admire his wealth, 
 will become wiser. The miser will learn to be hospitable. Do not 
 
 9—2
 
 132 VOLTAIRE 
 
 be surprised at anything, and follow me." Zadig scarcely knew if 
 he was dealing v\dth the maddest or the wisest of men; but the 
 hermit spoke with so much authority that Zadig, bound besides 
 by his vow, was forced to follow him. 
 
 They arrived that evening at a pleasantly built but simple 
 house, where nothing proclaimed either prodigality or avarice. 
 The master was a philosopher retired from the world, who 
 peacefully cultivated wisdom and virtue and was never bored. 
 It had pleased him to build this retreat, where he received 
 strangers with a generosity that was quite unostentatious. He 
 went himself to meet the two travellers, whom he conducted 
 to a pleasant room to rest; some time afterwards he came to 
 invite them to a neat and well-served meal, during which he 
 spoke discreetly of the latest revolutions in Babylon. He 
 seemed sincerely attached to the queen and wished that Zadig 
 had been in the lists to compete for the crown; "but men," 
 added he, "do not deserve to have a king like Zadig." The 
 latter blushed and felt his wrongs more keenly than ever. They 
 agreed, as they talked, that the things of this world do not always 
 go according to the wishes of the wise. The hermit maintained 
 that no one knew the ways of providence and that men are 
 wrong to try to judge a whole of which the\' see only the smallest 
 part. They spoke of the passions. "All ! how fatal they are," said 
 Zadig. "They are the winds that fill the sails of a ship," replied 
 the hermit; "sometimes they wreck it, but without them it could 
 not move. Bile makes us hot-tempered and ill, but without bile 
 man could not exist. On this earth all is dangerous, but all is 
 necessary." 
 
 They spoke of pleasure, and the hermit proved that it is a 
 divine gift, "for," said he, "man cannot create for himself either 
 sensations or ideas; he receives them all; pain and pleasure come 
 to him from without, as his existence does." 
 
 Zadig wondered how a man who had done such extravagant 
 things could reason so well. At last after a discourse as instruc- 
 tive as it was agreeable the host led his two guests to their apart- 
 ment again, blessing heaven that had sent him two men so 
 virtuous and wise. He offered them money in a manner so noble 
 and yet so friendly that they could not be offended. The hermit 
 declined it and said that he must take his leave as he purposed
 
 VOLTAIRE 133 
 
 to set out for Babylon before daybreak. Their farewell was tender, 
 Zadig especially was full of esteem and affection for so worthy a 
 man. When the hermit and he were in their room they spoke 
 long in praise of their host. At dawn the oldmanwoke his comrade. 
 "We must depart," said he, "but while everybody is still asleep 
 I am going to leave this man a token of my respect and regard." 
 Saying these words he took a torch and set the house on fire. 
 Zadig, uttering cries of dismay, tried to prevent him from com- 
 mitting such an atrocious act. The hermit carried him off by 
 superior strength; the house was in flames; the hermit, already 
 some distance off with his companion, tranquilly watched it burn. 
 "Thank heaven!" said he, "there is my dear host's house de- 
 stroyed from top to bottom! Happy man!" At these words 
 Zadig was tempted to burst out laughing, to heap insults upon 
 the reverend father, to thrash him, and to flee from him. But he 
 did nothing, and still over-awed by the power of the hermit he 
 followed him, in spite of himself, to their last resting place. 
 
 This was at the house of a good and kind widow who had a 
 nephew aged fourteen, a charming boy, and her only hope. She did 
 the honours of her house as well as she could. The next morning 
 she told her nephew to accompany the travellers as far as a bridge 
 which, having recently been broken, had become dangerous. 
 The lad walked eagerly before them. When they were on the 
 bridge the hermit said to the youth, "Come, I must show my 
 gratitude to your aunt." He then took him by the hair and threw 
 him in the river. The boy fell, reappeared for an instant, and was 
 engulfed by the torrent. "O monster! most infamous of all 
 mankind!" exclaimed Zadig. "You promised to be more 
 patient," said the hermit interrupting him : "Know that under 
 the ruins of that house which Providence set on fire the master 
 has found an immense treasure; know that this youth whom 
 Providence has killed would have murdered his aunt in a year, 
 and you in two." "Who told you so, ruffian?" cried Zadig, 
 "and even if you were able to read this event in your book of 
 destiny are you permitted to drown a child who has done you 
 no harm ? " 
 
 While the Babylonian was speaking he noticed that the old man 
 no longer had a beard; that his face took the features of youth; his 
 hermit's robe disappeared; four beautiful wings covered a majestic
 
 134 VOLTAIRE 
 
 form radiant with light. "O heavenly messenger ! Angel Divine ! " 
 cried Zadig prostrating himself, "hast thou then descended from 
 the empyrean to teach a weak mortal to submit to the decrees of 
 providence?" "Man," said the angel Jesrad, "judges everything 
 without knowing anything. Of all men thou wert he who most 
 deserved to be enlightened." Zadig asked permission to speak. 
 "I distrust myself," said he, "but dare I ask to have a doubt 
 dispelled.? Would it not have been better to correct this youth 
 and make him virtuous than to drown him?" Jesrad replied, 
 "If he had been virtuous and had lived, his fate was to be mur- 
 dered with the wife he would have married and the son who 
 would have been born to him." "What!" said Zadig, "is it then 
 inevitable that there should be crimes and misfortunes, and 
 that misfortunes should fall on the good?" "The wicked," 
 answered Jesrad, "are always unhappy; they serve as a test of 
 the few just persons scattered over the world; there is no evil 
 from which good does not come." "But," said Zadig, "suppose 
 there were only good and no evil." "Then," replied Jesrad, "this 
 earth would be another earth ; the chain of events would belong to 
 another order of wisdom; and that order, which would be perfect, 
 can exist only in the eternal dwelling of the Supreme Being, whom 
 no evil can approach. He has created millions of worlds not one 
 of which is like another; this infinite variety is an attribute of 
 His divine power. There are not two leaves of a tree on earth, 
 nor two spheres in the vast fields of heaven which are alike; and 
 all that you see on the little atom where you were born must 
 exist in its place, and at its fixed time, according to the immut- 
 able laws of Him who enfolds all. Men think that this child who 
 has just perished fell into the water by chance; that it is by the 
 same chance that the house was burnt; but there is no chance; 
 everything is trial or punishment, reward or foresight. ...Feeble 
 mortal, cease to rebel against that which you must adore." "But," 
 
 said Zadig . As he said the word the angel was already winging 
 
 his flight towards the tenth sphere. Zadig on his knees adored 
 Providence and submitted to it. The angel cried to him from on 
 high, "Take your way towards Babylon."
 
 VOLTAIRE 135 
 
 IV 
 
 The Riddles 
 
 Zadig, beside himself, and like a man near whom a thunderbolt 
 has fallen, walked on at random. He entered Babylon, on the 
 day when those who had fought in the lists were already assembled 
 in the great hall of the palace to solve the riddles and answer the 
 questions of the chief magician. All the knights had arrived 
 except the one in green armour. As soon as Zadig appeared in 
 the city crowds gathered round him; their eyes were never tired 
 of gazing at him, their mouths of blessing him, or their hearts of 
 wishing him the kingdom. The envious man saw him pass; he 
 trembled and turned away : the people carried Zadig to the place 
 of assembly. The queen, who had been informed of his arrival, 
 was a prey to mingled hope and fear. She was devoured by anxiety. 
 She could not understand why Zadig was unarmed, nor why Itobad 
 wore the white armour. A confused murmur arose at the sight of 
 Zadig; they were surprised and delighted to see him again, but only 
 knights who had fought were allowed to appear in the assembly. 
 
 "I fought Uke the rest," said he, "but another here wears my 
 armour; and while waiting until I have the honour to prove it, I ask 
 permission to present myself to solve the riddles." It was put to 
 the vote; his reputation for integrity was still so deeply imprinted 
 on their minds that no one hesitated to permit him. 
 
 The chief magician propounded this question first. "Of all 
 things in the world, what is at once the longest and the shortest, 
 the quickest and the slowest, the most minutely divided and the 
 most extensive, the most neglected and the most regretted, without 
 which nothing can be done, which swallows up all trivial things 
 and preserves all great things? " 
 
 Itobad was to speak first; he repHed that a man of his kind 
 did not understand riddles, and that he was satisfied with 
 having conquered by the blows of his lance. Some said that 
 the enigma meant fortune, others said the earth, others, light: 
 Zadig said it was time. "Nothing is so long," added he, "since it 
 is the measure of eternity; nothing is so short since we never have 
 enough for all our plans; nothing is so slow to those who wait, 
 nothing so quick to those who revel; it stretches to infinite 
 greatness, but its divisions are infinitely small; all men waste it
 
 136 VOLTAIRE 
 
 and all regret its loss; nothing can be done without it; it 
 obliterates all things unworthy of posterity and it immortalises 
 all great things." The assembly agreed that Zadig was right. 
 
 They were next asked, "What is that which we receive without 
 thanks,' that we enjoy without knowing how we do so, that we 
 give to others without knowing what it is, and that we lose without 
 having understood it ? " 
 
 Each said his word. Zadig alone guessed that it was life. He 
 solved all the other riddles just as easily. Itobad said every time 
 that nothing was sunpler, and that he could have completed the 
 test just as easily if he had taken the trouble. Questions were 
 asked about justice, the highest good and the art of governing. 
 Zadig's replies were judged the wisest. "It is a great pity," they 
 said, "that one who has such sound judgment should be such a 
 bad knight." 
 
 " Illustrious lords," said Zadig, " I had the honour of conquering 
 in the lists. The white armour belongs to me. The lord Itobad 
 took possession of it while I slept. He apparently thought it 
 would suit him better than the green. I am ready to prove, here 
 and now, with my robe and sword against all this beautiful white 
 armour that he has taken from me, that it was I who had the 
 honour of conquering the brave Otama." 
 
 Itobad accepted the challenge with the greatest confidence; he 
 did not doubt that being fully armed he would easily put an end 
 to an adversary in a night-cap and dressing-gown. 
 
 Zadig drawing his sword saluted the queen who, full of joy and 
 fear, was watching him. Itobad drew his without saluting anyone. 
 He advanced on Zadig like a man who has nothing to fear. He 
 was about to split his head open when Zadig parried the blow 
 by opposing the thick part of his blade to the thin part of his 
 opponent's in such a way that Itobad's sword was broken. Then 
 Zadig, seizing his enemy round the middle, hurled him to the 
 ground and thrusting the point of his sword into a chink in the 
 breast-plate, cried "Yield, or I kill you!" 
 
 Itobad, always astonished that any disgrace could befal such 
 a man as he, surrendered to Zadig, who quietly removed his 
 magnificent helmet, his superb breast-plate, his beautiful armlets, 
 and his brilliant thigh-pieces, and, dressing himself in them once 
 more, ran thus arrayed to throw himself at Astarte's feet. Cador
 
 VOLTAIRE 137 
 
 easily proved that the armour belonged to Zadig. He was 
 acclaimed king by universal consent, and above all by that of 
 Astarte who, after so many adversities, tasted the sweetness of 
 seeing her lover worthy in the eyes of the world to be her consort. 
 Itobad went to hear himself called lord in his own house. Zadig 
 was king and was happy. He kept in his heart all that the angel 
 Jesrad had told him. The envious man died of rage and shame. 
 The kingdom enjoyed peace, prosperity and glory; it was the 
 most splendid age of the world, when love and justice ruled. 
 All men blessed Zadig, and Zadig blessed heaven. 
 
 WALT WHITMAN 
 
 (The poem that follows is a lament for the death of President Lincoln.) 
 
 O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN! 
 
 O Captain ! my Captain ! our fearful trip is done. 
 The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won. 
 The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, 
 While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring; 
 But heart ! heart ! heart ! 
 O the bleeding drops of red. 
 
 Where on the deck my Captain lies, 
 Fallen cold and dead. 
 
 Captain ! my Captain ! rise up and hear the bells ; 
 
 Rise up — for you the flag is flung — for you the bugle trills, 
 
 For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths — for you the shores 
 
 a-crowding. 
 For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning; 
 Here Captain ! dear father ! 
 This arm beneath your head ! 
 
 It is some dream that on the deck, 
 You've fallen cold and dead. 
 
 My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still. 
 My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will. 
 The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done. 
 From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
 
 138 WALT WHITMAN 
 
 Exult O shores, and ring O bells ! 
 But I with mournful tread 
 
 Walk the deck my Captain lies, 
 Fallen cold and dead. 
 
 PATROLLING BARNEGAT 
 
 Wild, wild the storm, and the sea high running, 
 
 Steady the roar of the gale, with incessant undertone muttering, 
 
 Shouts of demoniac laughter fitfully piercing and peahng. 
 
 Waves, air, midnight, their savagest trinity lashing, 
 
 Out in the shadows there milk-white combs careering. 
 
 On beachy slush and sand spirts of snow fierce slanting. 
 
 Where through the murk the easterly death-wind breasting. 
 
 Through cutting swirl and spray watchful and firm advancing, 
 
 (That in the distance ! is that a wreck? is the red signal flaring?) 
 
 Slush and sand of the beach tireless till daylight wending. 
 
 Steadily, slowly, through hoarse roar never remitting. 
 
 Along the midnight edge by those milk-white combs careering, 
 
 A group of dim, weird forms, struggling, the night confronting. 
 
 That savage trinity warily watching. 
 
 CHARLES DICKENS 
 
 Charles Dickens (1812-70) was born at Landport (Portsmouth), the son 
 of a clerk at the Dockyard. The family moved about a great deal 5 and, 
 after two residences in Chatham, settled in London when Charles was nine. 
 The boy was early acquainted with trouble. His father's thriftless and 
 unbusinesslike character is reproduced in Micawber {David Copperjield), and 
 the boy's unhappy experiences, including employment at ten years of age 
 in a blacking factory, are used with beautiful effect In the same novel. The 
 father was arrested for debt and sent to the Marshalsea^ a prison for debtors 
 described fully in Little Dorrit. Another debtor's prison, the Fleet, figures 
 largely In Pickwick. Like David Copperfield, Charles Dickens went to school 
 again after he had been to work. Later, he taught himself shorthand in order 
 to become a reporter. The rich nature of Dickens was able to turn all his 
 experiences to good account. What he had himself suffered he utilised with 
 great skill in his books. He began his Uterary career by writing short sketches 
 at the age of twenty-one. At twenty-four he began Pickwick and from that 
 time forward became a highly successful writer. He led an active life. 
 He travelled much, he gave public readings from his books, he played a
 
 CHARLES DICKENS 139 
 
 prominent part in the public life of his time and was able, by his influence, to 
 put an end to many abuses. He died quite suddenly. His fame, great while 
 he lived, has steadily increased. 
 
 The passage that follows is from David Copperfield. Mr Peggottv, a 
 Yarmouth fisherman, had turned an old boat on the beach into a comfortable 
 little house where he Jived with his relative Ham Peggotty, a noble hearted 
 young fisherman, and "Little Em'ly" his niece. Ham and Emily were 
 betrothed and were soon to be married. A handsome yoimg gentleman, 
 Steerforth, friend and schoolfellow of David Copperfield, became intimate 
 with the family in the old houseboat, and basely destroyed the happiness 
 of all by persuading Enuly to desert her friends and run away with him. 
 At the point where the extract begins, Emily had been found by Mr Peggotty 
 after weary search, and was leaving with him for a new home and life in 
 Australia. 
 
 TEMPEST 
 
 I now approach an event in my life, so indelible, so awrful, so 
 bound by an infinite variety of ties to all that has preceded it, in 
 these pages, that, from the beginning of my narrative, I have 
 seen it gro\\-ing larger and larger as I advanced, Hke a great tower 
 in a plain, and thro\\"ing its forecast shadow even on the incidents 
 of m\- childish days. 
 
 For years after it occurred I dreamed of it often. I have started 
 up so viiidly impressed by it, that its fury has yet seemed raging 
 in my quiet room, in the still night. I dream of it sometimes, 
 though at lengthened and uncertain intervals, to this hour, I 
 have an association between it and a stormy uind, or the lightest 
 mention of a sea-shore, as strong as anv of which m)- mind is 
 conscious. As plainly as I behold what happened, I \\i\\ trv to 
 write it do^^"n. I do not recall it, but see it done; for it happens 
 again before me. 
 
 The time drawing on rapidly for the saihng of the emigrant ship, 
 my good old nurse (almost broken-hearted for me, when we first 
 met) came up to London. I was constantl)' with, her, and her 
 brother, and the Alicawbers (the)- being very much together) ; but 
 Emily I never saw. 
 
 One evening, when the time was close at hand, I was alone with 
 Peggotty and her brother. Our conversation turned on Ham. 
 She described to us how tenderly he had taken leave of her, and 
 how manfully and quietly he had borne himself — most of all, of 
 late, when she beUeved he was most tried. It was a subject of 
 which the affectionate creature never tired; and our interest in
 
 140 CHARLES DICKENS 
 
 hearing the many examples which she, who was so much with 
 him, had to relate, was equal to hers in relating them. 
 
 My aunt and I were at that time vacating the two cottages at 
 Highgate — I intending to go abroad, and she to return to her 
 house at Dover. We had a temporary lodging in Covent Garden. 
 As I walked home to it, after this evening's conversation, reflecting 
 on what had passed between Ham and myself when I was last at 
 Yarmouth, I wavered in the original purpose I had formed, of 
 leaving a letter for Emily when I should take leave of her uncle 
 on board the ship, and thought it would be better to write to 
 her now. She might desire, I thought, after receiving my com- 
 munication, to send some parting word by me to her unhappy 
 lover. I ought to give her the opportunity. 
 
 I therefore sat down in my room, before going to bed, and 
 wrote to her. I told her that I had seen him, and that he had 
 requested me to tell her what I have already written in its place 
 in these sheets. I faithfully repeated it. I had no need to enlarge 
 upon it, if I had had the right. Its deep fidehty and goodness 
 were not to be adorned by me or any man. I left it out, to be sent 
 round in the morning, with a line to Mr Peggotty, requesting him 
 to give it to her; and went to bed at daybreak. 
 
 I was weaker than I knew then; and not falling asleep until 
 the sun was up, lay late, and unrefreshed, next day. I was roused 
 by the silent presence of my aunt at my bedside. I felt it in my 
 sleep, as I suppose we all do feel such things. 
 
 "Trot, my dear," she said, when I opened my eyes, "I couldn't 
 make up my mind to disturb you. Mr Peggotty is here; shall he 
 come up .' " 
 
 I replied yes, and he soon appeared. 
 
 "Mas'r Davy," he said, when we had shaken hands, "I giv 
 Em'ly your letter, sir, and she writ this here; and begged of me 
 fur to ask you to read it, and if you see no hurt in't, to be so kind 
 as take charge on't." 
 
 "Have you read it?" said I. 
 
 He nodded sorrowfully. I opened it, and read as follows: — 
 
 " I have got your message. Oh, what can I write, to thank you 
 for your good and blessed kindness to me ! 
 
 " I have put the words close to my heart. I shall keep them till I 
 die. They are sharp thorns, but they arc such comfort. I have
 
 CHARLES DICKENS 141 
 
 prayed over them, oh, I have prayed so much! When I find what 
 you are, and what uncle is, I think what God must be, and can cry 
 to Him. 
 
 " Good-bye for ever. Now, my dear, my friend, good-bye for 
 ever in this world. In another world, if I am forgiven, I may wake 
 a child and come to you. All thanks and blessings. Farewell, 
 evermore." 
 
 This, blotted with tears, was the letter. 
 
 "May I tell her as you doen't see no hurt in't, and as you'll be 
 so kind as take charge on't, Mas'r Davy?" said Mr Peggotty, 
 when I had read it. 
 
 "Unquestionably," said I; "but I am thinking " 
 
 "Yes, Mas'r Davy?" 
 . "I am thinking," said I, "that I'll go down again to Yarmouth. 
 There's time and to spare for me to go and come back before the 
 ship sails. My mind is constantly running on him, in his solitude. 
 To put this letter of her writing in his hand at this time, and to 
 enable you to tell her, in the moment of parting, that he has got 
 it, will be a kindness to both of them. I solemnly accepted his 
 commission, dear good fellow, and cannot discharge it too com- 
 pletely. The journey is nothing to me. I am restless, and shall 
 be better in motion. I'll go down to-night." 
 
 Though he anxiously endeavoured to dissuade me, I saw that 
 he was of my mind ; and this, if I had required to be confirmed in 
 my intention, would have had the effect. He went round to the 
 coach-office, at my request, and took the box-seat for me on the 
 mail. In the evening I started, by that conveyance, down the road 
 I had traversed under so many vicissitudes. 
 
 "Don't you think that," I asked the coachman, in the first 
 stage out of London, "a very remarkable sky? I don't remember 
 to have seen one like it." 
 
 "Norl— notequaltoit,"herephed. "That's wind, sir. There'll 
 be mischief done at sea, I expect, before long." 
 
 It was a murky confusion — here and there blotted with a colour 
 like the colour of the smoke from damp fuel — of flying clouds 
 tossed up into most remarkable heaps, suggesting greater heights 
 in the clouds than there were depths below them to the bottom 
 of the deepest hollows in the earth, through which the wild moon 
 seemed to plunge headlong, as if, in a dread disturbance of the
 
 142 CHARLES DICKENS 
 
 laws of nature, she had lost her way and were frightened. There 
 had been a wind all day; and it was rising then, with an extra- 
 ordinary great sound. In another hour it had much increased, 
 and the sky was more overcast, and it blew hard. 
 
 But as the night advanced, the clouds closing in and densely 
 overspreading the whole sky, then very dark, it came on to blow 
 harder and harder. It still increased, until our horses could 
 scarcely face the wind. Many times, in the dark part of the night 
 (it was then late in September, when the nights were not short), 
 the leaders turned about, or came to a dead stop; and we were 
 often in serious apprehension that the coach would be blown over. 
 Sweeping gusts of rain came up before this storm, like showers 
 of steel; and, at those times, when there was any shelter of trees 
 or lee walls to be got, we were fain to stop, in a sheer impossibility 
 of continuing the struggle. 
 
 When the day broke, it blew harder and harder. I had been in 
 Yarmouth when the seamen said it blew great guns; but I had 
 never known the like of this, or anything approaching to it. We 
 came to Ipswich — very late, having had to fight every inch of 
 ground since we were ten miles out of London — and found a 
 cluster of people in the market-place, who had risen from their 
 beds in the night, fearful of falling chimneys. Some of these, 
 congregating about the inn-yard while we changed horses, told 
 us of great sheets of lead having been ripped off a high church 
 tower, and flung into a by-street, which they then blocked up. 
 Others had to tell of country people, coming in from neighbouring 
 villages, who had seen great trees lying torn out of the earth, and 
 whole ricks scattered about the roads and fields. Still, there was 
 no abatement in the storm, but it blew harder. 
 
 As we struggled on, nearer and nearer to the sea, from which 
 this mighty wind was blowing dead on shore, its force became more 
 and more terrific. Long before we saw the sea, its spray was on 
 our lips, and showered salt rain upon us. The water was out, 
 over miles and miles of the flat country adjacent to Yarmouth; 
 and every sheet and puddle lashed its banks, and had its stress 
 of little breakers setting heavily towards us. When we came 
 within sight of the sea, the waves on the horizon, caught at intervals 
 above the rolling abyss, were like glimpses of another shore with 
 towers and buildings. When at last we got into the town, the
 
 u
 
 CHARLES DICKENS 143 
 
 people came out to their doors, all aslant, and with streaming 
 hair, making a wonder of the mail that had come through such 
 a night. 
 
 I put up at the old inn, and went down to look at the sea; 
 staggering along the street, which was strewn with sand and 
 seaweed, and with flying blotches of sea-foam; afraid of falling 
 slates and tiles; and holding by people I met, at angry corners. 
 Coming near the beach, I saw, not only the boatmen, but half 
 the people of the town, lurking behind buildings; some now and 
 then braving the fury of the storm to look away to sea, and blown 
 sheer out of their course in trying to get zigzag back. 
 
 Joining these groups, I found bewailing women whose husbands 
 were away in herring or oyster boats, which there was too much 
 reason to think might have foundered before they could run in 
 anywhere for safety. Grizzled old sailors were among the people, 
 shaking their heads, as they looked from water to sky, and mutter- 
 ing to one another; shipowners, excited and uneasy; children, 
 huddling together, and peering into older faces; even stout 
 mariners, disturbed and anxious, levelling their glasses at the 
 sea from behind places of shelter, as if they were surveying an 
 enemy. 
 
 The tremendous sea itself, when I could find sufficient pause to 
 look at it, in the agitation of the blinding wind, the flying stones 
 and sand, and the awful noise, confounded me. As the high 
 watery walls came rolling in, and, at their highest, tumbled into 
 surf, they looked as if the least would engulf the town. As the 
 receding wave swept back with a hoarse roar, it seemed to scoop 
 out deep caves in the beach, as if its purpose were to undermine 
 the earth. When some white-headed billows thundered on, and 
 dashed themselves to pieces before they reached the land, every 
 fragment of the late whole seemed possessed by the full might of 
 its wrath, rushing to be gathered to the composition of another 
 monster. Undulating hills were changed to valleys, undulating 
 valleys (with a solitary storm-bird sometimes skimming through 
 them) were lifted up to hills; masses of water shivered and shook 
 the beach with a booming sound ; every shape tumultuously rolled 
 on, as soon as made, to change its shape and place, and beat 
 another shape and place away; the ideal shore on the horizon, 
 with its towers and buildings, rose and fell; the clouds flew fast
 
 144 CHARLES DICKENS 
 
 and thick; I seemed to see a rending and upheaving of all 
 nature. 
 
 Not finding Ham among the people whom this memorable 
 wind — for it is still remembered down there, as the greatest ever 
 known to blow upon that coast — had brought together, I made 
 my way to his house. It was shut; and as no one answered to my 
 knocking, I went, by back ways and by-lanes, to the yard where 
 he worked. I learned there that he had gone to Lowestoft, to 
 meet some sudden exigency of ship-repairing in which his skill 
 was required, but that he would be back to-morrow morning, in 
 good time. 
 
 I went back to the inn; and when I had washed and dressed, 
 and tried to sleep, but in vain, it was five o'clock in the afternoon. 
 I had not sat five minutes by the coffee-room fire, when the 
 waiter coming to stir it, as an excuse for talking, told me that 
 two colliers had gone down, with all hands, a few miles away; and 
 that some other ships had been seen labouring hard in the Roads, 
 and trying, in great distress, to keep off shore. Mercy on them, 
 and on all poor sailors, said he, if we had another night like the 
 last! 
 
 I was very much depressed in spirits, very solitary, and felt an 
 uneasiness in Ham's not being there, disproportionate to the 
 occasion. I was seriously affected, without knowing how much, 
 by late events; and my long exposure to the fierce wind had 
 confused me. There was that jumble in my thoughts and recol- 
 lections, that I had lost the clear arrangement of time and distance. 
 Thus, if I had gone out into the town, I should not have been 
 surprised, I think, to encounter some one who I knew must be 
 then in London. So to speak, there was in these respects a curious 
 inattention in my mind. Yet it was busy, too, with all the re- 
 membrances the place naturally awakened; and they were par- 
 ticularly distinct and vivid. 
 
 In this state, the waiter's dismal intelligence about the ships 
 immediately connected itself, without any effort of my volition, 
 with mv uneasiness about Ham. I was persuaded that I had an 
 apprehension of his returning from Lowestoft by sea, and being 
 lost. This grew so strong with me, that I resolved to go back to 
 the vard before I took my dinner, and ask the boatbuilder if he 
 thought his attempting to return by sea at all likely? If he gave
 
 CHARLES DICKENS 145 
 
 me the least reason to think so, I would go over to Lowestoft and 
 prevent it by bringing him with me. 
 
 I hastily ordered my dinner, and went back to the yard. I was 
 none too soon, for the boatbuilder, with a lantern in his hand, 
 was locking the yard-gate. He quite laughed when I asked him 
 the question, and said there was no fear; no man in his senses, 
 or out of them, would put off in such a gale of wind, least of all 
 Ham Peggotty, who had been born to seafaring. 
 
 So sensible of this, beforehand, that I had really felt ashamed 
 of doing what I was nevertheless impelled to do, I went back to 
 the inn. If such a wind could rise, I think it was rising. The howl 
 and roar, the rattUng of the doors and windows, the rumbling in 
 the chimneys, the apparent rocking of the very house that sheltered 
 me, and the prodigious tumult of the sea, were more fearful than 
 in the morning. But there was now a great darkness besides, and 
 that invested the storm with new terrors, real and fanciful. 
 
 I could not eat, I could not sit still, I could not continue stead- 
 fast to anything. Something within me, faintly answering to the 
 storm without, tossed up the depths of my memor)/', and made a 
 tumult in them. Yet, in all the hurry of my thoughts, wild running 
 with the thundering sea — the storm, and my uneasiness regarding 
 Ham, were always in the foreground. 
 
 My dinner went away almost untasted, and I tried to refresh 
 myself with a glass or two of wine. In vain. I fell into a dull 
 slumber before the fire, without losing my consciousness, either 
 of the uproar out of doors or of the place in which I was. Both 
 became overshadowed by a new and indefinable horror; and when 
 I awoke — or rather when I shook off the lethargy that bound me 
 in my chair — my whole frame thrilled with objectless and un- 
 intelligible fear, 
 
 I walked to and fro; tried to read an old gazetteer; listened to 
 the awful noises; looked at faces, scenes, and figures in the fire. 
 At length, the steady ticking of the undisturbed clock on the wall 
 tormented me to that degree that I resolved to go to bed. 
 
 It was reassuring, on such a nighty to be told that some of the 
 inn-servants had agreed together to sit up until morning. I went 
 to bed, exceedingly weary and heavy; but, on my lying down, 
 all such sensations vanished, as if by magic, and I was broad awake, 
 with every sense refined.
 
 146 CHARLES DICKENS 
 
 For hours I lay there, listening to the wind and water — 
 imagining, now, that I heard shrieks out at sea; now, that I 
 distinctly heard the firing of signal guns; and now, the fall of 
 houses in the town. I got up several times and looked out; but 
 could see nothing, except the reflection in the window-panes of 
 the faint candle I had left burning, and of my own haggard face 
 looking in at me from the black void. 
 
 At length my restlessness attained to such a pitch that I hurried 
 on my clothes, and went downstairs. In the large kitchen, where 
 I dimly saw bacon and ropes of onions hanging from the beams, 
 the watchers were clustered together, in various attitudes, about 
 a table, purposely moved away from the great chimney, and 
 brought near the door. A pretty girl, who had her ears stopped 
 with her apron, and her eyes upon the door, screamed when I 
 appeared, supposing me to be a spirit; but the others had more 
 presence of mind, and were glad of an addition to their company. 
 One man, referring to the topic they had been discussing, asked 
 me whether I thought the souls of the collier-crews who had gone 
 down were out in the storm? 
 
 I remained there, I dare say, two hours. Once, I opened the 
 yard gate, and looked into the empty street. The sand, the sea- 
 weed, and the flakes of foam were driving by, and I was obliged 
 to call for assistance before I could shut the gate again, and make 
 it fast against the wind. 
 
 There was a dark gloom in my solitary chamber when I at 
 length returned to it; but I was tired now, and, getting into bed 
 again, fell — off a tower and down a precipice — into the depths of 
 sleep. I have an impression that for a long time, though I dreamed 
 of being elsewhere and in a variety of scenes, it was always blowing 
 in my dream. At length I lost that feeble hold upon reahty, and 
 was engaged with two dear friends, but who they were I don't 
 know, at the siege of some touTi in a roar of cannonading. 
 
 The thunder of the cannon was so loud and incessant, that I 
 could not hear something I much desired to hear, until I made a 
 great exertion, and awoke. It was broad day — eight or nine 
 o'clock; the storm raging, in lieu of the batteries; and some one 
 knocking and calling at my door. 
 
 "What is the matter?" I cried. 
 
 "A wreck! Close by!"
 
 CHARLES DICKENS 147 
 
 I sprung out of bed, and asked, what wreck? 
 
 "A schooner, from Spain or Portugal, laden with fruit and wine. 
 Make haste, sir, if you want to see her! It's thought, down on 
 the beach, she'll go to pieces every moment." 
 
 The excited voice went clamouring along the staircase; and I 
 wrapped myself in my clothes as quickly as I could, and ran into 
 the street. 
 
 Numbers of people were there before me, all running in one 
 direction — to the beach. I ran the same way, outstripping a good 
 many, and soon came facing the wild sea. 
 
 The wind might by this time have lulled a little, though not 
 more sensibly than if the cannonading I had dreamed of had been 
 diminished by the silencing of half a dozen guns out of hundreds. 
 But the sea, having upon it the additional agitation of the whole 
 night, was infinitely more terrific than when I had seen it last. 
 Ever}' appearance it had then presented bore the expression of 
 being swelled; and the height to which the breakers rose, and, 
 looking over one another, bore one another down, and rolled in, 
 in interminable hosts, was most appalling. 
 
 In the difficulty of hearing anything but wind and waves, and 
 in the crowd, and the unspeakable confusion, and my first breath- 
 less efforts to stand against the weather, I was so confused that 
 I looked out to sea for the wreck, and saw nothing but the foaming 
 heads of the great waves. A half-dressed boatman, standing next 
 me, pointed with his bare arm (a tattooed arrow on it, pointing in 
 the same direction) to the left. Then, great Heaven, I saw it, 
 close in upon us ! 
 
 One mast was broken short off, six or eight feet from the deck, 
 and lay over the side, entangled in a maze of sail and rigging; 
 and all that ruin, as the ship rolled and beat — which she did 
 without a moment's pause, and with a violence quite inconceivable 
 — beat the side as if it would stave it in. Some efforts were even 
 then being made to cut this portion of the wreck away; for, as 
 the ship, which was broadside on, turned towards us in her rolling, 
 I plainly descried her people at work with axes, especially one 
 active figure with long curling hair, conspicuous among the rest. 
 But a great cry, which was audible even above the wind and 
 water, rose from the shore at this moment : the sea, sweeping over 
 the rolling wreck, made a clean breach, and carried men, spars,
 
 148 CHARLES DICKENS 
 
 casks, planks, bulwarks, heaps of such, toys, into the boiling 
 surge. 
 
 The second mast was yet standing, with the rags of a rent sail 
 and a wild confusion of broken cordage flapping to and fro. The 
 ship had struck once, the same boatman hoarsely said in my ear, 
 and then lifted in and struck again. I understood him to add that 
 she was parting amidships; and I could readily suppose so, for 
 the rolUng and beating were too tremendous for any human work 
 to suffer long. As he spoke, there was another great cry of pity 
 from the beach: four men arose with the wreck out of the deep, 
 cHnging to the rigging of the remaining mast — uppermost, the 
 active figure with the curling hair. 
 
 There was a bell on board, and as the ship rolled and dashed, 
 like a desperate creature driven mad, now showing us the whole 
 sweep of her deck, as she turned on her beam-ends towards the 
 shore, now nothing but her keel, as she sprang wildly over and 
 turned towards the sea, the bell rang; and its sound, the knell of 
 those unhappy men, was borne towards us on the wind. Again 
 we lost her, and again she rose. Two men were gone. The agony 
 on shore increased. Men groaned, and clasped their hands; women 
 shrieked, and turned away their faces. Some ran wildly up and down 
 along the beach, crying for help where no help could be. I found 
 myself one of these, frantically imploring a knot of sailors whom 
 I knew not to let those two lost creatures perish before our eyes. 
 
 They were making out to me, in an agitated way — I don't 
 know how, for the little I could hear I was scarcely composed 
 enough to understand — that the lifeboat had been bravely manned 
 an hour ago, and could do nothing; and that as no man would be 
 so desperate as to attempt to wade off with a rope, and establish 
 a communication with the shore, there was nothing left to try; 
 when I noticed that some new sensation moved the people on the 
 beach, and saw them part, and Ham come breaking through them 
 to the front. 
 
 I ran to him, as well as I know, to repeat my appeal for help. 
 But, distracted though I was by a sight so new to me and terrible, 
 the determination in his face, and his look out to sea — exactly 
 the same look as I remembered in connection with the morning 
 after Emily's flight — awoke me to a knowledge of his danger. I held 
 him back with both arms, and implored the men with whom I had
 
 CHARLES DICKENS 149 
 
 been speaking not to listen to him, not to do murder, not to let 
 him stir from off that sand ! 
 
 Another cry arose on shore ; and looking to the wreck, we saw the 
 cruel sail, with blow on blow, beat off the lower of the two men, and 
 fly up in triumph round the active figure left alone upon the mast. 
 
 Against such a sight, and against such determination as that of 
 the calmly-desperate man who was already accustomed to lead 
 half the people present, I might as hopefully have entreated the 
 wind. "Mas'r Davy," he said, cheerily grasping me by both hands, 
 "if my time is come, 'tis come. If 't an't, I'll bide it. Lord above 
 bless you, and bless all ! Mates, make me ready; I'm a-going off ! " 
 
 I was swept away, but not unkindly, to some distance, where 
 the people around me made me stay— urging, as I confusedly 
 perceived, that he was bent on going, with help or without, and 
 that I should endanger the precautions for his safety by troubling 
 those with whom they rested. I don't know what I answered, or 
 what they rejoined ; but I saw hurry on the beach, and men running 
 with ropes from a capstan that was there, and penetrating into a 
 circle of figures that hid him from me. Then I saw him standing 
 alone in a seaman's frock and trousers, a rope in his hand, or 
 slung to his wrist, another round his body; and several of the 
 best men holding, at a little distance, to the latter, which he laid 
 out himself, slack upon the shore, at his feet. 
 
 The wreck, even to my unpractised eye, was breaking up. 
 I saw that she was parting in the middle, and that the life of the 
 solitary man upon the mast hung by a thread. Still, he clung to 
 it. He had a singular red cap on — not like a sailor's cap, but of a 
 finer colour; and as the few yielding planks between him and 
 destruction rolled and bulged, and his anticipative death-knell 
 rung, he was seen by all of us to wave it. I saw him do it now, and 
 thought I was going distracted when his action brought an old 
 remembrance to my mind of a once dear friend. 
 
 Ham watched the sea, standing alone, with the silence of 
 suspended breath behind him, and the storm before, until there 
 was a great retiring wave, when, Avith a backward glance at those 
 who held the rope which was made fast round his body, he dashed 
 in after it, and in a moment was buffeting with the water — rising 
 with the hills, falling with the valleys, lost beneath the foam, then 
 drawn again to land. They hauled in hastily.
 
 150 CHARLES DICKENS 
 
 He was hurt. I saw blood on his face, from where I stood; 
 but he took no thought of that. He seemed hurriedly to give 
 them some directions for leaving him more free — or so I judged 
 from the motion of his arm — and was gone as before. 
 
 And now he made for the wreck, rising with the hills, falling 
 with the valleys, lost beneath the rugged foam, borne in towards 
 the shore, borne on towards the ship, striving hard and valiantly. 
 The distance was nothing, but the power of the sea and wind made 
 the strife deadly. At length he neared the wreck. He was so near 
 that with one more of his vigorous strokes he would be clinging 
 to it — when a high, green, vast hillside of water moving on shore- 
 ward from beyond the ship, he seemed to leap up into it with a 
 mighty bound, and the ship was gone ! 
 
 Some eddying fragments I saw in the sea, as if a mere cask had 
 been broken, in running to the spot where they were hauHng in. 
 Consternation was in every face. They drew him to my very feet 
 — insensible — dead. He was carried to the nearest house, and, no 
 one preventing me now, I remained near him, busy, while every 
 means of restoration were tried; but he had been beaten to death 
 by the great wave, and his generous heart was stilled for ever. 
 
 As I sat beside the bed, when hope was abandoned and all was 
 done, a fisherman, who had known me when Emily and I were 
 children, and ever since, whispered my name at the door. 
 
 "Sir," said he, with tears starting to his weather-beaten face, 
 which, with his trembling lips, was ashy pale, "will you come over 
 yonder .? " 
 
 The old remembrance that had been recalled to me was in his 
 look. I asked him, terror-stricken, leaning on the arm he held 
 out to support me, — 
 
 "Has a body come ashore?" 
 
 He said, "Yes." 
 
 "Do I know it?" I asked then. 
 
 He answered nothing. 
 
 But he led me to the shore. And on that part of it where she 
 and I had looked for shells, two children — on that part of it where 
 some lighter fragments of the old boat, blown down last night, 
 had been scattered by the wind — among the ruins of the home 
 he had wronged — I saw him lying with his head upon his arm, as 
 I had often seen him lie at school.
 
 WORDSWORTH 
 
 William Wordsworth (1770-1850) was born at Cockermouth and educated 
 at Hawkeshead School and at Cambridge. He describes his boyhood days 
 and his life at Cambridge in some fine passages of his autobiographical 
 poem, The Prelude, of which The Simplon Pass and There was a Boy form 
 part. Nutting was at first meant to be included. A volume entitled 
 Lyrical Ballads (1798, enlarged to two volumes in 1800) aroused much ridicule 
 and opposition owing to the simple language of the poems and the lowly 
 character of the subjects — the kind of poetry then in fashion being very artifi- 
 cial and ornamented. Wordsworth's best short poems and sonnets, full of 
 noble thought and great beauty, are among the finest in our tongue. 
 His longest poem is The Excursion. 
 
 NUTTING 
 
 It seems a day 
 (I speak of one from many singled out) 
 One of those heavenly days that cannot die; 
 When, in the eagerness of boyish hope, 
 I left our cottage-threshold, sallying forth 
 With a huge wallet o'er my shoulders slung, 
 A nutting-crook in hand; and turned my steps 
 Tow'rd some far-distant wood, a Figure quaint. 
 Tricked out in proud disguise of cast-off weeds 
 Which for that service had been husbanded. 
 By exhortation of my frugal Dame — 
 Motley accoutrement, of power to smile 
 At thorns, and brakes, and brambles, — and in truth 
 More ragged than need was ! O'er pathless rocks, 
 Through beds of matted fern, and tangled thickets, 
 Forcing my way, I came to one dear nook 
 Unvisited, where not a broken bough 
 Drooped with its withered leaves, ungracious sign 
 Of devastation ; but the hazels rose 
 Tall and erect, with tempting clusters hung, 
 A virgin scene ! — ^A little while I stood, 
 Breathing with such suppression of the heart 
 x\s joy delights in; and with wise restraint 
 Voluptuous, fearless of a rival, eyed
 
 152 WORDSWORTH 
 
 The banquet; — or beneath the trees I sate 
 
 Among the flowers, and with the flowers I played; 
 
 A temper known to those who, after long 
 
 And weary expectation, have been blest 
 
 With sudden happiness beyond all hope. 
 
 Perhaps it was a bower beneath whose leaves 
 
 The violets of five seasons re-appear 
 
 And fade, unseen by any human eye; 
 
 \\'liere fairy water-breaks do murmur on 
 
 For ever; and I saw the sparkling foam. 
 
 And — v^nth my cheek on one of those green stones 
 
 That, fleeced with moss, under the shady trees, 
 
 Lay round me, scattered like a flock of sheep — 
 
 I heard the murmur and the murmuring sound, 
 
 In that sweet mood when pleasure loves to pay 
 
 Tribute to ease; and, of its joy secure. 
 
 The heart luxuriates with indifferent things, 
 
 Wasting its kindliness on stocks and stones. 
 
 And on the vacant air. Then up I rose. 
 
 And dragged to earth both branch and bough, with crash 
 
 And merciless ravage: and the shady nook 
 
 Of hazels, and the green and mossy bower, 
 
 Deformed and sullied, patiently gave up 
 
 Their quiet being: and unless I now 
 
 Confound my present feelings with the past. 
 
 Ere from the mutilated bower I turned 
 
 Exulting, rich beyond the wealth of kings, 
 
 I felt a sense of pain when I beheld 
 
 The silent trees, and saw the intruding sky. — 
 
 Then, dearest Maiden, move along these shades 
 
 In gentleness of heart; with gentle hand 
 
 Touch — for there is a spirit in the woods. 
 
 THERE WAS A BOY 
 
 There was a Boy; ye knew him well, ye cliffs 
 And islands of Winander ! — many a time. 
 At evening, when the earliest stars began 
 To move along the edges of the hills.
 
 „ - '*^ 
 
 '^^ i 
 
 •-.aS~^. 
 
 ;.J»^, ■" 
 
 \ 
 
 I I
 
 SIMPLON PASS 
 Turner
 
 WORDSWORTH 153 
 
 Rising or setting, would he stand alone, 
 
 Beneath the trees, or by the glimmering lake; 
 
 And there, with fingers interwoven, both hands 
 
 Pressed closely palm to pahn and to his mouth 
 
 Uplifted, he, as through an instrument. 
 
 Blew mimic hootings to the silent owls. 
 
 That they might answer him.— And they would shout 
 
 Across the watery vale, and shout again 
 
 Responsive to his call, — with quivering peals, 
 
 And long halloos, and screams, and echoes loud 
 
 Redoubled and redoubled; concourse wild 
 
 Of jocund din ! And, when there came a pause 
 
 Of silence such as baffled his best skill: 
 
 Then sometimes, in that silence, while he hung 
 
 Listening, a gentle shock of mild surprise 
 
 Has carried far into his heart the voice 
 
 Of mountain-torrents; or the visible scene 
 
 Would enter unawares into his mind 
 
 With all its solemn imagery, its rocks. 
 
 Its woods, and that uncertain heaven received 
 
 Into the bosom of the steady lake.... 
 
 THE SIMPLON PASS 
 
 Brook and road 
 Were fellow-travellers in this gloomy Pass, 
 And with them did we journey several hours 
 At a slow step. The immeasurable height 
 Of woods decaying, never to be decayed, 
 The stationary blasts of waterfalls. 
 And in the narrow rent, at every turn, 
 Winds thwarting viands bewildered and forlorn. 
 The torrents shooting from the clear blue sky. 
 The rocks that muttered close upon our ears. 
 Black drizzling crags that spake by the wayside 
 As if a voice were in them, the sick sight 
 And giddy prospect of the raving stream. 
 The unfettered clouds and region of the heavens.
 
 154 WORDSWORTH 
 
 Tumult and peace, the darkness and the light — 
 
 Were all like workings of one mind, the features 
 
 Of the same face, blossoms upon one tree, 
 
 Characters of the great Apocalypse, 
 
 The types and symbols of Eternity, 
 
 Of first, and last, and midst, and without end. 
 
 BENJAMIN DISRAELI 
 
 Benjamin Disraeli (1804-81) was born in London. The boy came of Jewish 
 race but was baptised in the Christian faith. He began writing novels at an 
 early age, and gained much notice for his rather affected manner of writing 
 and his very elaborate costumes. He was greatly influenced by a year of 
 travel in Southern Europe and the East. As he grew older his style of writing 
 improved, and his best work is brilhant and witty. He was already famous 
 as a "dandy" and a novelist when he entered parliament in 1837. His 
 Jewish blood, his affected manners and his foreign appearance were all 
 obstacles to success in politics: but beneath his affectations and his languid 
 manner he concealed high spirit, courage and a powerful will, which he 
 steadily exerted till he forced his way into the front rank of statesmen. 
 He became Chancellor of the Exchequer and was twice Prime Minister. He 
 received the title "Earl of Beaconsfield" in 1876. His best novels are 
 Coningsby, Sybil, Henrietta Temple, Lothair and Endymion. The passage 
 that follows is taken from Coningsby. 
 
 CONINGSBY AND SIDONIA 
 
 There are few things more full of delight and splendour, than 
 to travel during the heat of a refulgent summer in the green 
 district of some ancient forest. 
 
 In one of our midland counties, there is a region of this character, 
 to which during a season of peculiar lustre we would introduce 
 the reader. 
 
 It was a fragment of one of those vast sylvan tracts wherein 
 Norman kings once hunted, and Saxon outlaws plundered; and 
 although the plough had for centuries successfully invaded brake 
 and bower, the relics retained all their original character of wild- 
 ness and seclusion. Sometimes the green earth was thickly 
 studded with groves of huge and vigorous oaks, intersected with 
 those smooth and sunny glades that seem as if they must be cut 
 for dames and knights to saunter on. Then again the undulating 
 ground spread on all sides, far as the eye could range, covered
 
 BENJAMIN DISRAELI 155 
 
 with copse and fern of immense growth. Anon, you found yourself 
 in a turfy wilderness girt in apparently by dark woods. And when 
 you had wound your way a little through this gloomy belt, the 
 landscape, still strictly sylvan, would beautifully expand with 
 every combination and variety of woodland; while in its centre, 
 the wild foM^l covered the waters of a lake, and the deer basked 
 on the knolls that abounded on its banks. 
 
 It was in the month of August, some six or seven years ago, 
 that a traveller on foot, touched as he emerged from the dark 
 wood by the beauty of this scene, threw himself under the shade 
 of a spreading tree, and stretched his limbs on the turf for enjoy- 
 ment rather than repose. The sky was deep coloured and without 
 a cloud, save here and there a minute, sultry, burnished vapour, 
 almost as glossy as the heavens. Everything was as still as it 
 was bright. All seemed brooding and basking. The bee upon its 
 wing was the only stirring sight, and its song the only sound. 
 
 The traveller fell into a reverie. He was young, and therefore 
 his musings were of the future. He had felt the pride of learning, 
 so ennobling to youth; he was not a stranger to the stirring 
 impulses of a high ambition, though the world to him was as yet 
 only a world of books, and all that he knew of the schemes of 
 statesmen and the passions of the people were to be found in their 
 annals. Often had his fitful fancy dwelt with fascination on 
 visions of personal distinction, of future celebrity, perhaps even 
 of enduring fame. But his dreams were of another colour now. 
 The surrounding scene, so fair, so still, and sweet; so abstracted 
 from all the tumult of the world, its strife, its passions, and its 
 cares; had fallen on his heart with its soft and subduing spirit: 
 had fallen on a heart still pure and innocent; the heart of one, 
 who, notwithstanding all his high resolves and daring thoughts, 
 was blessed with that tenderness of soul which is sometimes 
 linked with an ardent imagination and a strong will. The traveller 
 was an orphan; more than that— a solitary orphan. The sweet 
 sedulousness of a mother's love, a sister's mystical affection, had 
 not cultivated his early susceptibility. No soft pathos of expres- 
 sion had appealed to his childish ear. He was alone, among 
 strangers, calmly and coldly kind. It must indeed have been a 
 truly gentle disposition that could have withstood such hard 
 neglect. All that he knew of the power of the softer passions might
 
 156 BENJAMIN DISRAELI 
 
 be found in the fanciful and romantic annals of school-boy friend- 
 ship. 
 
 And those friends too, so fond, so sympathising, so devoted, 
 where were they now? Already they were dispersed. The first 
 great separation of life had been experienced. The former school- 
 boy had planted his foot on the threshold of manhood. True, 
 many of them might meet again. Many of them the University 
 must again unite. But never with the same feelings. The space 
 of time, passed in the world before they again met, would be an 
 age of sensation, passion, experience to all of them. They would 
 meet again with altered mien; with different manners, different 
 voices. Their eyes would not shine with the same light; they 
 would not speak the same words. The favourite phrases of their 
 intimacy, the mystic sounds that spoke only to their initiated 
 ear, they would be ashamed to use them. Yes! they might meet 
 again; but the gushing and secret tenderness was gone for ever. 
 
 Nor could our pensive youth conceal it from himself that it was 
 affection, and mainly affection, that had bound him to these dear 
 companions. They could not be to him what he had been to them. 
 His had been the inspiring mind that had guided their opinions, 
 formed their tastes, directed the bent and tenor of their lives 
 and thoughts. Often indeed had he needed, sometimes indeed he 
 had sighed for the companionship of an equal, or superior mind; 
 one who by the comprehension of his thought, and the richness 
 of his knowledge, and the advantage of his experience, might 
 strengthen and illuminate and guide his obscure or hesitating or 
 unpractised intelligence. He had scarcely been fortunate in this 
 respect, and he deeply regretted it; for he was one of those who 
 was not content with excelling in his own circle, if he thought there 
 was one superior to it. Absolute, not relative distinction, was his 
 noble aim. 
 
 Alone, in a lonely scene, he doubly felt the solitude of his life 
 and mind. His heart and his intellect seemed both to need a 
 companion. Books, and action, and deep thought, might in time 
 supply the want of that intellectual guide; but for the heart 
 where was he to find solace? 
 
 Ah ! if she would but come forth from that shining lake like 
 a beautiful Ondine ! Ah ! if she would but step out from the green 
 shade of that secret grove like a Dry^ad of sylvan Greece! O!
 
 BENJAMIN DISRAELI 157 
 
 mystery of mysteries ! when the youth dreams his first dream over 
 some imaginary heroine ! 
 
 Suddenly the brooding wild-fowl rose from the bosom of the 
 lake, soared in the air, and uttering mournful shrieks, whirled in 
 agitated tumult. The deer started from their knolls, no longer 
 sunny, stared around, and rushed into the woods. Coningsby 
 raised his eyes from the turf on wiiich they had been long fixed 
 in abstraction, and he observed that the azure sky had vanished, 
 a thin white film had suddenly spread itself over the heavens, 
 and the wind moaned with a sad and fitful gust. 
 
 He had some reason to believe that on the other side of the 
 opposite wood, the forest was intersected by a public road, and 
 that there were some habitations. Immediately rising, he descended 
 at a rapid pace into the valley, passed the lake, and then struck 
 into the ascending wood of the bank opposite to that on which he 
 had mused away some precious time. 
 
 The wind howled, the branches of the forest stirred, and sent 
 forth sounds hke an incantation. Soon might be distinguished 
 the various voices of the mighty trees, as they expressed their 
 terror or their agony. The oak roared, the beech shrieked, the 
 elm sent forth its deep and long-drawn groan ; while ever and anon, 
 amid a momentar)/- pause, the passion of the ash was heard in 
 moans of thrilling anguish. 
 
 Coningsby hurried on, the forest became less close. All that he 
 aspired to was to gain more open country. Now he was in a rough 
 flat land covered only here and there with some dwarf underwood; 
 the horizon bounded at no great distance by a barren hill of 
 moderate elevation. He gained its height with ease. He looked 
 over a vast open country, like a wild common; in the extreme 
 distance hills covered with woods; the plain intersected by two good 
 roads; the sky entirely clouded, but in the distance black as ebony. 
 
 A place of refuge too was at hand : screened from his first glance 
 by some ekn trees, the ascending smoke now betrayed a roof 
 which Coningsby reached before the tempest broke. The forest 
 inn was also a farm-house. There was a comfortable-enough- 
 looking kitchen; but the ingle nook was full of smokers, and 
 Coningsby was glad to avail himself of the only private room for 
 the simple meal which they offered him. Only eggs and bacon; 
 but very welcome to a pedestrian, and a hungry one.
 
 158 BENJAMIN DISRAELI 
 
 As he stood at the window of his little apartment, watching 
 the large drops that were the heralds of a coming hurricane, 
 and waiting for his repast, a flash of lightning illumined the 
 whole country, and a horseman at full speed, followed by his 
 groom, galloped up to the door. 
 
 The remarkable beauty of the animal so attracted Coningsby's 
 attention, that it prevented him catching even a gHmpse of the 
 rider, who rapidly dismounted and entered the inn. The host 
 shortly after came in and asked Coningsby whether he had any 
 objection to a gentleman, who was driven there by the storm, 
 sharing his room until it subsided. The consequence of the 
 immediate assent of Coningsby was, that the landlord retired and 
 soon returned ushering in an individual, who though perhaps ten 
 years older than Coningsby, was still, according to Hippocrates, 
 in the period of lusty youth. He was above the middle height, 
 and of a distinguished air and figure; pale, with an impressive 
 brow, and dark eyes of great intelligence. 
 
 "I am glad that we have both escaped the storm," said the 
 stranger; "and I am greatly indebted to you for your courtesy." 
 He slightly and graciously bowed as he spoke in a voice of re- 
 markable clearness; and his manner, though easy, was touched 
 with a degree of dignity that was engaging. 
 
 "The inn is a common home," repUed Coningsby, returning 
 his salute. 
 
 "And free from cares," added the stranger. Then looking 
 through the window, he said: "A strange storm this. I was 
 sauntering in the sunshine, when suddenly I found I had to gallop 
 for my life. 'Tis more like a white squall in the Mediterranean 
 than anything else." 
 
 "I never was in the Mediterranean," said Coningsby. "There is 
 nothing that I should like so much as to travel." 
 
 "You are travelling," rejoined his companion. "Every move- 
 ment is travel, if understood." 
 
 "Ah! but the Mediterranean!" exclaimed Coningsby. "What 
 would I not give to see Athens ! " 
 
 "I have seen it," said the stranger, slightly shrugging his 
 shoulders; "and more wonderful things. Phantoms and spectres! 
 The Age of Ruins is past. Have you seen Manchester? " 
 
 "I have seen nothing," said Coningsby; "this is my first
 
 BENJAMIN DISRAELI 159 
 
 wandering. I am about to visit a friend who lives in this county, 
 and I have sent on my baggage as I could. For myself, I deter- 
 mined to trust to a less common-place conveyance." 
 
 "And seek adventures," said the stranger, smiling. "Well, 
 according to Cervantes, they should begin in an inn." 
 
 "I fear that the age of adventures is past, as well as that of 
 ruins," replied Coningsby. 
 
 "Adventures are to the adventurous," said the stranger. 
 
 At this moment, a pretty serving-maid entered the room. She 
 laid the dapper cloth and arranged the table with a self-possession 
 quite admirable. She seemed unconscious that any being was in 
 the chamber except herself, or that there were any other duties to 
 perform in life beyond filling a salt-cellar or folding a napkin, 
 
 "She does not even look at us," said Coningsby when she had 
 quitted the room; "and I dare say is only a prude." 
 
 "She is calm," said the stranger, "because she is mistress of her 
 subject; 'tis the secret of self-possession. She is here, as a Duchess 
 at Court." 
 
 They brought in Coningsby's meal, and he invited the stranger 
 to join him. The invitation was accepted with cheerfulness. 
 
 " 'Tis but simple fare," said Coningsby, as the maiden uncovered 
 the still hissing bacon and the eggs that looked like tufts of prim- 
 roses. 
 
 "Nay, a national dish," said the stranger, glancing quickly at 
 the table, "whose fame is a proverb. And what more should we 
 expect under a simple roof ! How much better than an omelette 
 or a greasy oUa, that they would give us in a posada! 'Tis a 
 wonderful country this England ! What a napkin ! How spotless ! 
 And so sweet, I declare 'tis a perfume. There is not a princess 
 throughout the South of Europe served with the cleanliness that 
 meets us in this cottage." 
 
 "An inheritance from our Saxon fathers?" said Coningsby. 
 " I apprehend the northern nations have a greater sense of cleanU- 
 ness — of propriety — of what we call comfort ? " 
 
 "By no means," said the stranger, "the East is the land of the 
 Bath. Moses and Mahomet made cleanhness religion." 
 
 "You will let me help you," said Coningsby, offering him a 
 plate which he had filled. 
 
 "I thank you," said the stranger, "but it is one of my bread
 
 i6o BENJAMIN DISRAELI 
 
 days. With your permission this shall be my dish," and he cut 
 from the large loaf a supply of crusts. 
 
 '"Tis but unsavoury fare after a gallop," said Coningsby. 
 
 "Ah! you are proud of your bacon and your eggs," said the 
 stranger, smiling; "but I love corn and wine. They are our chief 
 and our oldest luxuries. Time has brought us substitutes, but 
 how inferior ! Man has deified corn and wine ! but not even the 
 Chinese or the Irish have raised temples to tea and potatoes." 
 
 "But Ceres without Bacchus," said Coningsby, "how does that 
 do? Think you, under this roof we could invoke the god?" 
 
 "Let us swear by his body that we will try," said the stranger. 
 
 Alas ! the landlord was not a priest of Bacchus, But then these 
 inquiries led to the finest perry in the world. The young men 
 agreed they had seldom tasted anything more dehcious; they 
 sent for another bottle. Coningsby, who was much interested by 
 his new companion, enjoyed himself amazingly. 
 
 A cheese, such as Derby can alone produce, could not induce 
 the stranger to be even partially inconstant to his crusts. But his 
 talk was as vivacious, as if the talker had been stimulated by the 
 juices of the finest banquet. Coningsby had never met or read 
 of any one like this chance companion. His sentences were so 
 short, his language so racy, his voice rang so clear, his elocution 
 was so complete. On all subjects his mind seemed to be instructed, 
 and his opinions formed. He flung out a result in a few words; 
 he solved with a phrase some deep problem that men muse over 
 for years. He said many things that were strange, yet they 
 immediately appeared to be true. Then, without the slightest 
 air of pretension or parade, he seemed to know everybody as well 
 as everything. Monarchs, statesmen, authors, adventurers of all 
 descriptions and of all climes — if their names occurred in the 
 conversation, he described them in an epigrammatic sentence, or 
 revealed their precise position, character, calibre, by a curt 
 dramatic trait. All this, too, without anv excitement of manner; 
 on the contrary .with repose amounting almost to nonchalance. 
 If his address had a fault in it, it was rather a deficiency of earnest- 
 ness. A slight spirit of mockery played over his speech even when 
 you deemed him most serious; you were startled by his sudden 
 transitions from profound thought to poignant sarcasm. A very 
 singular freedom from passion and prejudice on every topic on
 
 BENJAMIN DISRAELI i6i 
 
 which they treated might be some compensation for this want of 
 earnestness; perhaps was its consequence. Certainly it was difficult 
 to ascertain his precise opinions on many subjects, though his 
 manner was frank even to abandonment. And yet throughout 
 his whole conversation, not a stroke of egotism, not a word, not a 
 circumstance, escaped him by which you could judge of his position 
 or purposes in life. As little did he seem to care to discover those 
 of his companion. He did not by any means monopolise the 
 conversation. Far from it; he continually asked questions, and 
 while he received answers, or had engaged his fellow traveller in 
 any exposition of his opinions or feelings, he listened with a 
 serious and fixed attention, looking Coningsby in the face with a 
 steadfast glance. 
 
 "I perceive," said Coningsby, pursuing a train of thought 
 which the other had indicated, "that you have great confidence 
 in the influence of individual character. I also have some confused 
 persuasions of that kind. But it is not the Spirit of the Age." 
 
 "The age does not believe in great men, because it does not 
 possess any," replied the stranger. "The Spirit of the Age is the 
 very thing that a great man changes." 
 
 "But does not he rather avail hirnself of it?" incjlliired 
 Coningsbv. 
 
 "Parvenus do," rejoined his companion; "but not prophets, 
 great legislators, great conquerors. They destroy and they 
 create." 
 
 " But are these times for great legislators and great conquerors ? " 
 urged Coningsby. 
 
 "When were they more wanted?" asked the stranger. "From 
 the throne to the hovel all call for a guide. You give monarchs 
 constitutions to teach them sovereignty, and nations Sunday- 
 schools to inspire them with faith." 
 
 "But what is an individual," exclaimed Coningsby, "against a 
 vast pubhc opinion ? " 
 
 "Divine," said the stranger. "God made man in his own image; 
 but the Public is made by Newspapers, Members of Parliament, 
 Excise Officers, Poor Law Guardians. Would Philip have suc- 
 ceeded, if Epaminondas had not been slain? And if Phihp had 
 not succeeded? Would Prussia have existed had Frederick not 
 been born ? And if Frederick had not been born ? What would have
 
 i62 BENJAMIN DISRAELI 
 
 been the fate of the Stuarts if Prince Henry had not died, and 
 Charles I, as was intended, had been Archbishop of Canterbury?" 
 
 "But when men are young, they want experience," said 
 Coningsby; "and when they have gained experience, they want 
 energy." 
 
 "Great men never want experience," said the stranger. 
 
 " But everybody says that experience " 
 
 "Is the best thing in the world — a treasure for you, for me, for 
 millions. But for a creative mind, less than nothing. Almost 
 everything that is great has been done by youth." 
 
 "It is at least a creed flattering to our years," said Coningsby 
 with a smile. 
 
 "Nay," said the stranger; "for life in general there is but 
 one decree. Youth is a blunder; Manhood a struggle; old Age a 
 regret. Do not suppose," he added, smiling, "that I hold that 
 youth is genius; all that I say is, that genius, when young, is 
 divine. Why, the greatest captains of ancient and modern times 
 both conquered Italy at five and twenty ! Youth, extreme youth, 
 overthrew the Persian Empire. Don John of Austria won Lepanto 
 at twenty-five — the greatest battle of modern time; had it not 
 been *f or the jealousy of Philip, the next year he would have been 
 Emperor of Mauritania. Gaston de Foix was only twenty-two 
 when he stood a victor on the plain of Ravenna. Every one 
 remembers Conde and Rocroy at the same age. Gusta vus Adolphus 
 died at thirty-eight. Look at his captains: that wonderful Duke 
 of Weimar, only thirty-six when he died. Banier himself, after 
 all his miracles, died at forty-five. Cortes was little more than 
 thirty when he gazed upon the golden cupolas of Mexico. When 
 Maurice of Saxony died at thirty-two, all Europe acknowledged 
 the loss of the greatest captain and the profoundest statesman of 
 the age. Then there is Nelson, Clive — but these are warriors, and 
 perhaps you may think there are greater things than war. I do 
 not; I worship the Lord of Hosts. But take the most illustrious 
 achievements of civil prudence. Innocent III, the greatest of the 
 Popes, was the despot of Christendom at thirty-seven. John de 
 Medici was a Cardinal at fifteen, and Guicciardini tells us baffled 
 with his statecraft Ferdinand of Aragon himself. He was Pope 
 as Leo X at thirty-seven. Luther robbed even him of his richest 
 province at thirty-five. Take Ignatius Loyola and John Wesley,
 
 BENJAMIN DISRAELI 163 
 
 they worked with young brains. Ignatius was only thirty when 
 he made his pilgrimage and wrote the 'Spiritual Exercises.' 
 Pascal wrote a great work at sixteen, the greatest of Frenchmen, 
 and died at thirty-seven ! 
 
 "Ah! that fatal thirty-seven, which reminds me of Byron, 
 greater even as a man than a writer. Was it experience that 
 guided the pencil of Raphael when he painted the palaces of 
 Rome ! He died too at thirty-seven. Richelieu was Secretary of 
 State at thirty-one. Well then, there are Bolingbroke and Pitt, 
 both Ministers before other men leave off cricket. Grotius was in 
 great practice at seventeen, and Attorney-General at twenty-four, 
 and Acquaviva — ^Acquaviva was General of the Jesuits, ruled 
 every cabinet in Europe, and colonised America before he was 
 thirty-seven. What a career!" exclaimed the stranger, rising 
 from his chair and walking up and down the room, "the secret 
 sway of Europe ! That was indeed a position ! But it is needless 
 to multiply instances. The history of Heroes is the history of 
 Youth." 
 
 "Ah ! " said Coningsby, " I should like to be a great man ! " 
 
 The stranger threw at him a scrutinising glance. His counten- 
 ance was serious. He said in a voice of almost solemn melody: 
 
 "Nurture your mind with great thoughts. To beheve in the 
 heroic makes heroes." 
 
 "You seem to me a hero," said Coningsby in a tone of real 
 feeling, which, half-ashamed of his emotion, he tried to turn into 
 playfulness. 
 
 "I am, and must ever be," said the stranger, "but a dreamer 
 of dreams." Then going towards the window and changing into 
 a familiar tone, as if to divert the conversation, he added: "What 
 a delicious afternoon ! I look forward to my ride with delight. 
 You rest here ? " 
 
 "No; I go on to Nottingham, where I shall sleep." 
 
 "And I in the opposite direction." And he rang the bell and 
 ordered his horses. 
 
 "I long to see your mare again," said Coningsby. "She seemed 
 to me so beautiful." 
 
 "She is not only of pure race," said the stranger, "but of the 
 highest and rarest breed in Arabia. Her name is the 'Daughter 
 of the Star.' She is a foal of that famous mare which belonged to
 
 i64 BENJAMIN DISRAELI 
 
 the Prince of the Wahabees; and to possess which, I beHeve, was 
 one of the principal causes of war between that tribe and the 
 Egyptians. The Pacha of Egypt gave her to me, and I would not 
 cliange her for her statue in pure gold, even carved by Lysippus. 
 Come round to the stable and see her." 
 
 They went out together. It was a soft sunny afternoon; the 
 air fresh from the rain, but mild and exhilarating. 
 
 The groom brought forth the mare. The "Daughter of the 
 Star" stood before Coningsby with her sinewy shape of matchless 
 symmetry; her burnished skin, black mane, legs like those of an 
 antelope, her little ears, dark speaking eye, and tail worthy of a 
 pacha. And who was her master, and whither was she about to 
 take him ? 
 
 Coningsby was so naturally well-bred, that we may be sure it 
 was not curiosity; no, it was a finer feeling that made him hesitate 
 and think a little, and then say: 
 
 "I am sorry to part." 
 
 "I also," said the stranger. "But life is constant separation." 
 
 "I hope we may meet again," said Coningsby. 
 
 "If our acquaintance be worth preserving," said the stranger, 
 "you may be sure it will not be lost." 
 
 "But mine is not worth preserving," said Coningsby earnestly. 
 "It is yours that is the treasure. You teach me things of which I 
 have long mused." 
 
 The stranger took the bridle of the "Daughter of the Star," and 
 turning round with a faint smile, extended his hand to his com- 
 panion. 
 
 "Your mind at least is nurtured with great thoughts," said 
 Coningsby, "your actions should be heroic." 
 
 "Action is not for me," said the stranger, "I am of that faith 
 that the Apostles professed before they followed their Master." 
 
 He vaulted into his saddle, the "Daughter of the Star" bounded 
 away as if she scented the air of the desert from which she and 
 her rider had ahke sprung, and Coningsby remained in profound 
 meditation.
 
 
 w 
 a 
 Q .S 
 
 h c 
 
 c/o o 
 
 i5
 
 WORDSWORTH 
 
 Composed upon Westminster Bridge, Sept. 2, i8o2. 
 Earth has not anything to show more fair: 
 Dull would he be of soul who could pass by 
 A sight so touching in its majesty: 
 This City now doth, like a garment, wear 
 The beauty of the morning; silent, bare, 
 Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie 
 Open unto the fields, and to the sky; 
 All bright and glittering in the smokeless air. 
 Never did sun more beautifully steep 
 In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill; 
 Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep ! 
 The river glideth at his own sweet will : 
 Dear God ! the very houses seem asleep; 
 And all that mighty heart is lying still! 
 
 MILTON 
 
 John Milton (1608-74) was born in London and educated at St Paul's 
 School and Cambridge. His careful studies made him one of the most learned 
 men of his time. L' Allegro, II Penseroso, Comus and Lycidas are among his 
 beautiful earlier poems. He spent many months travelling in Italy, and 
 when he returned to England he wrote pamphlets on the side of the parlia- 
 ment. In middle life he became totally blind, and to this trouble was added 
 the danger that threatened him when the puritan cause was overthrown 
 and Charles II became king. It was during his blindness and distress that 
 Paradise Lost, the greatest of his poems, was written. Milton died in London, 
 and was buried at St Giles's, Cripplegate. 
 
 ON HIS BLINDNESS 
 When I consider how my light is spent. 
 Ere half my days in this dark world and wide. 
 And that one talent which is death to hide 
 Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent 
 
 To serve therewith my Maker, and present 
 My true account, lest He returning chide; 
 'Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?' 
 I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent
 
 i66 MILTON 
 
 That murmur, soon replies, ' God doth not need 
 Either man's work or His own gifts. Who best 
 Bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best. His state 
 
 Is kingly: thousands at His bidding speed 
 And post o'er land and ocean without rest; 
 They also serve who only stand and wait.' 
 
 THE BLINDNESS OF SAMSON 
 
 (From Samson Agonistes) 
 
 But, chief of all, 
 loss of sight, of thee I most com^plain ! 
 Blind among enemies ! Oh worse than chains. 
 Dungeon, or beggary, or decrepit age ! 
 Light, the prime work of God, to me is extinct. 
 And all her various objects of delight 
 Annull'd, which might in part my grief have eased, 
 Inferior to the vilest now become 
 Of man or worm; the vilest here excel me: 
 They creep, they see; I, dark in light, exposed 
 To daily fraud, contempt, abuse, and wrong, 
 Within doors, or without, still as a fool, 
 In power of others, never in my own ; 
 Scarce half I seem to live, dead more than half. 
 O dark, dark, dark, amid the blaze of noon. 
 Irrecoverably darlc, total eclipse 
 Without all hope of day! 
 O first-created beam, and thou great Word, 
 "Let there be light," and light was over all, 
 Wliy am I thus bereaved thy prime decree ? 
 The Sun to me is dark 
 And silent as the Moon, 
 When she deserts the night. 
 Hid in her vacant interlunar cave.
 
 MILTON 167 
 
 ON HIS BLINDNESS 
 
 (From Paradise Lost) 
 
 Hail, holy Light, offspring of Heaven first born ! . . . 
 
 Thee I revisit now with bolder wing. . . 
 
 And feel thy vital sovran lamp; but thou 
 
 Revisit'st not these eyes, that roll in vain 
 
 To find thy piercing ray, and find no dawn ; 
 
 So thick a drop serene hath quencht their orbs. 
 
 Or dim suffusion veil'd. Yet not the more 
 
 Cease I to wander where the Muses haunt 
 
 Clear spring, or shady grove, or sunny hill, 
 
 Smit with the love of sacred song; but chief 
 
 Thee, Sion, and the flowery brooks beneath. 
 
 That wash thy hallow'd feet, and warbhng flow, 
 
 Nightly I visit . . . 
 
 Then feed on thoughts that voluntary move 
 
 Harmonious numbers; as the wakeful bird 
 
 Sings darkling, and, in shadiest covert hid 
 
 Tunes her nocturnal note. Thus with the year 
 
 Seasons return; but not to me returns 
 
 Day, or the sweet approach of even or morn. 
 
 Or sight of vernal bloom, or summer's rose. 
 
 Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine; 
 
 But cloud instead and ever-during dark 
 
 Surrounds me, from the cheerful ways of men 
 
 Cut off, and, for the book of knowledge fair. 
 
 Presented with a universal blank 
 
 Of Nature's works, to me expunged and rased. 
 
 And wisdom at one entrance quite shut out. 
 
 So much the rather thou, celestial Light, 
 
 Shine inward, and the mind through all her powers 
 
 Irradiate: there plant eyes, all mist from thence 
 
 Purge and disperse, that I may see and tell 
 
 Of things invisible to mortal sight.
 
 ARNOLD BENNETT 
 
 Arnold Bennett is the author of The Old Wives' Tale, Clayhanger, Hilda 
 Lesstvays, What the Public Wants, The Great Adventure and many other 
 novels, plays and essays. The following sketch of child labour in the days 
 before humane laws prevented such slavery is taken from Clayhanger. 
 
 THE BOY MAN 
 
 The earliest memory of Darius Clayhanger had to do with the 
 capital letters Q.W. and S. Even as the first steam-printer in 
 Bursley, even as the father of a son who had received a thoroughly 
 sound middle-class education, he never noticed a capital Q.W. or 
 S without recalling the widow Susan's school, where he had 
 wonderingly learnt the significance of those complicated characters. 
 The school consisted of the entire ground floor of her cottage, 
 namely, one room, of which the far corner was occupied by a 
 tiny winding staircase that led to the ancient widow's bedchamber. 
 The furniture comprised a few low forms for scholars, a table, and 
 a chair; and there were some brilliant coloured prints on the 
 whitewashed walls. At this school Darius acquired a knowledge 
 of the alphabet, and from the alphabet passed to Reading-Made- 
 Easy, and then to the Bible. He made such progress that the 
 widow soon singled him out for honour. He was allowed the high 
 and envied privilege of raking the ashes from under the fire-place 
 and carrying them to the ash-pit, which ash-pit was vast and 
 lofty, being the joint production of many cottages. To reach 
 the summit of the ash-pit, and thence to fling backwards down its 
 steep sides all assailants who challenged your supremacy, was a 
 precious joy. The battles of the ash-pit, however, were not battle* 
 of giants, as no children had leisure for ash-carrying after the age 
 of seven. A still greater honour accorded to Darius was permission 
 to sit, during lessons, on the topmost visible step of the winding 
 stair. The widow Susan, having taught Darius to read brilliantly, 
 taught him to knit, and he would knit stockings for his father, 
 mother, and sister. 
 
 At the age of seven, his education being complete, he was 
 summoned into the world. It is true that he could neither write
 
 ARNOLD BENNETT 169 
 
 nor deal with the multipHcation table; but there were always 
 night-schools which studious adults of seven and upwards might 
 attend if business permitted. Further, there was the Sunday 
 school, which Darius had joyously frequented since the age of 
 three, and which he had no intention of leaving. As he grew older 
 the Sunday school became more and more enchanting to him. 
 Sunday morning was the morning which he lived for during six 
 days; it was the morning when his hair was brushed and combed, 
 and perfumed with a delightful oil, whose particular fragrance he 
 remembered throughout his life. At Sunday school he was petted 
 and caressed. His success at Sunday school was shining. He 
 passed over the heads of bigger boys, and at the age of six he was 
 in a Bible class. 
 
 Upon hearing that Darius was going out into the world, the 
 superintendent of the Sunday school, a grave whiskered young 
 man of perhaps thirty, led him one morning out of the body of 
 the Primitive Methodist Chapel which served as schoolroom before 
 and after chapel service, up into the deserted gallery of the chapel, 
 and there seated him on a stair, and knelt on the stair below him, 
 and caressed his head, and called him a good boy, and presented 
 him with an old battered Bible. This volume was the most 
 valuable thing that Darius had ever possessed. He ran all the 
 way home with it, half suffocated by his triumph. Sunday-school 
 prizes had not then been invented. The young superintendent of 
 the Sundav school was Mr Shushions. 
 
 The man Darius was first taken to work by his mother. It was 
 the winter of 1835, January, They passed through the market- 
 place of the town of Turnhill, where they lived. Turnhill lies a 
 couple of miles north of Bursley. One side of the market-place 
 was barricaded with stacks of coal, and the other with loaves of a 
 species of rye and straw bread. This coal and these loaves were 
 being served out by meticulous and haughty officials, all invisibly 
 braided with red-tape, to a crowd of shivering, moaning, and 
 weeping wretches, men, women and children — the basis of the 
 population of Turnhill. Although they were all endeavouring to 
 make a noise, they made scarcely any noise, from mere lack of
 
 170 ARNOLD BENNETT 
 
 strength. Nothing could be heard, under the implacable bright 
 sky, but faint ghosts of sound, as though people were sighing and 
 crying from within the vacuum of a huge glass bell. 
 
 The next morning, at half-past five, Darius began his career in 
 earnest. He was "mould-runner" to a "mufhn-maker," a muffin 
 being not a comestible but a small plate, fashioned by its maker 
 on a mould. The business of Darius was to run as hard as he could 
 with the mould, and a newly created plate adhering thereto, into 
 the drying-stove. This "stove" was a room lined with shelves, 
 and having a red-hot stove and stove-pipe in the middle. As no 
 man of seven could reach the upper shelves, a pair of steps was 
 provided for Darius, and up these he had to scamper. Each mould 
 with its plate had to be leaned carefully against the wall, and if 
 the soft clay of a new-born plate was damaged, Darius was 
 knocked down. The atmosphere outside the stove was chill, but 
 owing to the heat of the stove, Darius was obliged to work half 
 naked. His sweat ran down his cheeks, and down his chest, 
 and down his back, making white channels, and lastly it soaked 
 his hair. 
 
 When there were no moulds to be sprinted into the drying- 
 stove, and no moulds to be carried less rapidly out, Darius was 
 engaged in clay-wedging. That is to say, he took a piece of raw 
 clay weighing more than himself, cut it in two with a wire, raised 
 one half above his head and crashed it down with all his force 
 upon the other half, and he repeated the process until the clay 
 was thoroughly soft and even in texture. At a later period it 
 was discovered that hydraulic machinery could perform this 
 operation more easily and more effectually than the brawny arms 
 of a man of seven. At eight o'clock in the evening Darius was told 
 that he had done enough for that day, and that he must arrive 
 at five sharp the next morning to light the fire, before his master 
 the muffin-maker began to work. When he inquired how he was 
 to light the fire his master kicked him jovially on the thigh and 
 suggested that he should ask another mould-runner. His master 
 was not a bad man at heart, it was said, but on Tuesdays, after 
 Sunday and Saint Monday, masters were apt to be capricious. 
 
 Darius reached home at a quarter to nine, having eaten nothing 
 but bread all day. Somehow he had lapsed into the child again. 
 His mother took him on her knee, and wrapped her sacking apron
 
 ARNOLD BENNETT 171 
 
 round his ragged clothes, and cried over him and cried into his 
 supper of porridge, and undressed him and put him to bed. But 
 he could not sleep easily because he was afraid of being late the 
 next morning. 
 
 Ill 
 
 And the next morning, wandering about the yards of the manu- 
 factory in a storm of icy sleet a little before five o'clock, he learnt 
 from a more experienced companion that nobody would provide 
 him with kindhng for his fire, that on the contrary everybody 
 who happened to be on the place at that hour would unite to 
 prevent him from getting kindling, and that he must steal it or 
 expect to be thrashed before six o'clock. Near them a vast kiln of 
 ware in process of firing showed a white flaming glow at each of 
 its mouths in the black winter darkness. Darius's mentor crept 
 up to the archway of the great hovel which protected the kiln, 
 and pointed like a conspirator to the figure of the guardian fireman 
 dozing near his monster. The boy had the handle-less remains of 
 an old spade, and with it he crept into the hovel, dangerously 
 abstracted fire from one of the scorching mouths, and fled there- 
 with, and the fireman never stirred. Then Darius, to whom the 
 mentor kindly lent his spade, attempted to do the same, but 
 being inexpert woke the fireman, who held him spell-bound by 
 his roaring voice and then flung him like a sack of potatoes bodily 
 into the slush of the yard, and the spade after him. Happily the 
 mentor, whose stove was now alight, lent fire to Darius, so that 
 Darius's stove too was cheerfully burning when his master came. 
 And Darius was too excited to feel fatigue. 
 
 By six o'clock on Saturday night Darius had earned a shiUing 
 for his week's work. But he could only possess himself of the 
 shilling by going to a magnificent public-house with his master the 
 muffin-maker. This was the first time that he had ever been inside 
 a public-house. The place was crowded with men, women, and 
 children eating the most lovely hot rolls and drinking beer, in an 
 atmosphere exquisitely wami. And behind a high counter a stout 
 jolly man was counting piles and piles and piles of silver. Darius's 
 master, in company with other boys' masters, gave this stout man 
 four sovereigns to change, and it was an hour before he changed 
 them. Meanwhile Darius was instructed that he must eat a roll
 
 172 ARNOLD BENNETT 
 
 like the rest, together with cheese. Never had he tasted anything 
 so luscious. He had a match with his mentor, as to which of them 
 could spin out his roll the longer, honestly chewing all the time; 
 and he won. Some one gave him half a glass of beer. At half-past 
 seven he received his shilling, which consisted of a sixpenny-piece 
 and four pennies; and, leaving the gay public-house, pushed his 
 way through a crowd of tearful women with babies in their arms 
 at the doors, and went home. And such was the attraction of the 
 Sunday school that he was there the next morning, with scented 
 hair, two minutes before the opening. 
 
 IV 
 
 In about a year Darius's increasing knowledge of the world 
 enabled him to rise in it. He became a handle-maker in another 
 manufactory, and also he went about with the pride of one who 
 could form the letters of the alphabet with a pen. In his new work 
 he had to put a bit of clay between two moulds and then force the 
 top mould on to the bottom one by means of his stomach, which it 
 was necessary to press downwards and at the same time to wriggle 
 with a peculiar movement. The workman to whom he was 
 assigned, his new "master," attached these handles, with strange 
 rapid skill, to beer-mugs. For Darius the labour was much lighter 
 than that of mould-running and clay-wedging, and the pay was 
 somewhat higher. But there were minor disadvantages. He 
 descended by twenty steps to his toil, and worked in a long cellar 
 which never received any air except by way of the steps and a 
 passage, and never any daylight at all. Its sole illumination was 
 a stove used for drying. The "throwers'" and the "turners'" 
 rooms were also subterranean dungeons. When in full activity all 
 these stinking cellars were full of men, boys, and young women, 
 working close together in a hot twilight. Certain boys were 
 trained contrabandists of beer, and beer came as steadily into the 
 dungeons as though it had been laid on by a main pipe. It was not 
 honourable, even on the part of a young woman, to refuse beer, 
 particularly when the beer happened to arrive in the late afternoon. 
 On such occasions young men and women would often entirely 
 omit to go home of a night, and seasoned men of the world aged 
 eight, on descending into the dungeons early the next morning,
 
 ARNOLD BENNETT 173 
 
 would have a full view of pandemonium, and they would witness 
 during the day salutary scenes of remorse, and proofs of the 
 existence of a profound belief in the homeopathic properties of 
 beer. 
 
 But perhaps the worst drawback of Darius's new position was 
 the long and irregular hours, due partly to the influences of Saint 
 Monday and of the scenes above indicated but not described, and 
 partly to the fact that the employes were on piece-work and 
 entirely unhampered by grandmotherly legislation. The result was 
 that six days' work was generally done in four. And as the younger 
 the workman the earlier he had to start in the morning, Darius 
 saw scarcely enough of his bed. It was not of course to be expected 
 that a self-supporting man of the world should rigorously confine 
 himself to an eight-hour day or even a twelve-hour day, but 
 Darius's day would sometimes stretch to eighteen and nineteen 
 hours: which on hygienic grounds could not be unreservedly 
 defended. 
 
 One Tuesday evening his master, after three days of debauch, 
 ordered him to be at work at three o'clock the next morning. He 
 quickly and even eagerly agreed, for he was already intimate 
 with his master's rope-lash. He reached home at ten o'clock on an 
 autumn night, and went to bed and to sleep. He woke up with a 
 start, in the dark. There was no watch or clock in the house, 
 from which nearly all the furniture had gradually vanished, but 
 he knew it must be already after three o'clock; and he sprang up 
 and rushed out. Of course he had not undressed; his life was too 
 strenuous for mere formalities. The stars shone above him as he 
 ran along, wondering whether after all, though late, he could by 
 unprecedented effort make the ordained number of handles before 
 his mslster tumbled into the cellar at five o'clock. 
 
 When he had run a mile he met some sewage men on their 
 rounds, who in replv to his question told him that the hour was 
 half after midnight. He dared not risk a return to home and bed, 
 for within two and a half hours he must be at work. He wandered 
 aimlessly over the surface of the earth until he came to a tile-works, 
 more or less unenclosed, whose primitive ovens showed a glare. 
 He ventured within, and in spite of himself sat down on the
 
 174 ARNOLD BENNETT 
 
 ground near one of those heavenly ovens. And then he wanted to 
 get up again, for he could feel the strong breath of his enemy, 
 sleep. But he could not get up. In a state of terror he yielded 
 himself to his enemy. Shameful cowardice on the part of a man 
 now aged nine! God, however, is merciful, and sent to him an 
 angel in the guise of a night-watchman, who kicked him into 
 wakefulness and off the place. He ran on limping, beneath the 
 stellar systems, and reached his work at half-past four o'clock. 
 
 Although he had never felt so exhausted in his long life, he set 
 to work with fury. Useless ! Wlien his master arrived he had 
 scarcely got through the preliminaries. He dully faced his master 
 in the narrow stifling cellar, lit by candles impaled on nails and 
 already peopled by the dim figures of boys, girls, and a few men. 
 His master was of taciturn habit and merely told him to kneel 
 down. He knelt. Two bigger boys turned hastily from their work 
 to snatch a glimpse of the affair. The master moved to the back 
 of the cellar and took from a box a piece of rope an inch thick and 
 clogged with clay. At the same moment a companion offered him, 
 in silence, a tin with a sHm neck, out of which he drank deep; it 
 contained a pint of porter owing on loan from the previous day. 
 WTien the master came in due course with the rope to do justice 
 upon the sluggard he found the lad fallen forward and breathing 
 heavily and regularly. Darius had gone to sleep. He was awakened 
 with some violence, but the public opinion of the dungeon saved 
 him from a torn shirt and a bloodv back. 
 
 TWO OLD BALLADS , 
 
 It is not known who wrote these two old and rather ghostly ballads. 
 THE WIFE OF USHER'S WELL 
 There lived a wife at Usher's Well, 
 
 And a wealthy wife was she; 
 She had three stout and stalwart sons, 
 And sent them o'er the sea. 
 
 They hadna been a week from her, 
 
 A week but barely ane, 
 When word cam' to the carline wife 
 
 That her three sons were gane.
 
 TWO OLD BALLADS 175 
 
 They hadna been a week from her, 
 
 A week but barely three. 
 When word cam' to the carline wife 
 
 That her sons she'd never see. 
 
 " I wish the wind may never cease, 
 
 Nor freshes in the flood, 
 Till my three sons come hame to me, 
 
 In earthly flesh and blood, "' 
 
 It fell about the Martinmas, 
 
 When nights are lang and mirk. 
 The carline wife's three sons cam' hame, 
 
 And their hats were o' the birk ^. 
 
 It neither grew in syke^ nor ditch, 
 
 Nor yet in ony sheugh^; 
 But at the gates o' Paradise 
 
 That birk grew fair eneugh. 
 
 "Blow up the fire, my maidens. 
 
 Bring water from the well ! 
 For a' my house shall feast this night. 
 
 Since my three sons are well." 
 
 And she has made to them a bed, 
 
 She's made it large and wide; 
 And she's ta'en her mantle her about, 
 
 Sat down at the bedside. 
 
 Up then crew the red, red cock, 
 
 And up and crew the grey; 
 The eldest to the youngest said, 
 
 "Tis time we were away." 
 
 The cock he hadna crawled but once. 
 
 And clapp'd his wings at a'. 
 When the youngest to the eldest said, 
 
 "Brother, we must awa'. 
 
 ^ birch. ^ marsh. ^ trench.
 
 176 TWO OLD BALLADS 
 
 "The cock doth craw, the day doth daw, 
 The channerin' worm doth chide; 
 
 Gin we be miss'd out o' our place, 
 A sair pain we maun bide." 
 
 "Fare ye weel, my mother dear, 
 Fareweel to barn and byre ! 
 
 And fare ye, weel, the bonny lass 
 That kindles my mother's fire!" 
 
 THE LYKE-WAKE DIRGE 
 
 This ae night, this ae night. 
 
 Every night and all. 
 Fire and fleet and candle-light. 
 
 And Christ receive thy saulei 
 
 When thou from hence away art past. 
 
 Every night and all 
 To Whinny-muir thou comest at last; 
 
 And Christ receive thy saule! 
 
 If ever thou gavest hosen or shoon, 
 
 Every night and all 
 Sit thee down and put them on; 
 
 And Christ receive thy saule! 
 
 But if hosen nor shoon thou never gave none 
 
 Every night and all 
 The Whins shall prick thee to the bare bone; 
 
 And Christ receive thy saule! 
 
 From Whinny-muir when thou mayst pass 
 
 Every night and all 
 To Brig o' Dread thou comest at last; 
 
 And Christ receive thv saule!
 
 TWO OLD BALLADS 177 
 
 From Brig o' Dread when thou mayst pass 
 
 Every night and all 
 To Purgatory fire thou comest at last; 
 
 And Christ receive thy saulel 
 
 If ever thou gavest milk or drink, 
 
 Every night and all 
 The fire shall never make thee shrink; 
 
 And Christ receive thy saule! 
 
 But if milk nor drink thou never gave none, 
 
 Every night and all 
 The fire shall burn thee to the bare bone; 
 
 And Christ receive thy saule! 
 
 This ae night, this ae night. 
 
 Every night and all, 
 Fire and fleet and candle-light. 
 
 And Christ receive thy saule! 
 
 MARK TWAIN 
 
 Samuel Langhorne Clemens (1835-1910) was born at Florida, Missouri. 
 During his early manhood he was a pilot on the Mississippi river, and when 
 he began to write he took his pen-name from a pilot's call, "Mark Twain!" 
 He became a journalist and gained much reputation for his humorous 
 conversation and lectures. His first important book. The Innocents Abroad, 
 records his adventures on a journey to Europe and the east. A later journey 
 provided material for the much finer book, A Tramp Abroad. These two 
 volumes^ together with two stories, Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn, are 
 his most deservedly famous books. His best work ranks very high as excellent 
 writing, genuine humour, sound wisdom and sterling honesty. The passage 
 that follows is taken from Tom Sawyer. Tom is a lively and mischievous boy 
 living with his aunt in a small village on the banks of the great river. Jim 
 is their negro servant. Tom has been fighting and getting his clothes torn, 
 and his aunt punishes him by setting him to whitewash a fence on his 
 Saturday holiday. 
 
 WHITEWASHING A FENCE 
 
 Saturday morning was come and all the summer world was 
 bright and fresh, and brimming with life. There was a song in 
 every heart; and if the heart was young the music issued at the 
 lips. There was cheer in every face, and a spring in every step.
 
 lyS MARK TWAIN 
 
 The locust trees were in bloom, and the fragrance of the blossoms 
 filled the air. 
 
 Cardiff Hill, beyond the village and above it, was green with 
 vegetation, and it lay just far enough away to seem a Delectable 
 Land, dreamy, reposeful, and inviting. 
 
 Tom appeared on the side-walk with a bucket of whitewash 
 and a long-handled brush. He surveyed the fence, and the 
 gladness went out of nature, and a deep melancholy settled 
 down upon his spirit. Thirty yards of broad fence nine feet high ! 
 It seemed to him that life was hollow, and existence but a burden. 
 Sighing he dipped his brush and passed it along the topmost 
 plank; repeated the operation; did it again; compared the in- 
 significant whitewashed streak with the far-reaching continent of 
 unwhitewashed fence, and sat down on a tree-box discouraged. 
 Jim came skipping out at the gate with a tin pail, and singing 
 "Buffalo Gals." Bringing water from the town pump had always 
 been hateful work in Tom's eyes before, but now it did not strike 
 him so. He remembered that there was company at the pump. 
 White, mulatto and negro boys and girls were always there waiting 
 their turns, resting, trading playthings, quarrelling, fighting, 
 skylarking. And he remembered that although the pump was only 
 a hundred and fifty yards off Jim never got back with a bucket 
 of water under an hour; and even then somebody generally had 
 to go after him. Tom said: 
 
 "Say, Jim; I'll fetch the water if you'll whitewash some." 
 
 Jim shook his head, and said: 
 
 "Can't, Ma'rs Tom. Ole missis she tole me I got to go an' git 
 dis water an' not stop foolin' 'roun wdd anybody. She say she 
 spec' Ma'rs Tom gwyne to ax me to whitewash, an' so she tole 
 me go 'long an' 'tend to my own business — she 'lowed she^d 'tend 
 to de whitewashin'." 
 
 "Oh, never you mind what she said, Jim. That's the way she 
 always talks. Gimme the bucket — I won't be gone only a minute. 
 She won't ever know." 
 
 "Oh, I dasn't, Ma'rs Tom. Ole missis she'd take an' tar de 
 head off 'n me. 'Deed she would." 
 
 ^^She! she never licks anybody — whacks 'em over the head 
 with her thimble, and who cares for that, I'd like to know.' 
 She talks awful, but talk don't hurt — anyAvays, it don't if
 
 MARK TWAIN 179 
 
 she don't cry. Jim, I'll give you a marble. I'll give you a 
 white alley ! " 
 
 Jim began to waver. 
 
 "White alley, Jim; and it's a bully taw." 
 
 "My; dat's a mighty gay marvel, / tell you. But, Ma'rs Tom, 
 I's powerful 'fraid ole missis " 
 
 But Jim was only human — this attraction was too much for 
 him. He put down his pail, took the white alley. In another 
 minute he was flying down the street with his pail and a tingling 
 rear, Tom was whitewashing with vigour, and aunt Polly was 
 retiring from the field with a slipper in her hand and triumph in 
 her eye. 
 
 But Tom's energy did not last. He began to think of the fun 
 he had planned for this day, and his sorrows multiplied. Soon the 
 free boys would come tripping along on all sorts of delicious 
 expeditions, and they would make a world of fun of him for having 
 to work — the very thought of it burnt him like fire. He got out 
 his worldly wealth and examined it — bits of toys, marbles and 
 trash; enough to buy an exchange of work maybe, but not enough 
 to buy so much as half-an-hour of pure freedom. So he returned 
 his straitened means to his pocket, and gave up the idea of trying 
 to buy the boys. At this dark and hopeless moment an inspiration 
 burst upon him. Nothing less than a great, magnificent inspiration. 
 He took up his brush and went tranquilly to work. Ben Rogers 
 hove in sight presently; the very boy of all boys whose ridicule 
 he had been dreading. Ben's 'gait was the hop, skip and jump — 
 proof enough that his heart was light and his anticipations high. 
 He was eating an apple, and giving a long, melodious whoop at 
 intervals, followed by a deep-toned ding dong dong, ding dong 
 dong, for he was personating a steamboat. As he drew near he 
 slackened speed, took the middle of the street, leaned far over to 
 starboard, and rounded-to ponderously, and with laborious pomp 
 and circumstance, for he was personating the "Big Missouri," 
 and considered himself to be drawing nine feet of water. He was 
 boat, and captain, and engine-bells combnied, so he had to imagine 
 himself standing on his own hurricane deck giving the orders and 
 executing them 
 
 Tom went on whitewashing — paid no attention to the steamer. 
 Ben stared a moment, and then said:
 
 1 80 MARK TWAIN 
 
 "Hi-yi ! You're up a stump, ain't you ! " 
 
 No answer. Tom surveyed his last touch with the eye of an 
 artist; then he gave his brush another gentle sweep, and surveyed 
 the result as before. Ben ranged up alongside of him. Tom's 
 mouth watered for the apple, but he stuck to his work. Ben said : 
 
 "Hello, old chap; you got to work, hey?" 
 
 "Why, it's you, Ben! I warn't noticing." 
 
 "Say, I'm going in a-swimming, I am. Don't you wish you 
 could? But of course you'd druther work wouldn't you ? 'Course 
 you would ! " 
 
 Tom contemplated the boy a bit, and said: 
 
 "What do you call work?" 
 
 "Why, ain't that work?" 
 
 Tom resumed his whitewashing, and answered carelessly: 
 
 "Well, maybe it is, and maybe it ain't. All I know, is, it suits 
 Tom Sawyer." 
 
 "Oh, come now, you don't mean to let on that you like it?" 
 
 The brush continued to move. 
 
 "Like it? Well, I don't see why I oughtn't to like it. Does a 
 boy get a chance to whitewash a fence every day? " 
 
 That put the thing in a new light. Ben stopped nibbling his 
 apple. Tom swept his brush daintily back and forth — stepped 
 back to note the effect — added a touch here and there — criticised 
 the effect again, Ben watching every move, and getting more and 
 more interested, more and more absorbed. Presently he said: 
 
 " Say, Tom, let me whitewash a little." 
 
 Tom considered; was about to consent; but he altered his 
 mind: "No, no; I reckon it wouldn't hardly do, Ben. You see, 
 aunt Polly's awful particular about this fence- — right here on the 
 street, you know — but if it was the back fence I wouldn't mind, 
 and she wouldn't. Yes, she's awful particular about this fence; 
 it's got to be done very careful; I reckon there ain't one boy in a 
 thousand, maybe two thousand, that can do it the way it's got to 
 be done." 
 
 "No — is that so? Oh, come now; lemme just try, only just a 
 little. Pd let you, if you was me, Tom." 
 
 "Ben, Pd Hke to, honest injun; but aunt Polly — well, Jim 
 wanted to do it, but she wouldn't let him. Sid wanted to do it, 
 but she wouldn't let Sid. Now, don't you see how I am fixed?
 
 MARK TWAIN i8i 
 
 If you was to tackle this fence, and anything was to happen 
 to it " 
 
 "Oh, shucks; I'll be just as careful. Now lemme try. Say — 
 I'll give you the core of my apple." 
 
 "Well, here. No, Ben; now don't; I'm afeard " 
 
 "I'll give you all of it!" 
 
 Tom gave up the brush with reluctance in his face, but alacrity 
 *in his heart. And while the late steamer "Big Missouri" worked 
 and sweated in the sun, the retired artist sat on a barrel in the 
 shade close by, dangled his legs, munched his apple, and planned 
 the slaughter of more innocents. There was no lack of material; 
 boys happened along every little while; thev came to jeer, but 
 remained to whitewash. By the time Ben was fagged out, Tom 
 had traded the next chance to Billy Fisher for a kite in good 
 repair; and when he played out, Johnny Miller bought in for a 
 dead rat and a string to swing it with ; and so on, and so on, hour 
 after hour. And when the middle of the afternoon came, from being 
 a poor poverty-stricken boy in the morning, Tom was literally 
 rolling in wealth. He had, besides the things I have mentioned, 
 twelve marbles, part of a Jew's harp, a piece of blue bottle-glass 
 to look through, a spool-cannon, a key that wouldn't unlock 
 anything, a fragment of chalk, a glass stopper of a decanter, a tin 
 soldier, a couple of tadpoles, six fire-crackers, a kitten with only 
 one eye, a brass door-knob, a dog-collar — but no dog — the handle 
 of a knife, four pieces of orange-peel, and a dilapidated old window- 
 sash. He had had a nice, good, idle time all the while — plenty of 
 companv — and the fence had three coats of whitewash on it ! If 
 he hadn't run out of whitewash, he would have bankrupted every 
 boy in the village. 
 
 Tom said to himself that it was not such a hollow world after 
 all. He had discovered a great law of human action, without 
 knowing it, namely, that, in order to make a man or a boy covet 
 a thing, it is only necessary to make the thing difficult to attain. 
 If he had been a great and wise philosopher, like the writer of 
 this book, he would now have comprehended that work consists 
 of whatever a body is obliged to do, and that play consists of 
 whatever a body is not obliged to do. And this would help him 
 to understand why constructing artificial flowers, or performing 
 on a tread-mill, is work, whilst rolling nine-pins or climbing
 
 i82 MARK TWAIN 
 
 Mont Blanc is only amusement. There are wealthy gentlemen in 
 England who drive four-horse passenger-coaches twenty or thirty 
 miles on a daily line, in the summer, because the privilege costs 
 them considerable money; but if they were offered wages for the 
 service that would turn it into work, and then they would resign. 
 
 EMERSON 
 
 Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-82), a great American writer, was born at 
 Boston and educated at Harvard University- He was at first a Unitarian 
 minister, but he preferred to teach mankind through lectures, essays and 
 poems rather than from the pulpit. He visited England and became a friend 
 and correspondent of Carlyle. His chief works are Essays, English Traits 
 and Representative Men. 
 
 THE RHODORA 
 On being asked, whence is the flower? 
 
 In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes, 
 
 I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods, 
 
 Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook, 
 
 To please the desert and the sluggish brook. 
 
 The purple petals, fallen in the pool, 
 
 Made the black water with their beauty gay; 
 
 Here might the red-bird come his plumes to cool. 
 
 And court the flower that cheapens his array. 
 
 Rhodora ! if the sages ask thee why 
 
 This charm is wasted on the earth and sky. 
 
 Tell them, dear, that if eyes were made for seeing, 
 
 Then Beauty is its own excuse for being: 
 
 Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose ! 
 
 I never thought to ask, I never knew: 
 
 But, in my simple ignorance, suppose 
 
 The self-same Power that brought me there brought you. 
 
 SIR THOMAS MORE and WILLIAM ROPER 
 
 Thomas More (1478 -1535) was born m London, the son of a judge and 
 educated at a school in London and at Oxford. He became a lawyer and 
 rose to high office. He was chosen Speaker of the House of Commons and 
 made Lord Chancellor in succession to Wolsey. He privately disapproved 
 of Henry VHI's declaring himself Head of the Church. The king tried to
 
 SIR THOMAS MORE and WILLIAM ROPER 183 
 
 force him to make a public declaration of approval. More refused to take the 
 oath put to him, and, after a year's harsh imprisonment, was executed. 
 His best and best-known book is Utopia^ written in Latin and not translated 
 into English till many years after his death. One of his children, Margaret, 
 married William Roper, a young Kentish lawyer, who compiled a very 
 charming account of More's simple and attractive life. The passage that 
 follows is taken from this book. 
 
 THE EXECUTION OF SIR THOMAS MORE 
 Now, after his arraignment, departed he from the bar to the 
 Tower again, led by Sir WilHam Kingston, a tall, strong, and 
 comely knight. Constable of the Tower, and his very dear friend. 
 Who when he had brought him from Westminster to the Old 
 Swan towards the Tower, there with a heavy heart, the tears 
 running down his cheeks, bade him farewell. Sir Thomas More, 
 seeing him so sorrowful, comforted him with as good words as he 
 could, saying: "Good Master Kingston, trouble not yourself, but 
 be of good cheer: for I will pray for you and my good lady your 
 wife, that we may meet in heaven together, where we shall be 
 merry for ever and ever." Soon after Sir William Kingston, 
 talking with me of Sir Thomas More, said: "In good faith, Mr 
 Roper, I was ashamed of myself that at my departing from your 
 father I found my heart so feeble and his so strong, that he was 
 fain to comfort me that should rather have comforted him." 
 When Sir Thomas More came from Westminster to the Tower- 
 ward again, his daughter, my wife, desirous to see her father, 
 whom she thought she would never see in this world after, and 
 also to have his final blessing, gave attendance about the Tower 
 Wharf, where she knew he should pass by, before he could enter 
 into the Tower. There tarrying his coming, as soon as she saw 
 him, after his blessing upon her knees reverently received, she 
 hasting towards him, without consideration or care of herself, 
 pressing in amongst the midst of the throng and company of the 
 guard, that with halberds and bills went round about him, hastily 
 ran to him, and there openly in sight of them all, embraced him, 
 and took him about the neck and kissed him. Who well liking 
 her most natural and dear daughterly affection towards him, gave 
 her his fatherly blessing, and many godly words of comfort besides. 
 From whom after she was departed, she not satisfied with the 
 former sight of her dear father, and like one that had forgotten
 
 i84 SIR THOMAS MORE and WILLIAM ROPER 
 
 herself, being all ravished with the entire love of her dear father, 
 having respect neither to herself, nor to the press of people and 
 multitude that were there about him, suddenly turned back again, 
 ran to him as before, took him about the neck, and divers times 
 kissed him most lovingly; and at last, with a full and heavy heart, 
 was fain to depart from him : the beholding whereof was to many 
 of them that were present thereat so lamentable, that it made 
 them for very sorrow thereof to weep and mourn. 
 
 So remained Sir Thomas More in the Tower, more than a seven- 
 night after his judgment. From whence, the day before he suffered, 
 his sent his shirt of hair, not willing to have it seen, to my wife, 
 his dearly beloved daughter, and a letter written with a coal^ 
 (contained in the foresaid book of his works), plainly expressing 
 the fervent desire he had to suffer on the morrow, in these words 
 following: "I cumber you, good Margret, much, but would be 
 sorry if it should be any longer than to-morrow. For to-morrow 
 is St Thomas even, and the Utas- of St Peter, and therefore 
 to-morrow I long to go to God : it were a day very meet and con- 
 venient for me. Dear Megg, I never liked your manner better 
 towards me than when you kissed me last. For I like when 
 daughterly love and dear charity hath no leisure to look to worldly 
 courtesy." And so upon the next morrow, being Tuesday, Saint 
 Thomas his eve, and the Utas of Saint Peter, in the year of our 
 Lord 1535, according as he in his letter the day before had wished, 
 early in the morning came to him Sir Thomas Pope, his singular 
 good friend, on message from the king and his council, that he 
 should before nine of the clock of the same morning suffer death; 
 and that, therefore, he should forthwith prepare himself thereto. 
 "Master Pope," quoth Sir Thomas More, "for your good tidings 
 I heartily thank you. I have been always much bounden to the 
 king's highness for the benefits and honours that he had still 
 from time to time most bountifully heaped upon me; and yet 
 more bounden am I to his grace for putting me into this place, 
 where I have had convenient time and space to have remembrance 
 of my end. And so help me God, most of all, Master Pope, am I 
 bounden to his highness that it pleaseth him so shortly to rid me 
 out of the miseries of this wretched world, and therefore will I 
 
 ^ with a piece of charcoal — he had been deprived of writing material. 
 ^ Octave — the eighth day after a feast.
 
 SIR THOMAS MORE and WILLIAM ROPER 185 
 
 not fail earnestly to pray for his grace, both here, and also in the 
 world to come." "The king's pleasure is farther," quoth Master 
 Pope, "that at your execution you shall not use many words." 
 "Master Pope," quoth he, "you do well to give me warning of 
 his grace's pleasure, for otherwise, at that time, had I purposed 
 somewhat to have spoken ; but of no matter wherewith his grace, 
 or any other, should have had cause to be offended. Nevertheless, 
 whatsoever I intended, I am ready obediently to conform myself 
 to his grace's commandment; and I beseech you, good Master 
 Pope, to be a mean to his highness, that my daughter Margaret 
 may be at my burial." "The king is content already," quoth 
 Master Pope, "that your wife, children and other friends shall 
 have liberty to be present thereat." "Oh, how much beholden 
 then," said Sir Thomas More, "am I unto his grace, that unto 
 my poor burial vouchsafeth to have so gracious consideration!" 
 Wherewithal Master Pope, taking his leave of him, could not 
 refrain from weeping. Which Sir Thomas More perceiving, com- 
 forted him in this wise: "Quiet yourself, good Master Pope, and 
 be not discomforted, for I trust that we shall once in heaven see 
 each other full merrily, where we shall be sure to live and love 
 together, in joyful bliss eternally." Upon whose departure. Sir 
 Thomas More, as one that had been invited to some solemn feast, 
 changed himself into his best apparel. Which Master Lieutenant 
 espying, advised him to put it off, saying, that he that should have 
 it was but a javill^, "What, Master Lieutenant?" quoth he, 
 "shall I account him a javill that will do me this day so singular 
 a benefit ? Nay, I assure you, were it cloth of gold, I should think 
 it well bestowed on him, as Saint Cyprian did, who gave his 
 executioner thirty pieces of gold." And albeit, at length, through 
 Master Lieutenant's importunate persuasion, he altered his 
 apparel, yet, after the example of the holy Martyr St Cyprian, 
 did he, of that little money that was left him send an angel of 
 gold to his executioner. And so was he by Master Lieutenant 
 brought out of the Tower, and from thence led towards the place 
 of execution. Where, going up the scaffold, which was so weak 
 that it was ready to fall, he said merrily to the Lieutenant: 
 "I pray you. Master Lieutenant, see me safe up, and for my 
 coming down let me shift for myself." Then desired he all the 
 ^ a common fellow.
 
 i86 SIR THOMAS MORE and WILLIAM ROPER 
 
 people thereabout to pray for him, and to bear witness with him, 
 that he should now there suffer death in and for the faith of the 
 holy Catholic Church. WTiich done, he kneeled down, and, after 
 his prayers said, turned to the executioner with a cheerful coun- 
 tenance, and said unto him: "Pluck up thy spirits, man, and be 
 not afraid to do thine office: my neck is very short, take heed, 
 therefore, thou strike not awry, for saving of thine honesty." 
 So passed Sir Thomas More out of this world to God, upon the 
 very same day which he most desired. Soon after his death came 
 intelligence thereof to the Emperor Charles. Whereupon he sent 
 for Sir Thomas EHott, our English ambassador, and said to him : 
 "My Lord ambassador, we understand that the king your master 
 hath put his faithful servant, and grave wise councillor. Sir 
 Thomas More, to death." Whereupon Sir Thomas EHott answered 
 that "he understood nothing thereof." "Well," said the Emperor, 
 "it is too true: and this will we say, that had we been master of 
 such a servant, of whose doings ourselves have had these many 
 years no small experience, we would rather have lost the best 
 city of our dominions, than have lost such a worthy councillor." 
 
 TENNYSON 
 
 BREAK, BREAK, BREAK 
 
 Break, break, break. 
 
 On thy cold grey stones, Sea ! 
 And I would that my tongue could utter 
 
 The thoughts that arise in me. 
 
 O well for the fisherman's boy. 
 
 That he shouts with his sister at play ! 
 
 O well for the sailor lad. 
 
 That he sings in his boat on the bay ! 
 
 And the stately ships go on 
 To their haven under the hill; 
 
 But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand, 
 And the sound of a voice that is still !
 
 SIR THOMAS MORE 
 Holbein
 
 TENNYSON 187 
 
 Break, break, break, 
 
 At the foot of thy crags, Sea ! 
 But the tender grace of a day that is dead 
 
 Will never come back to me. 
 
 KINGLAKE 
 
 Alexander William Kinglake (1809-91) was born near Taunton and 
 educated at Eton and Cambridge. He travelled to the east in 1835 ^^'^ 
 wrote an account of his adventures in Eothen (meaning "from the east"), 
 one of the most delightful books of travel ever written. It is from this book 
 that the following passage is taken. He also wrote a long history of the 
 Crimean war. 
 
 CAIRO TO SUEZ 
 
 The "dromedary" of Egypt and Syria is not the two-humped 
 animal described by that name in books of natural history, but is, 
 in fact, of the same family as the camel, to which it stands in 
 about the same relation as a racer to a cart-horse. The fleetness 
 and endurance of this creature are extraordinary. It is not usual 
 to force him into a gallop, and I fancy from his make that it 
 would be quite impossible for him to maintain that pace for any 
 length of time; but the animal is on so large a scale, that the 
 jog-trot at which he is generally ridden implies a progress of 
 perhaps ten or twelve miles an hour, and this pace, it is said, he 
 can keep up incessantly, without food, or water, or rest, for three 
 whole days and nights. 
 
 Of the two dromedaries which I had obtained for this journey, 
 I mounted one myself, and put Dthemetri on the other. My plan 
 was to ride on with Dthemetri to Suez as rapidly as the fleetness 
 of the beasts would allow, and to let Mysseri (who was still weak 
 from the effects of his late illness) come quietly on with the camels 
 and baggage. 
 
 The trot of the dromedary is a pace terribly disagreeable to the 
 rider, until he becomes a Httle accustomed to it; but after the 
 first half-hour I so far schooled myself to this new exercise, that 
 I felt capable of keeping it up (though not without aching limbs) 
 for several hours together. Now, therefore, I was anxious to 
 dart forward, and annihilate at once the whole space that divided 
 me from the Red Sea. Dthemetri, however, could not get on at
 
 i88 KINGLAKE 
 
 all. Every attempt which he made to trot seemed to threaten 
 the utter dislocation of his whole frame, and indeed I doubt 
 whether any one of Dthemetri's age (nearly forty, I think), and 
 unaccustomed to such exercise, could have borne it at all easily; 
 besides, the dromedary which fell to his lot was evidently a very 
 bad one; he every now and then came to a dead stop, and coolly 
 knelt down, as though suggesting that the rider had better get 
 off at once and abandon the attempt as one that was utterly 
 hopeless. 
 
 When for the third or fourth time I saw Dthemetri thus planted, 
 I lost my patience, and went on without him. For about two 
 hours, I think, I advanced without once looking behind me. I 
 then paused, and cast my eyes back to the western horizon. There 
 was no sign of Dthemetri, nor of any other living creature. This 
 I expected, for I knew that I must have far out-distanced all my 
 followers. I had ridden away from my party merely by way of 
 gratifying my impatience, and with the intention of stopping as 
 soon as I felt tired, until I was overtaken. I now observed, however 
 (this I had not been able to do whilst advancing so rapidly), 
 that the track which I had been following was seemingly the 
 track of only one or two camels. I did not fear that I had diverged 
 very largely from the true route, but still I could not feel any 
 reasonable certainty that my party would follow any line of 
 march within sight of me. 
 
 I had to consider, therefore, whether I should remain where I 
 was, upon the chance of seeing my people come up, or whether 
 I would push on alone, and find my way to Suez. I had now 
 learned that I could not rely upon the continued guidance of any 
 track, but I knew that (if maps were right) the point for which I 
 v/as bound bore just due east of Cairo, and I thought that, although 
 I might miss the Hne leading most directly to Suez, I could not 
 well fail to find my way sooner or later to the Red Sea. The 
 worst of it was that I had no provision of food or water with me, 
 and already I was beginning to feel thirst. I deliberated for a 
 minute, and then determined that I would abandon all hope of 
 seeing my party again in the Desert, and would push forward as 
 rapidly as possible towards Suez. 
 
 It was not, I confess, without a sensation of awe that I swept 
 with my sight the vacant round of the horizon, and remembered
 
 KINGLAKE 189 
 
 that I was all alone, and unprovisioned in the midst of the arid 
 waste; but this very awe gave tone and zest to the exultation with 
 which I felt myself launched. Hitherto, in all my wandering, I 
 had been under the care of other people — sailors, Tatars, guides, 
 and dragomen had watched over my welfare, but now at last I 
 was here in this African desert, and I myself, and no other, had 
 charge of my life. I liked the office well. I had the greatest part 
 of the day before me, a very fair dromedary, a fur pelisse, and a 
 brace of pistols, but no bread and no water; for that I must ride 
 — and ride I did. 
 
 For several hours I urged forward my beast at a rapid though 
 steady pace, but now the pangs of thirst began to torment me. 
 I did not relax my pace, however, and I had not suffered long 
 when a moving object appeared in the distance before me. The 
 intervening space was soon traversed, and I found myself ap- 
 proaching a Bedouin Arab mounted on a camel, attended by 
 another Bedouin on foot. They stopped. I saw that, as usual, 
 there hung from the pack-saddle of the camel a large skin water- 
 flask, which seemed to be well filled. I steered my dromedary 
 close up alongside of the mounted Bedouin, caused my beast to 
 kneel down, then alighted, and keeping the end of the halter in 
 my hand, went up to the mounted Bedouin without spealdng, 
 took hold of his water-flask, opened it, and drank long and deep 
 from its leathern lips. Both of the Bedouins stood fast in amaze- 
 ment and mute horror; and really, if they had nevex happened 
 to see an European before, the apparition was enough to startle 
 them. To see for the first time a coat and a waistcoat, with the 
 semblance of a white human head at the top, and for this ghastly 
 figure to come swiftly out of the horizon upon a fleet dromedary, 
 approach them silently and with a demoniacal smile, and drink 
 a deep draught from their water-flask — this was enough to make 
 the Bedouins stare a little; they, in fact, stared a great deal — not 
 as Europeans stare, with a restless and puzzled expression of 
 • countenance, but with features all fixed and rigid, and with still, 
 glassy eyes. Before they had time to get decomposed from their 
 state of petrifaction I had remounted my dromedary, and was 
 darting away towards the east. 
 
 Without pause or remission of pace I continued to press forward, 
 but after a while I found to my confusion that the slight track
 
 190 KINGLAKE 
 
 which had hitherto guided me now failed altogether. I began to 
 fear that I must have been all along following the course of some 
 wandering Bedouins, and I felt that if this w^ere the case, my fate 
 was a little uncertain. 
 
 I had no compass with me, but I determined upon the eastern 
 point of the horizon as accurately as I could by reference to the 
 sun, and so laid down for myself a way over the pathless sands. 
 
 But now my poor dromedary, by whose life and strength I held 
 my own, began to show signs of distress: a thick, clammy, and 
 glutinous kind of foam gathered about her lips, and piteous sobs 
 burst from her bosom in the tones of human misery. I doubted 
 for a moment whether I would give her a little rest, a relaxation 
 of pace, but I decided that I would not, and continued to push 
 forward as steadilv as before. 
 
 The character of the country became changed. I had ridden 
 away from the level tracts, and before me now, and on either side, 
 there were vast hills of sand and calcined rocks, that interrupted 
 my progress and baffled my doubtful road, but I did my best. 
 With rapid steps I swept round the base of the hills,, threaded 
 the winding hollows, and at last, as I rose in my swift course to 
 the crest of a loftv ridge, Thalatta ! Thalatta ! bv Jove ! I saw the 
 sea! 
 
 My tongue can tell where to find a clue to many an old pagan 
 creed, because that (distinctly from all mere admiration of the 
 beauty belonging to nature's works) I acknowledge a sense of 
 mystical reverence when first I look, to see some illustrious 
 feature of the globe — some coast-line of ocean, some mighty river 
 or dreary mountain range, the ancient barrier of kingdoms. But 
 the Red Sea ! It might well claim mv earnest gaze by force of the 
 great Jewish migration which connects it with the history of 
 our own religion. From this very ridge, it is likely enough, the 
 panting Israelites first saw that shining inlet of the sea. Ay! ay! 
 but moreover, and best of all, that beckoning sea assured my eyes, 
 and proved how well I had marked out the east for my path, and ' 
 gave me good promise that sooner or later the time would come 
 for me to rest and drink. It was distant, the sea, but I felt my 
 own strength, and I had heard of the strength of dromedaries. 
 I pushed forward as eagerlv as though I had spoiled the Egyptians 
 and were fiying from Pharaoh's police.
 
 KINGLAKE 191 
 
 I had not yet been able to discover any symptoms of Suez, but 
 after a while I descried in the distance a large, blank, isolated 
 building. I made towards this, and in time got down to it. The 
 building was a fort, and had been built there for the protection 
 of a well which it contained within its precincts. A cluster of 
 small huts adhered to the fort, and in a short time I was receiving 
 the hospitality of the inhabitants, who were grouped upon the 
 sands near their hamlet. To quench the fires of my throat with 
 about a gallon of muddy water, and to swallow a little of the food 
 placed before me, was the work of few minutes, and before the 
 astonishment of my hosts had even begun to subside, I was 
 pursuing my onward journey. Suez, I found, was still three hours 
 distant, and the sun going down in the west warned me that I 
 must find some other guide to keep me in the right direction. This 
 guide I found in the most fickle and uncertain of the elements. 
 For some hours the wind had been freshening, and it now blew 
 a violent gale; it blew not fitfully and in squalls, but with such 
 remarkable steadiness, that I felt convinced it would blow from 
 the same quarter for several hours. When the sun set, therefore, 
 I carefully looked for the point from which the wind was blowing, 
 and found that it came from the very west, and was blowing 
 exactly in the direction of my route. I had nothing to do therefore 
 but to go straight to leeward; and this was not difficult, for the 
 gale blew with such immense force, that if I diverged at all from 
 its line I instantly felt the pressure of the blast on the side towards 
 which I was deviating. Very soon after sunset there came on 
 complete darkness, but the strong wind guided me well, and sped 
 me, too, on my way. 
 
 I had pushed on for about, I think, a couple of hours after 
 nightfall when I saw the glimmer of a light in the distance, and 
 this I ventured to hope must be Suez. Upon approaching it, 
 however, I found that it was only a solitary fort, and I passed on 
 without stopping. 
 
 On I went, still riding down the wind, when an unlucky accident 
 occurred, for which, if you like, you can have your laugh against 
 me. I have told you already what sort of lodging it is that you 
 have upon the back of a camel. You ride the dromedary in the 
 same fashion; you are perched rather than seated on a bunch of 
 carpets or quilts upon the summit of the hump. It happened that
 
 192 KINGLAKE 
 
 my dromedary veered rather suddenly from her onward course. 
 Meeting the movement, I mechanically turned my left wrist as 
 though I were holding a bridle rein, for the complete darkness 
 prevented my eyes from reminding me that I had nothing but 
 a halter in my hand. The expected resistance failed, for the halter 
 was hanging upon that side of the dromedary's neck towards which 
 I was slightly leaning. I toppled over, head foreniost, and then 
 went faUing and falhng through air, till my crown came whang 
 against the ground. And the ground too was perfectly hard 
 (compacted sand), but the thickly wadded headgear which I wore 
 for protection against the sun saved my life. The notion of my 
 being able to get up again after falling head-foremost from such 
 an immense height seemed to me at first too paradoxical to be 
 acted upon, but I soon found that I was not a bit hurt. My 
 dromedary utterly vanished. I looked round me, and saw the 
 glimmer of a light in the fort which I had lately passed, and I 
 began to work my way back in that direction. The violence of 
 the gale made it hard for me to force my way towards the west, 
 but I succeeded at last in regaining the fort. To this, as to the 
 other fort which I had passed, there was attached a cluster of 
 huts, and I soon found myself surrounded by a group of villainous, 
 gloomy-looking fellows. It was a horrid bore for me to have to 
 swagger and look big at a time when I felt so particularly small 
 on account of my tumble and my lost dromedary; but there was 
 no help for it, I had no Dthemetri now to "strike terror" for me. 
 I knew hardly one word of Arabic, but somehow or other I con- 
 trived to announce it as my absolute will and pleasure that these 
 fellows should find me the means of gaining Suez. They acceded, 
 and having a donkey, they saddled it for me, and appointed one 
 of their number to attend me on foot. 
 
 I afterwards found that these fellows were not Arabs, but 
 Algerine refugees, and that they bore the character of being sad 
 scoundrels. They justified this imputation to some extent on the 
 following day. They allowed Mysseri with my baggage and the 
 camels to pass unmolested, but an Arab lad belonging to the 
 party happened to lag a little way in the rear, and him (if they 
 were not maligned) these rascals stripped and robbed. Low indeed 
 is the state of bandit morality when men will allow the sleek 
 traveller with well-laden camels to pass in quiet, reserving
 
 KINGLAKE 193 
 
 their spirit of enterprise for the tattered turban of a miserable 
 boy. 
 
 I reached Suez at last. The British agent, though roused from 
 his midnight sleep, received me in his home with the utmost 
 kindness and hospitaUty. Oh ! by Jove, how delightful it was to 
 lie on fair sheets, and to dally with sleep, and to wake, and to 
 sleep, and to wake once more, for the sake of sleeping again ! 
 
 WILLIAM MORRIS 
 
 William Morris (1834-96) was born at Walthamstow and educated at 
 Marlborough and Oxford. He is famous as a writer of romances in prose and 
 verse, as a craftsman concerned In the design and production of beautiful 
 furniture, stained glass, books and fabrics, and as a hard worker in the cause 
 of social reform. Among his best known long poems are The Life and Death 
 of Jason, The Earthly Paradise (a collection of twenty-four old stories in 
 narrative verse), and The Story of Sigurd the Folsung and the Fall of the 
 Niblungs. Among his prose works may be named News from Nowhere. 
 a story of England in the future^ made happy and beautiful, The Roots of 
 the Mountains and The Story of the Glittering Plain. Morris was fond of 
 Old Norse literature and many of his writings deal with northern subjects. 
 The passage that follows is taken from The Life and Death of Jason. Jason 
 has voyaged perilously in his ship Argo to recover the Golden Fleece from 
 King jEetes of Colchis. The crafty king seeks to slay the hero, and sets him 
 the task of taming the Brazen Bulls; but Medea, the king's daughter, has 
 fallen m love with him, and gives him a magic liquid to protect him from 
 the fire of the Brazen Bulls and a crystal ball to throw amongst the 
 Earthborn. 
 
 JASON AND THE GOLDEN FLEECE 
 
 Now when she woke again the bright sun glared 
 
 In at the window, and the trumpets blared. 
 
 Shattering the sluggish air of that hot day. 
 
 For fain the king would be upon his way. 
 
 Then straight she called her maidens, who forthright 
 
 Did due observance to her body white. 
 
 And clad her in the raiment of a queen, 
 
 And round her crown they set a wreath of green. 
 
 But she descending, came into the hall. 
 And found her father clad in royal pall, 
 
 S. L. R. II. 13
 
 194 WILLIAM MORRIS 
 
 Holding the ivory rod of sovereignty, 
 And Jason and his folk were standing by. 
 
 Now was ^etes saying: "Minya;, 
 And you, my people, who are here by me, 
 Take heed, that by his wilful act to-day 
 This man will perish, neither will I slay 
 One man among you. Nay, Prince, if you will, 
 A safe return I give unto you still." 
 
 But Jason answered, smiling in his joy: — 
 "Once more, ^etes, nay. Against this toy 
 My life is pledged, let all go to the end." 
 Then, lifting up his eyes, he saw his friend. 
 Made fresh and lovelier by her quiet rest. 
 And set his hand upon his mailed breast, 
 Where in its covering lay the crystal ball. 
 
 But the king said: "Then let what will fall, fall! 
 Since time it is that we were on the way; 
 And thou, daughter, shalt be there to-day, 
 And see thy father's glory once more shown 
 Before our folk and those the wind has blown 
 From many lands to see this play played out." 
 
 Then raised the Colchians a mighty shout, 
 And doubtful grew the Minys of the end. 
 Unwitting who on that day was their friend. 
 But down the hall the king passed, who did hold 
 Medea's hand, and on a car of gold 
 They mounted, drawn anigh the carven door. 
 And spearmen of the Colchians went before 
 And followed after, and the Minya; 
 Set close together followed solemnly, 
 Headed by Jason, at the heels of these. 
 
 So passed they through the streets and palaces 
 Thronged with much folk, and o'er the bridges passed. 
 And to the open country came at last, 
 Nor there went far, but turning to the right, 
 Into a close they came, where there were dight 
 Long galleries about the fateful stead. 
 Built all of marble fair and roofed with lead, 
 And carved about with stories of old time.
 
 WILLIAM MORRIS 195 
 
 Framed all about with golden lines of rhyme. 
 Moreover, midmost was an image made 
 Of mighty Mars who maketh kings afraid, 
 That looked down on an altar builded fair, 
 Wherefrom already did a bright fire glare 
 And made the hot air glassy with its heat. 
 
 So in the gallery did the king take seat 
 With fair Medea, and the Colchians stood 
 Hedging the twain in with a mighty wood 
 Of spears and axes, while the Minyse 
 Stood off a space the fated things to see. 
 
 Ugly and rugged was that spot of ground, 
 And with an iron wall was closed around. 
 And at the further end a monstrous cage 
 Of iron bars, shut in the stupid rage 
 Of those two beasts, and therefrom ever came 
 The flashing and the scent of sulphurous flame, 
 As with their brazen clangorous bellowing 
 They hailed the coming of the Colchian king; 
 Nor was there one of the seafaring men 
 But trembled, gazing on the deadly pen, 
 But Jason only, who before the rest 
 Shone like a star, having upon his breast 
 A golden corslet from the treasur)/- 
 Of wise King Phineus by the doubtful sea, 
 By an Egyptian wrought who would not stay 
 At Salmydessa more than for a day, 
 But on that day the wondrous breast-plate wrought. 
 Which, with good will and strong help, Jason bought; 
 And from that treasury his golden shoe 
 Came, and his thighs the king's gift covered too; 
 But on his head his father's helm was set 
 Wreathed round with bay leaves, and his sword lay yet 
 Within the scabbard, while his ungloved hand 
 Bore nought within it but an olive vvand. 
 
 Now King ^etes well beholding him, 
 Fearless of mien and so unmatched of limb. 
 Trembled a Httle in his heart as now 
 He bade the horn-blowers the challenge blow, 
 
 13—2
 
 196 WILLIAM MORRIS 
 
 But thought, "what strength can help him — or what art, 
 Or which of all the Gods be on his part? " 
 Impious, who knew not through what doubtful days, 
 E'en from his birth, and perilous rough ways 
 Juno had brought him safely, nor indeed 
 Of his own daughter's quivering lips took heed. 
 And restless hands wherein the God so wrought, 
 The wise man seeing her had known her thought. 
 Now Jason, when he heard the challenge blow, 
 Across the evil fallow 'gan to go 
 With face beyond its wont in nowise pale. 
 Nor footstep faltering, if that might avail 
 The doomed man aught; so to the cage he came. 
 Whose bars now glowed red hot with spouted flame. 
 In many a place; nor doubted any one 
 Who there beheld him that his days were done. 
 Except his love alone, and even she. 
 Sickening with doubt and terror, scarce could see 
 The hero draw the brazen bolt aside 
 And throw the glowing wicket open wide. 
 
 But he alone, apart from his desire, 
 Stood unarmed, facing those two founts of fire. 
 Yet feared not aught, for hope and fear were dead 
 Within his heart, and utter hardihead 
 Had Juno set there; but the awful beasts 
 Beholding now the best of all their feasts. 
 Roared in their joy and fury, till from sight 
 They and the prince were hidden by the white. 
 Thick rolling clouds of sulphurous pungent smoke, 
 Through which upon the bhnded man they broke. 
 
 But when within a vard of him they came. 
 Baffled they stopped, still bellowing, and the flame 
 Still spouting out from nostril and from mouth. 
 As from some island mountain in the south 
 The trembHng mariners behold it cast; 
 But still to right and left of him it passed. 
 Breaking upon him as cool water might, 
 Nor harming more, except that from his sight
 
 WILLIAM MORRIS I97 
 
 All corners of the cage were hidden now, 
 
 Nor knew he where to seek the brazen plough; 
 
 As to and fro about the quivering cage 
 
 The monsters rushed in blind and helpless rage. 
 But as he doubted, to his eyes alone 
 
 Within the place a golden light outshone. 
 
 Scattering the clouds of smoke, and he beheld 
 
 Once more the Goddess who his head upheld 
 
 In rough Anaurus on that other tide; 
 
 She, smiling on him, beckoned, and 'gan glide 
 
 With rosy feet across the fearful floor, 
 
 Breathing cool odours round her, till a door 
 
 She opened to him in the iron wall. 
 
 Through which he passed, and found a grisly stall 
 
 Of iron still, and at one end of it. 
 
 By glimmering lamps with greenish flame half lit, 
 
 Beheld the yoke and shining plough he sought; 
 
 Which, seizing straight, by mighty strength he brought 
 
 Unto the door, nor found the Goddess there, 
 
 Who in the likeness of a damsel fair, 
 
 Colchian Metharma, through the spearmen passed. 
 
 Bearing them wine, and causeless terror cast 
 
 Into their foolish hearts, nor spared to go 
 
 And 'mid the close seafaring ranks to sow 
 
 Good hope of joyful ending, and then stood 
 
 Behind the maid unseen, and brought the blood 
 
 Back to her cheeks and trembling lips and wan. 
 
 With thoughts of things unknown to maid or man. 
 
 Meanwhile upon the foreheads of the twain 
 Had Jason cast the yoke with little pain. 
 And drove them now with shouts out through the door 
 Which in such guise ne'er had they passed before, 
 For never were they made the earth to till. 
 But rather, feeding fat, to work the will 
 Of some all-knowing man; but novv they went 
 Like any peasant's beasts, tamed by the scent 
 Of those new herbs Medea's hand had plucked, 
 Whose roots from evil earth strange power had sucked. 
 Now in the open field did Jason stand
 
 198 WILLIAM MORRIS 
 
 And to the plough-stilts set his unused hand, 
 
 And down betwixt them lustily he bent; 
 
 Then the bulls drew, and the bright ploughshare sent 
 
 The loathly fallow up on the right side. 
 
 Whilst o'er their bellowing shrilly Jason cried: — 
 
 "Draw nigh, O King, and thy new ploughman see, 
 
 Then mayst thou make me shepherd, too, to thee; 
 
 Nor doubt thou, doing so, from out thy flock 
 
 To lose but one, who ne'er shall bring thee stock, 
 
 Or ram or ewe, nor doubt the grey wolf, King, 
 
 Wood-haunting bear, dragon, or such like thing. 
 
 Ah the straight furrow ! how it mindeth me 
 
 Of the smooth parting of the land-locked sea 
 
 Over against Euboea, and this fire 
 
 Of the fair altar where my joyful sire 
 
 Will pour out wine to Neptune when I come 
 
 Not empty-handed back unto my home." 
 
 Such mocks he said; but when the sunlight broke 
 Upon his armour througii the sulphurous smoke. 
 And showed the lengthening furrow cutting through 
 The ugly fallow as anigh they drew. 
 The joyful Minyas gave a mighty shout; 
 But pale the king sat with brows knit for doubt. 
 Muttering: "Whose counsel hast thou taken, then, 
 To do this thing, which not the best of men 
 Could do unholpen of some sorcery ? 
 Whoso it is, wise were he now to die 
 Ere yet I know him, since for many a day 
 Vainly for death I hope to hear him pray." 
 
 Meanwhile, askance Medea eyed the king. 
 Thinking nought safe until that everything 
 Was finished in the Colchian land, and she 
 No more beheld its shores across the sea; 
 But he, beholding her pale visage, thought 
 Grief like to his such paleness on her brought, 
 And turning to her, said: "How pale thou art! 
 Let not this first foil go unto thine heart 
 Too deeply, since thou knowest certainly,
 
 WILLIAM MORRIS 199 
 
 One way or other this vain fool must die." 
 
 "Father," she said, "a doubt is on me still. 
 
 Some God this is come here our wealth to spill; 
 
 Nor is this first thing easier than the rest." 
 
 Then stammering, she said: "Were it not best 
 
 To give him that which he must have at last. 
 
 Before he slays us ? " But ^etes cast 
 
 A sharp glance at her, and a pang shot through 
 
 His weary heart as half the truth he knew. 
 
 But for one moment, and he made reply 
 
 In passionate words: "Then, daughter, let me die! 
 
 And, ere I die, behold thee led along 
 
 A wretched slave to suffer grief and wrong 
 
 In far-off lands, and ^a at thy back 
 
 Nought but a huge flame hiding woe and wrack, 
 
 Before from out my willing open hand 
 
 This wonder, and the safeguard of my land 
 
 A God shall take; and such this man is not. 
 
 What ! dost thou think because his eyes are hot 
 
 On tender maidens he must be a God? 
 
 Or that because firmly this field he trod 
 
 Well-fenced with magic? Were he like to me, 
 
 Grey-haired and lean, what Godhead wouldst thou see 
 
 In such an one? Hold, then, thy peace of this. 
 
 And thou shalt see thy God full widely miss 
 
 The mark he aims at, when from out the earth 
 
 Spring up those brothers of an evil birth." 
 
 And therewithal he gazed at her, and thought 
 To see the rosy flush by such words brought 
 Across her face; as in the autumn eve, 
 Just as the sun's last half begins to leave 
 The shivering world, both east and west are red. — 
 But calm and pale she turned about her head, 
 And said: "My father, neither were these words 
 My words, nor would I struggle with my lords; 
 Thou art full wise; whatso thine heart would have 
 That do, and heed me not, who fain would save 
 This glory of thy kingdom and of thee. 
 But now look up, and soothly thou shalt see
 
 200 WILLIAM MORRIS 
 
 Mars' acre tilled : the field is ready then, 
 Bid them bring forth the seed that beareth men." 
 ^ Again with her last words the shouts out-broke 
 P>om the seafarers, for, beside the yoke. 
 Before Mars' altar did Prince Jason stand, 
 Holding the wand of olive in his hand, 
 And on the new-turned furrow shone the sun 
 Behind him, and his half-day's work was done. 
 
 And now another marvel : for, behold, 
 As at the furrow's end he slacked his hold 
 Upon the plough-stilts, all the bellowing 
 Wherewith the beasts had made the grim close ring, 
 Fell suddenly, and all the fire died 
 That they were wont erewhile to scatter wide 
 From mouth and nostril, and their loins and knees 
 Stiffened, and they grew nought but images 
 Lifelike but lifeless, wonderful but dead, 
 Such as he makes, who many a day hath fed 
 His furnace with the beechwood, when the clay 
 Has grown beneath his deft hands day by day 
 And all is ready for the casting, then 
 Such things as these he makes for royal men. 
 
 But 'mid the shouts turned Jason to the king. 
 And said: "Fair sir, behold a wondrous thing, 
 And since these beasts have been content to stay 
 Before Mars' altar, from this very day 
 His should they be if they were mine to give." 
 
 "O Jason," said the king, "well mayst thou live 
 For many a day, since thou this deed hast done. 
 But for the Gods, not unto any one 
 Will I give gifts; but let them take from me 
 What once they gave, if so the thing must be. 
 But do thou take this sack from out my hand 
 And cast its seed about the new-tilled land. 
 And watch the issue; and keep words till then, 
 I counsel thee, O luckiest of men." 
 
 Then Jason took the sack, and with it went 
 About that field new turned, and broadcast sent
 
 WILLIAM MORRIS 201 
 
 The white teeth scattering, but or ere he came 
 
 Back to the altar, and the flickering flame, 
 
 He heard from 'neath the earth a muttered sound 
 
 That grew and grew, till all that piece of ground 
 
 Swelled into little hillocks, like as where 
 
 A stricken field was foughten, but that there 
 
 Quiet the heroes' bones lie underneath 
 
 The quivering grasses and the dusky heath; 
 
 But now these heaps the labouring earth upthrew 
 
 About Mars' acre, ever greater grew, 
 
 And still increased the noise, till none could hear 
 
 His fellow speak, and paleness and great fear 
 
 Fell upon all; and Jason only stood 
 
 As stands the stout oak in the poplar wood 
 
 When winds are blowing. 
 
 Then he saw the mounds 
 Bursten asunder, and the muttered sounds 
 Changed into loud strange shouts and warlike clang, 
 As with freed feet at last the earth-born sprang 
 On to the tumbling earth, and the sunlight 
 Shone on bright arms clean ready for the fight. 
 
 But terribly they showed, for through the place 
 Not one there was but had his staring face. 
 With great wide eyes, and lips in a set smile. 
 Turned full on Jason, who, for a short while. 
 Forgot indeed Medea's warning word, 
 And from its golden sheath half drew his sword, 
 But then, remembering all, cried vaHantly: 
 "New born ye are — new slain too shall ye be. 
 Take this, and round about it read your doom. 
 And bid them make new dwellings in the tomb, 
 Wherefrom ye came, nor ever should have passed." 
 
 Therewith the ball among the host he cast. 
 Standing to watch what next that folk would do. 
 But he the ball had smitten turned unto 
 The one who stood by him and like a cup 
 Shattered his head; then the next lifted up 
 His axe and slew the slayer, and straightway 
 Among the rest began a deadly fray.
 
 202 WILLIAM MORRIS 
 
 No man gave back a foot, no breathing spacQ 
 One took or gave within that dreadful place, 
 But where the vanquished stood there was he slain, 
 And straight the conquering arm was raised again 
 To meet its match and in its turn to fall. 
 No tide was there of fainting and recall. 
 No quivering pennon o'er their heads to flit, 
 Nor name or eager shout called over it. 
 No groan of pain, and no despairing cry 
 From him who knows his time has come to die, 
 But passionless each bore him in that fight. 
 Scarce otherwise than as a smith might smite 
 On sounding iron or bright glittering brass. 
 
 So, little by little, did the clamour pass 
 As one by one each fell down in his place. 
 Until at last, midmost the bloody space, 
 One man was left, alive but wounded sore. 
 Who, staring round about and seeing no more 
 His brothers' spears against him, fixed his eyes 
 Upon the queller of those mysteries.' 
 Then dreadfully they gleamed, and with no word, 
 He tottered towards him with uplifted sword. 
 But scarce he made three paces down the field, 
 Ere chill death reached his heart, and on his shield 
 Clattering he fell. So satiate of fight 
 Quickly the earth-born were, and their delight 
 With what it fed on perished, and one hour 
 Ripened the deadly fruit of that fell fiower. 
 
 Then Jason, mocking, cried unto the king: — 
 , "O wonderful, indeed, must be the thing 
 
 Thou guardest with such wondrous guards as these; 
 Make no delay, therefore, but bring the keys 
 That I may see this dear delight of all." 
 
 But on Petes' face a change did fall, 
 As though a mask had been set over it. 
 And smiles of little meaning 'gan to flit 
 O'er his thin lips, as he spake out at last: — 
 "No haste, dear guest, for surely now is passed 
 All enmity from 'twixt us, since I know
 
 WILLIAM MORRIS 203 
 
 How like a God thou art ; and thou shalt go 
 To-morrow to thy ship, to make for Greece; 
 And with no trial more, bear back the fleece 
 Along our streets, and like no conquered thing, 
 But with much scattered flowers and tabouring, 
 Bearing with it great gifts and all my love; 
 And in return, I pray thee, pray to Jove, 
 That I may have a few more years of life, 
 And end at last in honour, free from strife. 
 And now to-night be merry, and let time 
 Be clean forgotten, and bring Saturn's clime 
 And golden days upon our flower-crowned brows. 
 For of the unseen future what man knows?" 
 
 "O King," said Jason, "for these words I praise 
 Thy wisdom much, and wish thee happy days. 
 And I will give thee honour as I can. 
 Naming thee ever as a noble man 
 Through all the lands I come to: and will take 
 Thy gifts, indeed, and thou, for Jason's sake, 
 Shalt have gifts too, whatso thy soul may wish, 
 From out our keel that has escaped the fish." 
 
 So spake those wary foes, fair friends in look. 
 And so in words great gifts thex- gave and took. 
 And had small profit, and small loss thereby. 
 Nor less Medea feigned, but angrily 
 Regarded Jason, and across her brow 
 Drew close her veil, nor doubted the king now 
 Her faith and loyalty. 
 
 So from the place 
 Back toward the town they turned at a soft pace. 
 In guise of folk that hold high festival, • 
 Since straightly had JEetes bid that all 
 Should do the strangers pleasure on that day. 
 But warily went Jason on the way. 
 And through his folk spread words, to take good heed 
 Of what might come, and ready be at need. 
 Nor yet to take vEetes for their friend, 
 Since even then he plotted how to end 
 Their quest and lives: therefore he bade them spare
 
 204 WILLIAM MORRIS 
 
 The wine that night, nor look on damsels fair; 
 But that, the feast done, all should stealthily 
 Get to the quay, and round about to sea 
 Turn Argo's head, and wait like hounds in slip. 
 Holding the oars, within the hollow ship. 
 
 "Nor doubt," said he, "that good and glorious 
 The end shall be, since all the Gods for us 
 Are fighting certainly: but should death come 
 Upon me in this land, then turn back home, 
 Nor wait till they shall lay your bones with mine. 
 Since now I think to go unto the shrine. 
 The while ye wait, and take therefrom the fieece. 
 Not all unholpen, and depart in peace, 
 While yet the barbarous king beholds us dead 
 In dreams alone, or through his waking head 
 The vile plots chase each other for our death." 
 
 These things he said, but scarce above his breath, 
 Unto wise Nestor, who beside him went, 
 Who unto Bute's straight the message sent, 
 And he to Phlias, so the words at last 
 Throughout the wondering seafarers had passed, 
 And so were all made ready for the night. 
 
 But on that eve, with manifold delight, 
 iEetes feasted them in his fair hall; 
 But they, well knowing what might chance to fall, 
 Sat saying little, nor drank deep of wine; 
 Until at last the old king gave the sign 
 To break the feast up, and within a while 
 All seemed asleep throughout the mighty pile. 
 
 All seemed asleep, but now Medea went 
 With beating heart to work out her intent. 
 Scarce doubtful of the end, since only two 
 In all the world, she and vEetes, knew 
 Where the keys were, far from the light of day, 
 Beneath the palace. So, in garments grey, 
 Like the soft creeping twilight did she go, 
 Until she reached a passage far below 
 The river, past whose oozing walls of stone
 
 WILLIAM MORRIS 205 
 
 She and the king alone had ever gone. 
 
 Now she, who thus far had come through the dark, 
 Stopped, and in haste striking a Httle spark 
 From something in her hand, Ht up a lamp, 
 Whose light fell on an iron door, with damp 
 All rusted red, which with a key of brass 
 She opened, and there-through made haste to pass, 
 Shuddering a little, as her feet 'gan tread 
 Upon a dank cold floor, though overhead 
 High-arched the place was, fairly built enow. 
 
 But she across the slippery floor did go 
 Unto the other wall, wherein was built 
 A little aumbrye, with a door o'er-gilt. 
 That with the story of King Athamas, 
 And Phryxus, and the ram all carven was. 
 There did she draw forth from her balmy breast 
 A yellow flowering herb, that straight she pressed 
 Upon the lock, low muttering the while; 
 But soon across her face there passed a smile, 
 As backward in the lock the bolts did turn, 
 And the door opened ; then a golden urn 
 She saw within the aumbrye, whereon she 
 Drew out the thing she sought for eagerly. 
 The seven keys with sere-cloth done about. 
 Then through the dreary door did she pass out, 
 And made it fast, and went her way once more 
 Through the black darkness on from floor to floor. 
 
 And so, being come to Jason, him she found 
 All armed, and ready; therefore, with no sound, 
 She beckoned him to follow, and the twain 
 Passed through the brazen doors, locked all in vain, 
 Such virtue had the herb Medea bore, 
 And passing, did they leave ajar each door, 
 To give more ease unto the Minyse. 
 
 So out into the fresh night silently 
 The lovers passed, the loveliest of the land; 
 But as they went, neither did hand touch hand, 
 Or face seek face; for, gladsome as they were, 
 Trembling with joy to be at last so near
 
 206 WILLIAM MORRIS 
 
 The wished-for day, some God yet seemed to be 
 'Twixt the hard past and their felicity. 
 
 But when they reached the precinct of the God, 
 
 And on the hallowed turf their feet now trod, 
 
 Medea turned to Jason, and she said: — 
 
 "O love, turn round, and note the goodlihead 
 
 My father's palace shows beneath the stars. 
 
 Bethink thee of the men grown old in wars, 
 
 Who do my bidding; what delights I have, 
 
 How many ladies lie in wait to save 
 
 My life from toil and carefulness, and think 
 
 How sweet a cup I have been used to drink. 
 
 And how I cast it to the ground for thee. 
 
 Upon the day thou weariest of me, 
 
 I wish that thou mayst somewhat think of this, 
 
 And 'twixt thy new-found kisses, and the bliss 
 
 Of something sweeter than thine old delight, 
 
 Remember thee a little of this night 
 
 Of marvels, and this starlit, silent place. 
 
 And these two lovers standing face to face." 
 
 "0 love," he said, "by what thing shall I swear, 
 That while I live thou shalt not be less dear 
 Than thou art now ? " 
 
 "Nay, sweet," she said, "let be; 
 Wert thou more fickle than the restless sea, 
 Still should I love thee, knowing thee for such; 
 Whom I know not, indeed, but fear the touch 
 Of Fortune's hand when she beholds our bliss, 
 And knows that nought is good to me but this. 
 
 " But now be ready, for I long full sore 
 To hear the merry dashing of the oar, 
 And feel the freshness of the following breeze 
 That sets me free, and sniff the rough salt seas.
 
 WILLIAM MORRIS 207 
 
 Look I yonder thou mayst see armed shadows steal 
 
 Down to the quays, the guiders of thy keel ; 
 
 Now follow me, though little shalt thou do 
 
 To gain this thing, if Hecate be true 
 
 Unto her servant. Nay, draw not thy sword, 
 
 And, for thy life, speak not a single word 
 
 Until I bid thee, else may all be lost. 
 
 And of this game our lives yet pay the cost." 
 
 Then toward the brazen temple-door she went, 
 Wherefrom, half-open, a faint gleam was sent; 
 For little need of lock it had forsooth, 
 Because its sleepless guardian knew no ruth. 
 And had no lust for precious things or gold, 
 Whom, drawing near, Jason could now behold. 
 As back Medea thrust the heavy door. 
 For prone he lay upon the gleaming floor, 
 Not moving, though his restless, glittering eyes 
 Left them no hope of wile or of surprise. 
 Hideous he was, where all things else were fair; 
 Dull-skinned, foul-spotted, with lank rusty hair 
 About his neck; and hooked yellow claws 
 Just showed from 'neath his belly and huge jaws, 
 Closed in the hideous semblance of a smile. 
 Then Jason shuddered, wondering with what guile 
 That fair king's daughter such a beast could tame. 
 And of his sheathed sword had but little shame. 
 
 But being within the doors, both mantle grey 
 And heavy gowTi Medea cast away, . 
 And in thin clinging silk alone was clad. 
 And round her neck a golden chain she had. 
 Whereto was hung a harp of silver white. 
 Then the great dragon, at that glittering sight, 
 Raised himself up upon his loathly feet, 
 As if to meet her, while her fingers sweet 
 Already moved amongst the golden strings, 
 Preluding nameless and delicious things ; 
 But now she beckoned Jason to her side. 
 For slowly towards them 'gan the beast to glide. 
 And when close to his love the hero came,
 
 208 WILLIAM MORRIS 
 
 She whispered breathlessly: "On me the blame 
 
 If here we perish; if I give the word, 
 
 Then know that all is lost, and draw thy sword, 
 
 And manlike die in battle with the beast; 
 
 So dying shalt thou fail to see at least 
 
 This body thou desiredst so to see, 
 
 In thy despite here mangled wretchedly. 
 
 Peace, for he cometh, O thou Goddess bright, 
 
 What help wilt thou be unto me this night ? " 
 
 So murmured she, while ceaselessly she drew 
 Her fingers through the strings, and fuller grew 
 The tinkling music, but the beast drawn nigh 
 Went slower still, and turning presently 
 Began to move around them in a ring. 
 And as he went, there fell a strange rattling 
 Of his dry scales; but as he turned, she turned, 
 Nor failed to meet the eyes that on her burned 
 With steadfast eyes, and, lastly, clear and strong 
 Her voice broke forth in sweet melodious song: — 
 
 "0 evil thing, what brought thee here 
 To be a wonder and a fear 
 Unto the river-haunting folk ? 
 Was it the God of Day that broke 
 The shadow of thy windless trees. 
 Gleaming from golden palaces. 
 And shod with light, and armed with light, 
 Made thy slime stone, and day thy night, 
 And drove thee forth unwillingly 
 Within his golden house to lie ? 
 
 "Or was it the slim messenger. 
 Who, treading softly, free from fear 
 Beguiled thee with his smiling face 
 From out thy dim abiding place. 
 To follow him and set thee down 
 Midst of this twice-washed royal town ? 
 
 "Or, was it rather the dread Lord 
 WTio slayeth without spear or sword, 
 And with the flower-culling maid
 
 WILLIAM MORRIS 209 
 
 Of Enna, dwelleth in the shade, 
 Who, with stern voice compeUing thee, 
 Hath set thee here, our bane to be? 
 
 "Or was it Venus, seeking far 
 A sleepless guard 'gainst grief and war. 
 Who, journeying through thy dismal land, 
 Beside the heavy lake did stand, 
 And with no word, but very sight 
 Of tender limbs and bosom white. 
 Drew forth thy scaly feet and hard, 
 To follow over rock and shard ? 
 
 "Or rather, thy dull, waveless lake 
 Didst thou not leave for her dread sake. 
 Who, passing swift from glade to glade, 
 The forest-dwellers makes afraid 
 With shimmering of her silver bow 
 And dreadful arrows ? Even so 
 I bid thee now to yield to me. 
 Her maid, who overmastered thee. 
 The Three-formed dreadful one who reigns 
 In heaven and the fiery plains. 
 But on the green earth best of all. 
 
 "Lo, now thine upraised crest let fall. 
 Relax thy limbs, let both thine eyes 
 Be closed, and bestial fantasies 
 Fill thy dull head till dawn of day 
 And we are far upon our way." 
 
 As thus she sung the beast seemed not to hear 
 Her words at first, but ever drew anear. 
 Circling about them, and Medea's face 
 Grew pale unto the lips, though still the place 
 Rung with the piercing sweetness of her song; 
 But slower soon he dragged his length along, 
 And on his limbs he tottered, till at last 
 All feebly by the wondering prince he passed. 
 And whining to Medea's feet he crept, 
 With eyes half closed, as though well-nigh he slept, 
 And there before her laid his head adown; 
 
 S. I.. R. II. 14
 
 210 WILLIAM MORRIS 
 
 Who, shuddering, on his wrinkled neck and brown 
 Set her white foot, and whispered: "Haste, love! 
 Behold the keys; haste! while the Gods above 
 Are friendly to us; there behold the shrine 
 Where thou canst see the lamp of silver shine. 
 Nay, draw not death upon both thee and me 
 With fearless kisses; fear, until the sea 
 Shall fold green arms about us lovingly, 
 And kindly Venus to thy keel be nigh." 
 
 Then lightly from her soft side Jason stept, 
 While still upon the beast her foot she kept, 
 Still murmuring gently many an unknown word, 
 As when through half-shut casements the brown bird 
 We hearken when the night is come in June, 
 And thick-leaved woods are 'twixt us and his tune. 
 
 But Jason, going swiftly with good heart 
 Came to the wished-for shrine built all apart 
 Midmost the temple, that on pillars stood 
 Of jasper green, and marble red as blood, 
 All white itself and carven cunningly 
 With Neptune bringing from the wavy sea 
 The golden shining ram to Athamas ; 
 And the first door thereof of silver was. 
 Wrought over with a golden glittering sun 
 That seemed well-nigh alike the heavenly one. 
 Such art therein the cunningest of men 
 Had used, which little Jason heeded then, 
 But thrusting in the lock the smallest key 
 Of those he bore, it opened easily; 
 And then five others, neither wrought of gold, 
 Or carved with tales, or lovely to behold, 
 He opened; but before the last one stayed 
 His hand, wherein the hea\'y key he weighed, 
 And pondering, in low muttered words he said : — 
 
 "The prize is reached, which yet I somewhat dread 
 To draw unto me; since I know indeed. 
 That henceforth war and toil shall be my meed. — 
 Too late to fear, it was too late, the hour
 
 WILLIAM MORRIS 2II 
 
 I left the grey cliffs and the beechen bower, 
 So here I take hard life and deathless praise, 
 Who once desired nought but quiet days. 
 And painless life, not empty of delight; 
 I, who shall now be quickener of the fight. 
 Named by a great name — a far-babbled name. 
 The ceaseless seeker after praise and fame. 
 
 "May all be well, and on the noisy ways 
 Still may I find some wealth of happy days." 
 
 Therewith he threw the last door open wide, 
 Whose hammered iron did the marvel hide, 
 And shut his dazzled eyes, and stretched his hands 
 Out toward the sea-born wonder of all lands, 
 And plunged them deep within the locks of gold, 
 Grasping the fleece within his mighty hold. 
 
 Which when Medea saw, her gown of grey 
 She caught up from the ground, and drew away 
 Her wearied foot from off the rugged beast. 
 And while from her soft strain she never ceased, 
 In the dull folds she hid her silk from sight. 
 And then, as bending 'neath the burden bright, 
 Jason drew nigh, joyful, yet still afraid. 
 She met him, and her wide grey mantle laid 
 Over the fleece, whispering: "Make no delay; 
 He sleeps, who never slept by night or day 
 Till now; nor will his charmed sleep be long. 
 Light-foot am I, and sure thine arms are strong; 
 Haste, then ! No word ! nor turn about to gaze 
 At me, as he who in the shadowy ways 
 Turned round to see once more the twice-lost face." 
 
 Then swiftly did they leave the dreadful place. 
 Turning no look behind, and reached the street. 
 That with familiar look and kind did greet 
 Those wanderers, mazed with marvels and with fear. 
 And so, unchallenged, did they draw anear 
 The long white quays, and at the street's end now 
 Beheld the ships' masts standing row by row 
 
 14—2
 
 212 WILLIAM MORRIS 
 
 Stark black against the stars : then cautiously 
 Peered Jason forth, ere they took heart to try 
 The open starUt place; but nought he saw 
 Except the night-wind twitching the loose straw 
 From half-unloaded keels, and nought he heard 
 But the strange twittering of a caged green bird 
 With an Indian ship, and from the hill 
 A distant baying: yea, all was so still, 
 Somewhat they doubted, natheless forth they passed, 
 And Argo's painted sides they reached at last. 
 
 On whom down-looking, scarce more noise they heard 
 Than from the other ships; some muttered word. 
 Some creaking of the timbers, as the tide 
 Ran gurgling seaward past her shielded side. 
 Then Jason knelt, and whispered: "Wise be ye, 
 O fair companions on the pathless sea. 
 But come, Erginus, Nestor, and ye twain 
 Of Lacedaemon, to behold my gain; 
 Take me amongst you, neither be afraid 
 To take withal this gold, and this fair maid. 
 Yare ! — for the ebb runs strongly towards the sea. 
 The east wind drives the rack to Thessaly, 
 And lightly do such kings as this one sleep 
 If now and then small watch their servants keep." 
 
 Then saw Medea men like shadows grey. 
 Rise from the darksome decks, who took straightway 
 With murmured joy, from Jason's outstretched hands, 
 The conquered fleece, the wonder of all lands, 
 While with strong arms he raised the royal maid. 
 And in their hold the precious burthen laid, 
 And scarce her dainty feet could touch the deck, 
 Ere down he leapt, and little now did reck 
 That loudly clanged his armour therewithal. 
 
 But, turning townward, did Medea call : — 
 "0 noble Jason, and ye heroes strong, 
 To sea, to sea ! nor pray ye loiter long; 
 For surely shall ye see the beacons flare 
 Ere in mid stream ye are, and running fair 
 On toward the sea with tide, and oar, and sail.
 
 WILLIAM MORRIS 213 
 
 My father wakes, nor bides he to bewail 
 
 His loss and me; I see his turret gleam 
 
 As he goes towards the beacon, and down stream 
 
 Absyrtus lurks before the sandy bar 
 
 In mighty keel well manned and dight for war." 
 
 But as she spoke, rattling the cable slipped 
 From out the hawse-hole, and the long oars dipped 
 As from the quays the heroes pushed away, 
 And in the loosened sail the wind 'gan play; 
 But e'en as they unto the stroke leaned back, 
 And Nauplius, catching at the main-sheet slack 
 Had drawn it taut, out flared the beacon wide, 
 Lighting the waves, and they heard folk who cried : 
 "Awake, awake, awake, Colchian folk!" 
 And all about the blare of horns outbroke. 
 As watch-tower answered watch-tower down the stream, 
 Where far below they saw the bale-fires gleam ; 
 And galloping of horses now they heard, 
 And clang of arms, and cries of men afeard. 
 For now the merchant mariners who lay 
 About the town, thought surely an ill day 
 Had dawned upon them while they slept at ease, 
 And, half awake, pushed madly from the quays 
 With crash of breaking oars and meeting ships, 
 And cries and curses from outlandish lips; 
 So fell the quiet night to turmoil sore. 
 While in the towers, over the uproar. 
 Melodiously the bells began to ring. 
 
 But Argo, leaping forward to the swing 
 Of measured oars, and, leaning to the breeze. 
 Sped swiftly 'twixt the dark and whispering trees; 
 Nor longer now the heroes silence kept, 
 So joyously their hearts within them leapt. 
 But loud they shouted, seeing the Gold Fell 
 Laid heaped before them, and longed sore to tell 
 Their fair adventure to the maids of Greece; 
 And as the mingled noises did decrease 
 With added distance, and behind them night
 
 214 WILLIAM MORRIS 
 
 Grew pale with coming of the eastern light, 
 Across the strings his fingers Orpheus drew, 
 And through the woods his winged music flew: — 
 
 "O surely, now the fisherman 
 Draws homeward through the water wan 
 Across the bay we know so well. 
 And in the sheltered chalky dell 
 The shepherd stirs; and now afield 
 They drive the team with white wand peeled, 
 Muttering across the barley-bread 
 At daily toil and dreary-head. 
 
 "And 'midst them all, perchance, my love 
 Is waking, and doth gentlv move 
 And stretch her soft arms out to me, 
 Forgetting thousand leagues of sea; 
 And now her body I behold, 
 Unhidden but by hair of gold, 
 And now the silver water kiss, 
 The crown of all delight and bliss. 
 And now I see her bind her hair 
 And do upon her raiment fair. 
 And now before the altar stand, 
 With incense in her outstretched hand. 
 To supplicate the Gods for me; 
 Ah, one day landing from the sea. 
 Amid the maidens shall I hear 
 Her voice in praise, and see her near. 
 Holding the gold-wrapt laurel crown, 
 'Midst of the shouting, wondering town ! " 
 
 So sung he jovously, nor knew that they 
 Must wander yet for many an evil day 
 Or ever the dread Gods should let them come 
 Back to the white walls of their long-left home. 
 But on the shouting heroes gazed adown 
 The foundress of their triumph and renown, 
 And to her lover's side still drew anear. 
 With heart now swelled with joy, now sick with fear, 
 And cheeks now flushed with love, now pale and wan,
 
 WILLIAM MORRIS 215 
 
 As now she thought upon that goodly man, 
 And now on the uncertain, dreadful Gods, 
 And now upon her father, and the odds 
 He well might raise against the reckless crew, 
 For all his mighty power full well she knew; 
 No wonder therefore if her heart grew cold. 
 And if her wretched self she did behold, 
 Led helpless through some old familiar place. 
 With none to turn on her a pitying face. 
 Unto the death in life, she still might win ; 
 And yet, if she should 'scape the meed of sin 
 This once, the world was fair and bright enough, 
 And love there was to lead her o'er the rough 
 Of life, and love to crown her head with flowers. 
 And fill her days and nights with happy hours. 
 
 Now swift beneath the oar-strokes Argo flew. 
 While the sun rose behind them, and they drew 
 Unto the river's mouth, nor failed to see 
 Absyrtus' galley waiting watchfully 
 Betwixt them and the white-topped turbid bar. 
 Therefore they gat them ready now for war. 
 With joyful heart, for sharp they sniffed the sea, 
 And saw the great waves tumbling green and free 
 Outside the bar upon the way to Greece, 
 The rough green way to glory and sweet peace. 
 
 Then to the prow gat Jason, and the maid 
 Must needs be with him, though right sore afraid. 
 As nearing now the Colchian ship, they hung 
 On balanced oars; but the wild Areas strung 
 His deadly bow, and clomb into the top. 
 
 Then Jason cried: "Absyrtus, will ye stop 
 Our peaceful keel, or let us take the sea ? 
 Soothly, have we no will to fight with thee 
 If we may pass unfoughten, therefore say, 
 What is it thou wilt have this dawn of day? " 
 
 Now on the other prow Absyrtus stood. 
 His visage red with eager wrathful blood. 
 And in his right hand shook a mighty spear.
 
 2i6 WILLIAM MORRIS 
 
 And said: "O seafarers, ye pass not here, 
 For gifts or prayers, but if it must be so, 
 Over our sunken bulwarks shall ye go ; 
 Nor ask me why, for thus my father wills, 
 Yet, as I now behold you, my heart thrills 
 With wrath indeed; and hearken for what cause, 
 That ye against all friendship and good laws 
 Bear off my sister with you ; wherefore now 
 Mars give you courage and a brazen brow ! 
 That ye may try this dangerous pass in vain, 
 For soothly, of your slaughter am I fain." 
 
 Then Jason wrathfully threw up his head, 
 But ere the shout came, fair Medea said. 
 In trembling whisper thrilling through his ear: — 
 
 "Haste, quick upon them ! if before is fear. 
 Behind is death ! " Then Jason turning, saw 
 A tall ship staggering with the gusty flaw, 
 Just entering the long reach where they were, 
 And heard her horns through the fresh morning air. 
 
 Then Hfted he his hand, and with a cry 
 Back flew the balanced oars full orderly. 
 And toward the doomed ship mighty Argo passed; 
 Thereon Absyrtus shouted loud, and cast 
 His spear at Jason, that before his feet 
 Stuck in the deck; then out the arrows fleet 
 Burst from the Colchians; and scarce did they spare 
 Medea's trembling side and bosom fair; 
 But Jason, roaring as the lioness 
 When round her helpless whelps the hunters press. 
 Whirled round his head his mighty brass-bound spear, 
 That flying, smote the prince beneath the ear. 
 As Areas' arrow sunk into his side. 
 Then falling, scarce he met the rushing tide. 
 Ere Argo's mighty prow had thrust apart 
 The huddled oars, and through the fair ship's heart 
 Had thrust her iron beak, and the green wave 
 Rushed in as rush the waters through a cave 
 That tunnels half a sea-girt lonely rock. 
 Then drawing swiftly backward from the shock.
 
 WILLIAM MORRIS 217 
 
 And heeding not the cries of fear and woe, 
 They left the waters dealing with their foe; 
 And at the following ship threw back a shout, 
 And seaward o'er the bar drave Argo out. 
 
 Then joyful felt all men as now at last 
 From hill to green hill of the sea they passed; 
 But chiefly joyed Medea, as now grew 
 The Colchian hills behind them faint and blue, 
 And like a white speck showed the following ship. 
 There 'neath the canopy, lip pressed to lip. 
 They sat and told their love, till scarce he thought 
 What precious burden back to Greece he brought 
 Besides the maid, nor for his kingdom cared, 
 As on her beauty with wet eyes he stared. 
 And heard her sweet voice soft as in a dream. 
 When all seems gained, and trouble dead does seem. 
 
 So passed this day, and she no less forgot 
 That wreck upon the bar, the evil spot. 
 Red with a brother's blood, where long was stayed 
 The wrathful king as from the stream he weighed 
 The bleeding body of his well-loved son. 
 
 Lo in such wise their journey was begun. 
 And so began short love and long decay. 
 Sorrow that bides and joy that fleets away. 
 
 SIR WALTER SCOTT 
 
 Walter Scott (1771-1832) was the son of an Edinburgh lawyer. He was 
 educated for the law at the Edinburgh High School and the Edinburgh 
 University. Very early he became a great reader of history, romance and 
 ballad poetry — forms of writing in which he himself was to become famous. 
 He began authorship by translating from the German and collecting Border 
 ballads, and for the rest of his days was a most busy writer. Poems like 
 The Lay of the Last Minstrel, Mannion and The Lady of the Lake interested 
 many thousands of readers in Scottish history and scenery, till then scarcely 
 known in England; and when from poems he turned to prose and wrote 
 the famous set of Waverley novels, his popularity grew to extraordinary 
 proportions. Whatever he wrote was not only good; it was new of its kind 
 and gave readers of the time quite fresh sensations of delight. Sir Walter 
 was a great lover of books, but there were few aspects of life in which he 
 
 I
 
 2i8 SIR WALTER SCOTT 
 
 was not interested. He was a great writer and he was also a great gentle- 
 man. His hfe by Lockhart is a fine biography. The passage that follows 
 IS taken from one of his best novels, The Antiquary. Mr Jonathan Oldbuck 
 of Monkbarns is an eccentric old Scottish "laird" with a great passion for 
 antiquities and old learning. Sir Arthur Wardour is an old friend and neigh- 
 bour, very proud of his ancestors. At the Antiquary's house is Mr Lovel 
 a young stranger, who has fallen in love with Miss Isabella Wardour Sir 
 Arthur's daughter. Miss Oldbuck and Miss M'Intyre are two of' the 
 Antiquary's relatives— his "womenkind" as he calls them. Edie Ochiltree 
 a shrewd old soldier, is now "a blue-gown," a wanderer hcensed to beg' 
 Sir Arthur and Miss Wardour come from their house at Knockwinnock to 
 dine with the Antiquary at Monkbarns. After dinner, a discussion between 
 the two old cronies over a point of antiquarian lore becomes soon a heated 
 argument, and then something like a serious quarrel. 
 
 A RESCUE FROM THE ROCKS 
 I 
 
 "If you mean the observation as a sneer at my ancestry," said 
 the knight, with an assumption of dignified superiority and com- 
 posure, "I have the pleasure to inform you, that the name of 
 my ancestor, Gamelyn de Guardover, Miles, is written fairly with 
 his own hand in the earliest copy of the Ragman-roll." 
 
 "Which only serves to show that he was one of the earhest who 
 set the mean example of submitting to Edward I. What have 
 you to say for the stainless loyalty of your family. Sir Arthur, 
 after such a backsliding as that } " 
 
 "It's enough, sir," said Sir Arthur, starting up fiercely, and 
 pushing back his chair, "I shall hereafter take care how I honour 
 with my company one who shows himself so ungrateful for my 
 condescension." 
 
 "In that you will do as you find most agreeable. Sir Arthur; I 
 hope, that as I was not aware of the extent of the obligation which 
 you have done me,^ by visiting my poor house, I may be excused 
 for not having carried my gratitude to the extent of servihty." 
 
 "Mighty well— mighty well, Mr Oldbuck— I wish you a' good 
 evenmg. Mr a— a— a— Shovel— I wish you a very good evening." 
 
 Out of the parlour door flounced the incensed Sir Arthur, as if 
 the spirit of the whole Round Table inflamed his single bosom, 
 and traversed with long strides the labvrinth of passages which 
 conducted to the drawing-room. 
 
 "Did you ever hear such an old tub-headed ass.? " said Oldbuck,
 
 SIR WALTER SCOTT 219 
 
 briefly apostrophising Lovel, "but I must not let him go in this 
 mad-like way neither." 
 
 So saying, he pushed off after the retreating Baronet, whom he 
 traced by the clang of several doors which he opened in search of 
 the apartment for tea, and slammed with force behind him at 
 every disappointment. "You'll do yourself a mischief," roared the 
 Antiquary ; "Qui ambulat in tenebris, nescit quovadit — you'll tumble 
 down the back-stair" 
 
 Sir Arthur had now got involved in darkness, of which the 
 sedative effect is well known to nurses and governesses who have 
 to deal with pettish children. It retarded the pace of the irritated 
 Baronet, if it did not abate his resentment, and Mr Oldbuck, 
 better acquainted vnth. the locale, got up with him as he had got 
 his grasp upon the handle of the dramng-room door, 
 
 "Stay a minute. Sir Arthur," said Oldbuck, opposing his abrupt 
 entrance; "don't be quite so hasty, my good old friend — I was a 
 little too rude with you about Sir Gamelyn — why, he is an old 
 acquaintance of mine, man, and a favourite — he kept company 
 with Bruce and Wallace — and, I'll be sworn on a black-letter 
 Bible, only subscribed the Ragman-roll with the legitimate and 
 justifiable intention of circumventing the false Southern — 'twas 
 right Scottish craft, my good knight — hundreds did it — come, 
 come, forget and forgive — confess we have given the young fellow 
 here a right to think us two testy old fools." 
 
 "Speak for yourself, Mr Jonathan Oldbuck," said Sir Arthur, 
 with much majesty. 
 
 "A-well, a-well — a wilful man must have his way." 
 With that the door opened, and into the drawing-room marched 
 the tall, gaunt form of Sir Arthur, followed by Lovel and Mr 
 Oldbuck, the countenances of all the three a little discomposed. 
 
 "I have been waiting for you, sir," said Miss Wardour, "to 
 propose we should walk forward to meet the carriage, as the 
 evening is so fine." 
 
 Sir Arthur readilv assented to this proposal, which suited the 
 angry mood in which he found himself; and having, agreeably to 
 the e'stablished custom in cases of pet, refused the refreshment of 
 tea and coffee, he tucked his daughter under his arm; and, after 
 taking a ceremonious leave of the ladies, and a very dry one of 
 Oldbuck — off he marched.
 
 220 SIR WALTER SCOTT 
 
 " I think Sir Arthur has got the black dog on his back again," 
 said Miss Oldbuck. 
 
 "Black dog! — black devil! — he's more absurd than woman- 
 kind. WTiat say you, Lovel? Why, the lad's gone too." 
 
 "He took his leave, uncle, while Miss Wardour was putting on 
 her things; but I don't think you observed him." 
 
 "The devil's in the people! This is all one gets by fussing and 
 bustling, and putting one's self out of one's way in order to give 
 dinners, besides all the charges they are put to ! O Seged, Emperor 
 of Ethiopia ! " said he, taking up a cup of tea in the one hand, and 
 a volume of the Rambler in the other — for it was his regular 
 custom to read while he was eating or drinking in presence of his 
 sister, being a practice which served at once to evince his contempt 
 for the society of womankind, and his resolution to lose no moment 
 of instruction — "0 Seged, Emperor of Ethiopia! well hast thou 
 spoken — No man should presume to say, This shall be a day of 
 happiness." 
 
 Oldbuck proceeded in his studies for the best part of an hour, 
 uninterrupted by the ladies, who each, in profound silence, 
 pursued some female emplo}anent. At length, a light and modest 
 tap was heard at the parlour door. "Is that you, Caxon? — come 
 in, come in, man." 
 
 The old man opened the door, and thnisting in his meagre 
 face, thatched with thin grey locks, and one sleeve of his white 
 coat, said, in a subdued and mysterious tone of voice, "I was 
 wanting to speak to you, sir." 
 
 "Come in then, you old fool, and say what you have got 
 to say." 
 
 "I'll maybe frighten the ladies," said the ex-friseur. 
 
 "Frighten!" answered the Antiquary, "What do you mean? — 
 never mind the ladies. Have you seen another ghaist at the 
 Humlock-know ? " 
 
 "Na, sir, it's no a ghaist this turn," repHed Caxon; "but I'm 
 no easy in my mind." 
 
 "Did you ever hear of any body that was? " answered Oldbuck; 
 "what reason has an old battered powder-puff like you to be easy 
 in your mind, more than all the rest of the world besides? " 
 
 "It's no for mvsell, sir; but it threatens an awfu' night; and 
 Sir Arthur, and Miss Wardour, poor thing "
 
 SIR WALTER SCOTT 221 
 
 "Why, man, they must have met the carriage at the head of 
 the loaning, or thereabouts; they must be home long ago." 
 
 "Na, sir; they didna gang the road bv the turnpike to meet 
 the carriage, they gaed bv the sands." 
 
 The words operated like electricity on Oldbuck. "The sands!" 
 he exclaimed; "impossible!" 
 
 "Ou, sir, that's what I said to the gardener; but he says he saw 
 them turn down by the Musselcraig — in troth, says I to him, an 
 that be the case, Davie, I am misdoubting " 
 
 "An almanack! an almanack!" said Oldbuck, starting up in 
 great alarm — "not that bauble!" flinging away a little pocket 
 almanack which his niece offered him — "Great God! my poor 
 dear Miss Isabella ! Fetch me instantly the Fairport Almanack." 
 It was brought, consulted, and added greatly to his agitation. 
 "I'll go myself — call the gardener and ploughman — bid them 
 bring ropes and ladders — bid them raise more help as they come 
 along — keep the top of the cliffs, and halloo down to them — I'll 
 go myself." 
 
 "What is the matter?" inquired Miss Oldbuck and Miss 
 M'Intyre. 
 
 "The tide! — the tide!" answered the alarmed Antiquary. 
 
 "Had not Jenny better — but no, I'll run myself," said the 
 younger lady, partaking in all her uncle's terrors — "I'll run myself 
 to Saunders Mucklebackit, and make him get out his boat." 
 
 "Thank you, my dear, that's the wisest word that has been 
 spoken yet — -run ! run ! To go by the sands !" seizing his hat and 
 cane; "was there ever such madness heard of!" 
 
 Pleased awhile to view 
 The watery waste, the prospect wild and new; 
 The now receding waters gave them space, 
 On either side, the growing shores to trace; 
 And then, returning, they contract the scene. 
 Till small and smaller grows the walk between. 
 
 Crabbe. 
 
 The information of Davie Dibble, which had spread such 
 general alarm at Monkbarns, proved to be strictly correct. Sir 
 Arthur and his daughter had set out, according to their first
 
 222 SIR WALTER SCOTT 
 
 proposal, to return to Knoclcvvinnock by the turnpike road; but 
 when they reached the head of the loaning, as it was called, or 
 great lane, which on one side made a sort of avenue to the house of 
 Monkbarns, they discerned, a little way before them, Lovel, who 
 seemed to linger on the way as if to give him an opportunity to 
 join them. Miss Wardour immediately proposed to her father 
 that they should take another direction; and, as the weather was 
 fine, walk home by the sands, which, stretching below a picturesque 
 ridge of rocks, afforded at almost all times a pleasanter passage 
 between Knockwinnock and Monkbarns than the high-road. 
 
 Sir Arthur acquiesced willingly, "It would be unpleasant," he 
 said, "to be joined by that young fellow, whom Mr Oldbuck had 
 taken the freedom to introduce them to." And his old-fashioned 
 politeness had none of the ease of the present day, which permits 
 you, if you have a mind, to cut the person you have associated with 
 for a week, the instant you feel or suppose yourself in a situation 
 which makes it disagreeable to own him. Sir Arthur only stipu- 
 lated, that a little ragged boy, for the guerdon of one penny 
 sterling, should run to meet his coachman, and turn his equipage 
 back to Knoclavinnock. 
 
 When this was arranged, and the emissary despatched, the 
 knight and his daughter left the high-road, and following a 
 wandering path among sandy hillocks, partly grown over with 
 furze and the long grass called bent, soon attained the side of the 
 ocean. The tide was by no means so far out as they had computed; 
 but this gave them no alarm; there were seldom ten days in the 
 year when it approached so near the cliffs as not to leave a dry 
 passage. But, nevertheless, at periods of spring-tide, or even 
 when the ordinary flood was accelerated by high winds, this road 
 was altogether covered by the sea; and tradition had recorded 
 several fatal accidents which had happened on such occasions. 
 Still, such dangers were considered as remote and improbable; 
 and rather served, with other legends, to amuse the hamlet fireside, 
 than to prevent any one from going between Knockwinnock and 
 Monkbarns by the sands. 
 
 As Sir Arthur and Miss Wardour paced along, enjoying the 
 pleasant footing afforded by the cool moist hard sand. Miss 
 Wardour could not help observing that the last tide had risen 
 considerably above the usual water-mark. Sir Arthur made the 
 
 \
 
 SIR WALTER SCOTT 223 
 
 same observation, but without its occurring to either of them to 
 be alarmed at the circumstance. The sun was now resting his 
 huge disk upon the edge of the level ocean, and gilded the accumu- 
 lation of towering clouds through which he had travelled the 
 livelong day, and which now assembled on all sides, like misfortunes 
 and disasters around a sinking empire, and falling monarch. Still, 
 however, his dying splendour gave a sombre magnificence to the 
 massive congregation of vapours, forming out of their unsubstantial 
 gloom, the show of pyramids and towers, some touched with gold, 
 some 'W'ith purple, some with a hue of deep and dark red. The 
 distant sea, stretched beneath this varied and gorgeous canopy, 
 lay almost portentously still, reflecting back the dazzling and 
 level beams of the descending luminary, and the splendid colouring 
 of the clouds amidst which he was setting. Nearer to the beach, 
 the tide rippled onward in waves of sparkling silver, that im 
 perceptibly, yet rapidly, gained upon the sand. 
 
 With a mind employed in admiration of the romantic scene, or 
 perhaps on some more agitating topic, Miss Wardour advanced in 
 silence by her father's side, whose recently offended dignity did 
 not stoop to open any conversation. Following the windings of 
 the beach, they passed one projecting point or headland of rock 
 after another, and now found themselves under a huge and con- 
 tinued extent of the precipices by which that iron-bound coast 
 is in most places defended. Long projecting reefs of rock, extending 
 under water, and only evincing their existence by here and there 
 a peak entirely bare, or by the breakers which foamed over those 
 that were partially covered, rendered Knockwinnock bay dreaded 
 by pilots and ship-masters. The crags which rose between the 
 beach and the mainland, to the height of two or three hundred 
 feet, afforded in their crevices shelter for unnumbered sea-fowl, 
 in situations seemingly secured by their dizzy height from the 
 rapacity of man. Many of these wild tribes, with the instinct 
 which sends them to seek the land before a storm arises, were 
 now wdnging towards their nests with the shrill and dissonant clang 
 which announces disquietude and fear. The disk of the sun became 
 almost totally obscured ere he had altogether sunk below the 
 horizon, and an early and lurid shade of darkness blotted the 
 serene twilight of a summer evening. The wind began next to 
 arise; but its wild and moaning sound was heard for some time,
 
 224 SIR WALTER SCOTT 
 
 and its effect became visible on the bosom of the sea before the 
 gale was felt on shore. The mass of waters, now dark and threaten- 
 ing, began to lift itself in larger ridges, and sink in deeper furrows, 
 forming waves that rose high in foam upon the breakers, or burst 
 upon the beach with a sound resembling distant thunder. 
 
 Appalled by this sudden change of weather. Miss Wardour 
 drew close to her father, and held his arm fast. " I wish," at length 
 she said, but aknost in a whisper, as if ashamed to express her 
 increasing apprehensions— "I wish we had kept the road we 
 intended, or waited at Monkbarns for the carriage." 
 
 Sir Arthur looked round, but did not see, or would not acknow- 
 ledge, any signs of an immediate storm. They would reach Knock- 
 winnock, he said, long before the tempest began. But the speed 
 with which he walked, and with which Isabella could hardly keep 
 pace, indicated a feehng that some exertion was necessary to 
 accomplish his consolatory prediction. 
 
 They were now near the centre of a deep but narrow bay, or 
 recess, formed by two projecting capes of high and inaccessible 
 rock, which shot out into the sea like the horns of a crescent; and 
 neither durst communicate the apprehension which each began 
 to entertain, that, from the unusually rapid advance of the tide, 
 they might be deprived of the power of proceeding by doubling 
 the promontory which lay before them, or of retreating by the 
 road which brought them thither. 
 
 As they pressed forward, longing doubtless to exchange the 
 easy curving line, which the sinuosities of the bay compelled them 
 to adopt, for a straighter and more expeditious path, though less 
 conformable to the line of beauty, Sir Arthur observed a human 
 figure on the beach advancing to meet them. "Thank God," he 
 exclaimed, "we shall get round Halket-head! that person must 
 have passed it"; thus giving vent to the feeling of hope, though 
 he had suppressed that of apprehension. 
 
 "Thank God indeed!" echoed his daughter, half audibly, half 
 internally, as expressing the gratitude which she strongly felt. 
 
 The figure which advanced to meet them made many signs, 
 which the haze of the atmosphere, now disturbed by wind and a 
 drizzling rain, prevented them from seeing or comprehending 
 distinctly. Some time before they met, Sir Arthur could recognise 
 the old blue-gowned beggar, Edie Ochiltree. It is said that even
 
 SIR WALTER SCOTT 225 
 
 the brute creation lay aside their animosities and antipathies 
 when pressed by an instant and common danger. The beach 
 under Halket-head, rapidly diminishing in extent by the en- 
 croachments of the spring-tide and a north-west wind, was in like 
 manner a neutral field, where even a justice of peace and a strolling 
 mendicant might meet upon terms of mutual forbearance. 
 
 "Turn back! turn back!" exclaimed the vagrant; "why did ye 
 not turn when I waved to you ? " 
 
 "We thought," replied Sir Arthur, in great agitation, "we 
 thought we could get round Halket-head." 
 
 "Halket-head ! The tide will be running on Halket-head by this 
 time like the Fall of Fyers ! It was a' I could do to get round it 
 twenty minutes since — it was coming in three feet abreast. We 
 will maybe get back by Ballyburgh Ness Point yet. The Lord 
 help us, it's our only chance. We can but try." 
 
 "My God, my child ! " "My father ! my dear father ! " exclaimed 
 the parent and daughter, as, fear lending them strength and speed, 
 they turned to retrace their steps, and endeavoured to double 
 the point, the projection of which formed the southern extremity 
 of the bay. 
 
 "I heard ye were here, frae the bit callant^ ye sent to meet your 
 carriage," said the beggar, as he trudged stoutly on a step or two 
 behind Miss Wardour, "and I couldna bide to think o' the dainty 
 young leddy's peril, that has aye been kind to ilka forlorn heart 
 that cam near her. Sae I lookit at the Hft and the rin o''the tide, 
 till I settled it that if I could get down time enough to gie you 
 warning, we wad do weel yet. But I doubt, I doubt, I have been 
 beguiled! for what mortal ee ever saw sic a race as the tide is 
 rinning e'en now ? See, yonder's the Ration's Skerry ^ — he aye held 
 his neb^ abune* the water in my day — but he's aneath it now." 
 
 Sir Arthur cast a look in the direction in which the old man 
 pointed. A huge rock, which in general, even in spring-tides, 
 displayed a hulk like the keel of a large vessel, was now quite 
 under water, and its place only indicated by the boiling and 
 breaking of the eddying waves which encountered its submarine 
 resistance. 
 
 "Mak haste, mak haste, my bonny leddy," continued the old 
 man, "mak haste, and we may do yet ! Tak baud o' my arm — an 
 1 little fellow. ^ rock. ^ nose. * above. 
 
 S. L. R. II. *5
 
 226 SIR WALTER SCOTT 
 
 auld and frail arm it's now, but it's been in as sair stress as this is 
 yet. Tak haud o' my arm, my winsome leddy ! D'ye see yon wee 
 black speck amang the wallowing waves yonder? This morning 
 it was as high as the mast o' a brig — it's sma' eneugh now — but, 
 while I see as muckle black about it as the crown o' my hat, I 
 winna believe but we'll get round the Ballyburgh Ness, for a' 
 that's come and gane yet." 
 
 Isabella, in silence, accepted from the old man the assistance 
 which Sir Arthur was less able to afford her. The waves had now 
 encroached so much upon the beach, that the firm and smooth 
 footing which they had hitherto had on the sand must be exchanged 
 for a rougher path close to the foot of the precipice, and in some 
 places even raised upon its lower ledges. It would have been 
 utterly impossible for Sir Arthur Wardour or his daughter to have 
 found their way along these shelves without the guidance and 
 encouragement of the beggar, who had been there before in high 
 tides, though never, he acknowledged, "in sae awsome a night as 
 this." 
 
 It was indeed a dreadful evening. The howling of the storm 
 mingled with the shrieks of the sea-fowl, and sounded like the 
 dirge of the three devoted beings, who, pent between two of the 
 most magnificent, yet most dreadful objects of nature — a raging 
 tide and an insurmountable precipice — toiled along their painful 
 and dangerous path, often lashed by the spray of some giant 
 billow, which threw itself higher on the beach than those that had 
 preceded it. Each minute did their enemy gain ground perceptibly 
 upon them ! Still, however, loth to relinquish the last hopes of 
 life, they bent their eyes on the black rock pointed out by Ochiltree. 
 It was yet distinctly visible among the breakers, and continued 
 to be so, until they came to a turn in their precarious path, where 
 an intervening projection of rock hid it from their sight. Deprived 
 of the view of the beacon on which they had relied, they now 
 experienced the double agony of terror and suspense. They 
 struggled forward, however; but, when they arrived at the point 
 from which they ought to have seen the crag, it was no longer 
 visible. The signal of safety was lost among a thousand white 
 breakers, which, dashing upon the point of the promontory, rose 
 in prodigious sheets of snowy foam, as high as the masts of a first- 
 rate man-of-war, against the dark brow of the precipice.
 
 / 
 
 ^^iiUMt 
 
 \:„iMu^' 
 
 
 SIR WALTER SCOTT 
 Chantrey
 
 SIR WALTER SCOTT 227 
 
 The countenance of the old man fell. Isabella gave a faint 
 shriek, and, "God have mercy upon us ! " which her guide solemnly 
 uttered, was piteously echoed by Sir Arthur — "My child! my 
 child ! — to die such a death ! " 
 
 "My father! my dear father!" his daughter exclaimed, clinging 
 to him — " and you too, who have lost your own life in endeavouring 
 to save ours ? " 
 
 "That's not worth the counting," said the old man. " I hae lived 
 to be weary o' life; and here or yonder — at the back o' a dyke, in 
 a wreath o' snaw, or in the wame o' a wave, what signifies how the 
 auld gaberlunzie^ dies?" 
 
 "Good man," said Sir Arthur, "can you think of nothing? — 
 of no help? I'll make you rich — I'll give you a farm — I'll " 
 
 "Our riches will be soon equal," said the beggar, looking out 
 upon the strife of the waters — "they are sae already; for I hae 
 nae land, and you would give your fair bounds and barony for a 
 square yard of rock that would be dry for twal hours." 
 
 While they exchanged these words, they paused upon the 
 highest ledge of rock to which they could attain; for it seemed 
 that any further attempt to move forward could only serve to 
 anticipate their fate. Here, then, they were to await the sure 
 though slow progress of the raging element, something in the 
 situation of the martyrs of the early church, who, exposed by 
 heathen tyrants to be slain by wild beasts, were compelled for a 
 time to witness the impatience and rage by which the animals 
 were agitated, while awaiting the signal for undoing their grates, 
 and letting them loose upon the victims. 
 
 Yet even this fearful pause gave Isabella time to collect the 
 powers of a mind naturally strong and courageous, and which 
 rallied itself at this terrible juncture. "Must we yield life," she 
 said, "without a struggle? Is there no path, however dreadful, by 
 which we could chmb the crag, or at least attain some height above 
 the tide, where we could remain till morning, or till help comes ? 
 They must be aware of our situation, and will raise the country to 
 reheve us." 
 
 Sir Arthur, who heard, but scarcely comprehended, his daughter's 
 question, turned, nevertheless, instinctively and eagerly to the 
 old man, as if their lives were in his gift. Ochiltree paused. "I 
 
 1 beggar. 
 
 15—2
 
 228 SIR WALTER SCOTT 
 
 was a bauld craigsman," he said, "ance in my life, and mony a 
 kittywake's and lungie's^ nest hae I harried up amang thae very 
 black rocks; but it's lang, lang syne, and nae mortal could speeP 
 them without a rope— and if I had ane, my ee-sight, and my foot- 
 step, and my hand-grip hae a' failed mony a day sinsyne — and 
 then how could I save youl But there was a path here ance, 
 though maybe, if we could see it, ye would rather bide where we 
 are. His name be praised!" he ejaculated suddenly, "there's ane 
 coming down the crag e'en now!" Then, exalting his voice, he 
 hilloa'd out to the daring adventurer such instructions as his 
 former practice and the remembrance of local circumstances 
 suddenly forced upon his mind: — "Ye' re right — ye' re right? that 
 gate — that gate! — fasten the rope weel round Crummie's-horn, 
 that's the muckle black stane — cast twa plies round it — that's it ! 
 — now, weize^ yoursell a wee easel-ward^ — a wee mair yet to that 
 ither stane — we ca'd it the Cat's-lug — there used to be the root 
 o' an aik-tree there — that will do ! — canny now, lad — canny now — 
 tak tent and tak time — Lord bless ye, tak time. Vera weel ! 
 Now ye maun get to Bessy's Apron, that's the muckle braid flat 
 blue stane — and then, I think, wi' your help and the tow thegither, 
 I'll win at ye, and then we'll be able to get up the young leddy 
 and Sir Arthur." 
 
 The adventurer, following the directions of old Edie, flung him 
 down the end of the rope, which he secured around Miss Wardour, 
 wrapping her previously in his own blue gown, to preserve her as 
 much as possible from injury. Then, availing himself of the rope, 
 which was made fast at the other end, he began to ascend the face 
 of the crag — a most precarious and dizzy undertaking, which, 
 however, after one or two perilous escapes, placed him safe on 
 the broad flat stone beside our friend Lovel. Their joint strength 
 was able to raise Isabella to the place of safety which they had 
 attained. Lovel then descended in order to assist Sir Arthur, 
 around whom he adjusted the rope; and again mounting to their 
 place of refuge, with the assistance of old Ochiltree, and such aid 
 as Sir Arthur himself could afford, he raised himself beyond the 
 reach of the billows. 
 
 The sense of reprieve from approaching and apparently inevit- 
 able death had its usual effect. The father and daughter threw 
 ^ guillemot. ^ climb. ^ turn. * eastward.
 
 SIR WALTER SCOTT 229 
 
 themselves into each other's arms, kissed and wept for joy, 
 ahhough their escape was connected with the prospect of passing 
 a tempestuous night upon a precipitous ledge of rock, which scarce 
 afforded footing for the four shivering beings, who now, like the 
 sea-fowl around them, clung there in hopes of some shelter from 
 the devouring element which raged beneath. The spray of the 
 billows, which attained in fearful succession the foot of the pre- 
 cipice, overflowing the beach on which they so lately stood, flew 
 as high as their place of temporary refuge; and the stunning 
 sound with which they dashed against the rocks beneath, seemed 
 as if they still demanded the fugitives in accents of thunder as 
 their destined prey. It was a summer night doubtless; yet the 
 probability was slender, that a frame so delicate as that of Miss 
 Wardour should survive till morning the drenching of the spray; 
 and the dashing of the rain, which now burst in full violence, 
 accompanied with deep and heavy gusts of wind, added to the 
 constrained and perilous circumstances of their situation. 
 
 "The lassie! — the puir sweet lassie!" — said the old man; 
 "mony such a night have I weathered at hame and abroad, but, 
 God guide us, how can she ever win through it I " 
 
 His apprehension was communicated in smothered accents to 
 Lovel ; for, with the sort of freemasonry by which bold and ready 
 spirits correspond in moments of danger, and become almost 
 instinctively known to each other, they had established a mutual 
 confidence. "I'll climb up the cHff again," said Lovel, "there's 
 daylight enough left to see my footing; I'll climb up and call for 
 more assistance." 
 
 "Do so, do so, for heaven's sake!" said Sir Arthur, eagerly. 
 
 "Are ye mad?" said the mendicant: "Francie o' Fowlsheugh, 
 and he was the best craigsman that ever speel'd heugh^ (mair by 
 token, he brake his neck upon the Dunbuy of Slaines), wadna 
 hae ventured upon the Halket-head craigs after sundown — it's 
 God's grace, and a great wonder besides, that ye are not in the 
 middle o' that roaring sea wi' what ye hae done already — I didna 
 think there w^as the man left alive would hae come down the 
 craigs as ye did. I question an I could hae done it mysell, at this 
 hour and in this weather, in the youngest and yaldest^ of my 
 
 1 ever climbed crag. ^ most active.
 
 230 SIR WALTER SCOTT 
 
 strength. But to venture up again — it's a mere and a clear tempting 
 o' Providence." 
 
 "I have no fear," answered Lovel; "I marked all the stations 
 perfectly as I came down, and there is still light enough left to see 
 them quite well — I am sure T can do it with perfect safety. Stay 
 here, my good friend, by Sir Arthur and the young lady." 
 
 "Deil be in my feet then," answered the bedesman, sturdily; 
 "if ye gang, I'll gang too, for between the twa o' us, we'll hae mair 
 than wark eneugh to get to the tap o' the heugh." 
 
 "No, no — stay you here and attend to Miss Wardour — you see 
 Sir Arthur is quite exhausted." 
 
 "Stay yoursell then, and I'll gae," said the old man; "let death 
 spare the green corn, and take the ripe." 
 
 "Stay both of you, I charge you," said Isabella, faintly; "I 
 am well, and can spend the night very well here — I feel quite 
 refreshed." So saying, her voice failed her — she sunk down, and 
 would have fallen from the crag, had she not been supported by 
 Lovel and Ochiltree, who placed her in a posture half sitting, half 
 reclining, beside her father, who, exhausted by fatigue of body 
 and mind so extreme and unusual, had already sat down on a 
 stone in a sort" of stupor. 
 
 "It is impossible to leave them," said Lovel — "what is to be 
 done ? Hark ! hark ! — did I not hear a halloo ? " 
 
 "The skreigh of a Tammie Norie\" answered Ochiltree, "I ken 
 the skirl weel." 
 
 "No, by Heaven!" replied Lovel, "it was a human voice." 
 A distant hail was repeated, the sound plainly distinguishable 
 among the various elemental noises, and the clang of the sea-mews 
 by which they were surrounded. The mendicant and Lovel 
 exerted their voices in a loud halloo, the former waving Miss 
 Wardour's handkerchief on the end of his staff to make them 
 conspicuous from above. Though the shouts were repeated, it was 
 some time before they were in exact response to their own, leaving 
 the unfortunate sufferers uncertain whether, in the darkening 
 twilight and increasing storm, they had made the persons who 
 apparently were traversing the verge of the precipice to bring 
 them assistance, sensible of the place in which they had found 
 
 ^ scream of a puffin.
 
 SIR WALTER SCOTT 231 
 
 refuge. At length their halloo was regularly and distinctly 
 answered, and their courage confirmed, by the assurance that they 
 were within hearing, if not within reach, of friendly assistance. 
 
 Ill 
 
 There is a cliff, whose high and bending head 
 Looks fearfully on the confined deep; 
 Bring me but to the very brim of it, 
 And I'll repair the misery thou dost bear. 
 
 King Lear. 
 
 The shout of human voices from above was soon augmented, 
 and the gleam, of torches mingled with those lights of evening which 
 still remained amidst the darkness of the storm. Some attempt 
 was made to hold communication between the assistants above 
 and the sufferers beneath, who were still clinging to their precarious 
 place of safety; but the howHng of the tempest limited their inter- 
 course to cries as inarticulate as those of the winged denizens of 
 the crag, which shrieked in chorus, alarmed by the reiterated 
 sound of human voices, where they had seldom been heard. 
 
 On the verge of the precipice an anxious group had now as- 
 sembled. Oldbuck was the foremost and most earnest, pressing 
 forward with unwonted desperation to the very brink of the crag, 
 and extending his head (his hat and wig secured by a handkerchief 
 under his chin) over the dizzy height, with an air of determination 
 which made his more timorous assistants tremble. 
 
 "Haud a care, haud a care, Monkbarns!" cried Caxon, clinging 
 to the skirts of his patron, and withholding him from danger as 
 far as his strength permitted — "God's sake, haud a care! — Sir 
 Arthur's drowned already, and an ye fa' over the cleugh^ too, 
 there will be but ae wig left in the parish, and that's the 
 minister's." 
 
 "Mind the peak there," cried Mucklebackit, an old fisherman 
 and smuggler — "mind the peak. Steenie, Steenie Wilks, bring up 
 the tackle — I'se warrant we'll sune heave them on board, Monk- 
 barns, wad ye but stand out o' the gate." 
 
 "I see them," said Oldbuck — "I see them low down on that 
 flat stone. Hilli-hilloa ! hilli-ho-a ! " 
 
 ^ precipice.
 
 232 SIR WALTER SCOTT 
 
 "I see them mysell weel eneugh," said Mucklebackit; "they 
 are sitting down yonder Hke hoodie-craws in a mist; but d'ye 
 think ye'll help them wi' skirhng that gate^ like an auld skart ^ 
 before a flaw^ o' weather? Steenie, lad, bring up the mast. Odd, 
 I'se hae them up as we used to bouse^ up the kegs o' gin and 
 brandy lang syne. Get up the pickaxe, make a step for the mast — 
 make the chair fast with the rattlin — haul taut and belay!" 
 
 The fishers had brought with them the mast of a boat, and as 
 half the country fellows about had now appeared, either out of 
 zeal or curiosity, it was soon sunk in the ground, and sufficiently 
 secured. A yard, across the upright mast, and a rope stretched 
 along it, and reeved through a block at each end, formed an 
 extempore crane, which afforded the means of lowering an arm- 
 chair, well secured and fastened, down to the flat shelf on which 
 the sufferers had roosted. Their joy at hearing the preparations 
 going on for their deliverance was considerably qualified when 
 they beheld the precarious vehicle by means of which they were 
 to be conveyed to upper air. It swung about a yard free of the 
 spot which they occupied, obeying each impulse of the tempest, 
 the empty air all round it, and depending upon the security of a 
 rope, which, in the increasing darkness, had dwindled to an 
 almost imperceptible thread. Besides the hazard of committing 
 a human being to the vacant atmosphere in such a slight means 
 of conveyance, there was the fearful danger of the chair and its 
 occupant being dashed, either by the wind or the vibrations of 
 the cord, against the rugged face of the precipice. But to diminish 
 the risk as much as possible, the experienced seamen had let 
 down with the chair another line, which, being attached to it, 
 and held by the persons beneath, might serve by way of gy^, as 
 Mucklebackit expressed it, to render its descent in some measure 
 steady and regular. Still, to commit one's self in such a vehicle, 
 through a howling tempest of wind and rain, with a beetling 
 precipice above and a raging abyss below, required that courage 
 which despair alone can inspire. Yet, wild as the sounds and sights 
 of danger were, both above, beneath, and around, and doubtful 
 and dangerous as the mode of escaping appeared to be, Lovel 
 and the old mendicant agreed, after a moment's consultation, and 
 
 1 way. ^ cormorant. ^ blast, 
 
 * hoist. ^ guy or guide rope.
 
 SIR WALTER SCOTT 233 
 
 after the former, by a sudden strong pull, had, at his own imminent 
 risk, ascertained the security of the rope, that it would be best to 
 secure Miss Wardour in the chair, and trust to the tenderness and 
 care of those above for her being safely craned up to the top of 
 the crag. 
 
 "Let my father go first," exclaimed Isabella; "for God's sake, 
 my friends, place him first in safety ! " 
 
 "It cannot be. Miss Wardour," said Lovel; "your life must be 
 first secured — the rope which bears your weight may " 
 
 "I will not listen to a reason so selfish !" 
 
 "But ye maun Hsten to it, my bonnie lassie," said Ochiltree, 
 "for a' our lives depend on it — besides, when ye get on the tap o' 
 the heugh yonder, ye can gie' them a round guess o' what's ganging 
 on in this Patmos o' ours — and Sir Arthur's far by that, as I am 
 thinking." 
 
 Struck with the truth of this reasoning, she exclaimed, "True, 
 most true; I am ready and wilhng to undertake the first risk — 
 What shall I say to our friends above?" 
 
 "Just to look that their tackle does not graze on the face o' the 
 craig, and to let the chair down, and draw it up hooly 1 and fairly — 
 we will halloo when we are ready." 
 
 With the sedulous attention of a parent to a child, Lovel bound 
 Miss Wardour with his handkerchief, neckcloth, and the mendi- 
 cant's leathern belt to the back and arms of the chair, ascertaining 
 accurately the security of each knot, while Ochiltree kept Sir 
 Arthur quiet. "What are ye doing wi' my bairn? — what are ye 
 doing? She shall not be separated from me. Isabel, stay with me, 
 I command you ! " 
 
 "Lordsake, Sir Arthur, haud your tongue, and be thankful to 
 God that there's wiser folk than you to manage this job," cried 
 the beggar, worn out by the unreasonable exclamations of the 
 poor Baronet. 
 
 "Farewell, my father!" murmured Isabella — "farewell, my — 
 my friends" ; and, shutting her eyes, as Edie's experience recom- 
 mended, she gave the signal to Lovel, and he to those who were 
 above. She rose, while the chair in which she sat was kept steady 
 by the line which Lovel managed beneath. With a beating heart 
 
 ^ cautiously.
 
 234 SIR WALTER SCOTT 
 
 he watched the flutter of her white dress, until the vehicle was on 
 a level with the brink of the precipice. 
 
 "Canny now, lads, canny now!" exclaimed old Mucklebackit, 
 who acted as commodore; "swerve the yard a bit. Now — there! 
 there she sits safe on dry land ! " 
 
 A loud shout announced the successful experiment to her 
 fellow-sufferers beneath, who rephed with a ready and cheerful 
 halloo. Monkbarns, in his ecstasy of joy, stripped his great-coat to 
 wrap up the young lady, and would have pulled off his coat and 
 waistcoat for the same purpose, had he not been withheld by the 
 cautious Caxon. "Haud a care o' us! your honour will be killed 
 wi' the hoast^ — ye'll no get out o' your night-cowl this fortnight — 
 and that will suit us unco ill. Na, na — there's the chariot down by; 
 let twa o' the folk carry the young leddy there." 
 
 "You're right," said the Antiquary, readjusting the sleeves and 
 collar of his coat, "'you're right, Caxon; this is a naughty night 
 to swim in. Miss Wardour, let me convey you to the chariot." 
 "Not for worlds, till I see my father safe." 
 In a few distinct words, evincing how much her resolution had 
 surmounted even the mortal fear of so agitating a hazard, she 
 explained the nature of the situation beneath, and the wishes of 
 Lovel and Ochiltree. 
 
 "Right, right, that's right too — I should like to see the son of 
 Sir Gamelyn de Guardover on dry land myself — I have a notion 
 he would sign the abjuration oath, and the Ragman-roll to boot, 
 and acknowledge Queen Mary to be nothing better than she should 
 be, to get alongside my bottle of old port that he ran away from, 
 and left scarce begun. But he's safe now, and here a' comes" (for 
 the chair was again lowered, and Sir Arthur made fast in it, with- 
 out much consciousness on his own part) — "here a' comes — bowse 
 away, my boys ! — canny wi' him — a pedigree of a hundred links 
 is hanging on a tenpenny tow — the whole barony of Knockwinnock 
 depends on three plies of hemp — respice finem, res-pice Junem — 
 look to your end — look to a rope's end. Welcome, welcome, my 
 good old friend, to firm land, though I cannot say to warm land 
 or to dry land — a cord for ever against fifty fathom of water, 
 though not in the sense of the base proverb — a fico for the phrase 
 — better sus. per Jiinem than sus. per collP 
 
 ^ cough.
 
 SIR WALTER SCOTT 235 
 
 While Oldbuck ran on in this way, Sir Arthur was safely wrapped 
 in the close embraces of his daughter, who, assuming that authority 
 which the circumstances demanded, ordered some of the assistants 
 to convey him to the chariot, promising to follow in a few minutes. 
 She lingered on the cliff, holding an old countryman's arm, to 
 witness probably the safety of those whose dangers she had 
 shared. 
 
 "What have we here? " said Oldbuck, as the vehicle once more 
 ascended. "What patched and weather-beaten matter is this?" 
 Then, as the torches illumined the rough face and grey hairs of 
 old Ochiltree — "What! is it thou? — come, old Mocker, I must 
 needs be friends with thee — but who the devil makes up your 
 party besides?" 
 
 "Ane that's weel worth ony twa o' us, Monkbarns — it's the 
 young stranger lad they ca' Lovel — and he's behaved this blessed 
 night as if he had three lives to rely on, and was willing to waste 
 them a' rather than endanger ither folk's. Ca' hooly, sirs, as ye 
 wad win an auld's man's blessing ! — mind there's naebody below 
 now to haud the gy — hae a care o' the Cat's-lug corner — bide weel 
 aff Crummie's-horn? " 
 
 "Have a care indeed," echoed Oldbuck. "What! is it my rara 
 avis — my black swan — my phoenix of companions in a post- 
 chaise? Take care of him, Mucklebackit." 
 
 "As muckle care as if he were a greybeard o' brandy; and I 
 canna take mair if his hair were like John Harlowe's. Yo ho, 
 my hearts ! bowse away with him ! " 
 
 Lovel did, in fact, run a much greater risk than any of his pre- 
 cursors. His weight was not sufficient to render his ascent steady 
 amid such a storm of wind, and he swung like an agitated pendulum 
 at the mortal risk of being dashed against the rocks. But he was 
 young, bold, and active, and, with the assistance of the beggar's 
 stout spiked staff, which he had retained by advice of the pro- 
 prietor, contrived to bear himself from the face of the precipice, 
 and the yet more hazardous projecting cliffs which varied its sur- 
 face. Tossed in empty space, Hke an idle and unsubstantial feather, 
 with a motion that agitated the brain at once with fear and with 
 dizziness, he retained his alertness of exertion and presence of 
 mind; and it was not until he was safely grounded upon the 
 summit of the cliff, that he felt temporary and giddy sickness. As
 
 236 SIR WALTER SCOTT 
 
 he recovered from a sort of half swoon, he cast his eyes eagerly 
 around. The object which they would most willingly have sought 
 was already in the act of vanishing. Her white garment was just 
 discernible as she followed on the path which her father had taken. 
 She had lingered till she saw the last of their company rescued 
 from danger, and until she had been assured by the hoarse voice 
 of Mucklebackit, that "the callant had come off wi' unbrizzed 
 banes, and that he was but in a kind of dwam^." But Lovel was 
 not aware that she had expressed in his fate even this degree of 
 interest, which, though nothing more than was due to a stranger 
 who had assisted her in such an hour of peril, he would have 
 gladly purchased by braving even more imminent danger than 
 he had that evening been exposed to. The beggar she had already 
 commanded to come to Knockwinnock that night. He made an 
 excuse. "Then to-morrow let me see you." 
 
 The old man promised to obey. Oldbuck thrust something into 
 his hand-^Ochiltree looked at it by the torchlight, and returned 
 it — "Na, na! I never tak gowd — besides, Monkbarns, ye wad 
 maybe be rueing it the morn." Then turning to the group of 
 fishermen and peasants — "Now, sirs, wha will gie me a supper and 
 some clean pease-strae?" 
 
 "I," "and I," "and I," answered many a ready voice. 
 
 "Aweel, since sae it is, and I can only sleep in ae barn at ance, 
 I'll gae down wi' Saunders Mucklebackit — he has aye a soup o' 
 something comfortable about his biggin^ — and, bairns, I'll maybe 
 live to put ilka ane o' ye in mind some ither night that ye hae 
 promised me quarters and my awmous^; " and away he went with 
 the fisherman. 
 
 Oldbuck laid the hand of strong possession on Lovel — "Deil a 
 stride ye's go to Fairport this night, young man — you must go 
 home with me to Monkbarns. Why, man, you have been a hero — 
 a perfect Sir William Wallace, by all accounts. Come, my good 
 lad, take hold of my arm — I am not a prime support in such a 
 wind — but Caxon shall help us out. Here, you old idiot, come on 
 the other side of me. And how the deil got you down to that 
 infernal Bessy's Apron, as they call it? Bess, said they — why, 
 curse her, she has spread out that vile pennon or banner of 
 
 ^ swoon. 2 house. ^ alms.
 
 SIR WALTER SCOTT 237 
 
 womankind, like all the rest of her sex, to allure her votaries to 
 death and headlong ruin." 
 
 "I have been pretty well accustomed to climbing, and I have 
 long observed fowlers practise that pass down the cliff." 
 
 "But how, in the name of all that is wonderful, came you to 
 discover the danger of the pettish Baronet and his far more 
 deserving daughter?" 
 
 "I saw them from the verge of the precipice." 
 
 " From the verge ! — umph — and what possessed you, dumosa 
 pendere procul de rwpe? — though dumosa is not the appropriate 
 epithet — what the deil, man, tempted ye to the verge of the craig .? " 
 
 "Why, I like to see the gathering and growling of a coming 
 storm — or, in your own classical language, Mr Oldbuck, suave mari 
 magno — and so forth — but here we reach the turn to Fairport. 
 I must wish you good-night." 
 
 "Not a step, not a pace, not an inch, not a shathmont^, as I 
 may say; the meaning of which word has puzzled many that think 
 themselves antiquaries. I am clear we should read salmon-length 
 for shathmonf s length. You are aware that the space allotted for 
 the passage of a salmon through a dam, dike, or weir, by statute, is 
 the length within which a full-grown pig can turn himself round — 
 now I have a scheme to prove, that, as terrestrial objects were 
 thus appealed to for ascertaining submarine measurement, so it 
 must be supposed that the productions of the water were estab- 
 lished as gauges of the extent of land. Shathmont — salmont — you 
 see the close alliance of the sounds; dropping out two Fs and a ?, 
 and assuming an /, makes the whole difference. I wish to Heaven 
 no antiquarian derivation had demanded heavier concessions." 
 
 " But, my dear sir, I really must go home — I am wet to the skin." 
 
 "Shalt have my night-gown, man, and sHppers, and catch the 
 antiquarian fever as men do the plague, by wearing infected 
 garments — nay, I know what you would be at — you are afraid to 
 put the old bachelor to charges. But is there not the remains of 
 that glorious chicken-pie — which, meo arbitrio, is better cold than 
 hot — and that bottle of my oldest port, out of which the silly 
 brain-sick Baronet (whom I cannot pardon, since he has escaped 
 breaking his neck) had just taken one glass when his infirm noddle 
 went a wool-gathering after Gamelyn de Guardover?" 
 
 ^ six inches.
 
 238 SIR WALTER SCOTT 
 
 So saying, he dragged Lovel forward, till the Palmer' s-port of 
 Monkbarns received them. Never, perhaps, had it admitted two 
 pedestrians more needing rest; for Monkbarns's fatigue had been 
 in a degree very contrary to his usual habits, and his more young 
 and robust companion had that evening undergone agitation of 
 mind which had harassed and wearied him even more than his 
 extraordinary exertions of body. 
 
 T. E. BROWN 
 
 Thomas Edward Brown (1830-97) was a master at Clifton. He wrote 
 Betsy Lee, Fo'c'sle Tarns and many charming poems. His letters, too, are 
 delightful. 
 
 MY GARDEN 
 
 A garden is a lovesome thing, God wot ! 
 
 Rose plot. 
 
 Fringed pool, 
 
 Fern'd grot — 
 
 The veriest school 
 
 Of peace; and yet the fool 
 
 Contends that God is not — 
 
 Not God ! in gardens ! When the eve is cool? 
 
 Nay, but I have a sign; 
 
 'Tis verv sure God walks in mine. 
 
 FRANCIS BACON 
 
 Francis Bacon, Viscount St Albans (i 561-1626) was born in London and 
 educated at Cambridge. He was famous as a lawyer, and became Lord 
 Chancellor, but he is still more famous as a philosopher and writer. Of 
 his works, the best known are The Advancement of Learning and his Essays 
 — the latter being wonderful examples of wisdom in the briefest form. 
 The passage that follows is the beginning of the essay "Of Gardens." 
 
 OF GARDENS 
 
 God Almighty first planted a Garden. And indeed it is the 
 purest of human pleasures. It is the greatest refreshment to the 
 spirits of man; without which, buildings and palaces are but gross 
 handiworks; and a man shall ever see that, when ages grow to
 
 FRANCIS BACON 239 
 
 civility and elegancy, men come to build stately sooner than to 
 garden finely, as if gardening were the greater perfection. I do 
 hold it, in the royal ordering of gardens, there ought to be" gardens 
 for all months in the year; in which, severally, things of beauty 
 may be then in season. 
 
 ADDISON 
 
 {The Spectator, No. 477, 6 Sept, 1712.) 
 
 An me ludit amabilis 
 Insania.^ Audire, et videor pios 
 Errare per lucos, amoenas 
 
 Quos et aquffi subeunt et aurae. 
 
 HoR. Od. III. iv. 5. 
 Does airy fancy cheat 
 My mind well pleas'd with the deceit .-' 
 I seem to hear, I seem to move, 
 And wander through the happy grove, 
 Where smooth springs flow, and murm'ring breeze 
 Wantons through the waving trees. Creech. 
 
 "Sir, 
 "Having lately read your essay on The Pleasures of the Imagi- 
 nation, I was so taken with your thoughts upon some of our 
 English gardens, that I cannot forbear troubling you with a letter 
 upon that subject. I am one, you must know, who am looked upon 
 as a humourist in gardening. I have several acres about my house, 
 which I call my garden, and which a skilful gardener would not 
 know what to call. It is a confusion of kitchen and parterre, 
 orchard and flower-garden, which lie so mixt and interwoven with 
 one another, that if a foreigner who had seen nothing of our 
 country should be conveyed into my garden at his first landing, 
 he would look upon it as a natural wilderness, and one of the 
 uncultivated parts of our countr)'. My flowers grow up in several 
 parts of the garden in the greatest luxuriancy and profusion. I 
 am so far from being fond of any particular one, by reason of its 
 rarity, that if I meet with any one in a field which pleases me, 
 I give it a place in my garden. By this means, when a stranger 
 walks with me, he is surprised to see several large spots of ground 
 covered with ten thousand different colours, and has often singled
 
 240 ADDISON 
 
 out flowers that he might have met with under a common hedge, 
 in a field, or in a meadow, as some of the greatest beauties of the 
 place. The only method I observe in this particular, is to range 
 in the same quarter the products of the same season, that they 
 may make their appearance together, and compose a picture of 
 the greatest variety. There is the same irregularity in my planta- 
 tions, which run into as great a wildness as their natures will 
 permit. I take in none that do not naturally rejoice in the soil, 
 and am pleased when I am walking in a labyrinth of my own 
 raising, not to know whether the next tree T shall meet with is 
 an apple or an oak, an elm or a pear-tree. My kitchen has Hkewise 
 its particular quarters assigned it; for besides the wholesome 
 luxury which that place abounds with, I have always thought a 
 kitchen-garden a more pleasant sight than the finest orangery, 
 or artificial green-house. I love to see every thing in its perfection, 
 and am more pleased to survey my rows of coleworts and cabbages, 
 with a thousand nameless pot-herbs, springing up in their full 
 fragrancy and verdure, than to see the tender plants of foreign 
 countries kept alive by artificial heats, or withering in an air 
 and soil that are not adapted to them. I must not omit, that there 
 is a fountain rising in the upper part of my garden, which forms 
 a little wandering rill, and administers to the pleasure as well as 
 the plenty of the place. I have so conducted it, that it visits most 
 of my plantations, and have taken particular care to let it run in 
 the same manner as it would do in an open field, so that it generally 
 passes through banks of violets and primroses, plats of willow, or 
 other plants, that seem to be of its own producing. There is 
 another circumstance in which I am very particular, or, as my 
 neighbours call me, very whimsical : as my garden invites into it 
 all the birds of the country, by offering them the conveniency of 
 springs and shades, solitude and shelter, I do not suffer any one 
 to destroy their nests in the spring, or drive them from their 
 usual haunts in fruit-time. I value my garden more for being full 
 of blackbirds than cherries, and very frankly give them fruit for 
 their songs. By this means, I have always the music of the season 
 in its perfection, and am highly delighted to see the jay or the 
 thrush hopping about my walks, and shooting before my eye 
 across the several little glades and alleys that I pass through. 
 I think there are as many kinds of gardening as of poetry: your
 
 ADDISON 241 
 
 makers of parterres and flower-gardens are epigrammatists and 
 sonneteers in this art, contrivers of bowers and grottos, treilJages 
 and cascades, are romance writers. Wise and London are our 
 heroic poets; and if, as a critic, I may single out any passage of 
 their works to commend, I shall take notice of that part in the 
 upper garden at Kensington, which was at first nothing but a 
 gravel-pit. It must have been a fine genius for gardening that 
 could have thought of forming such an unsightly hollow into so 
 beautiful an area, and to have hit the eye with so uncommon and 
 agreeable a scene as that which it is now wrought into. To give 
 this particular spot of ground the greater effect, they have made 
 a very pleasing contrast; for, as on one side of the walk you see 
 this hollow basin, with its several little plantations lying so 
 conveniently under the eye of the beholder; on the other side of 
 it there appears a seeming mount, made up of trees rising one 
 higher than another, in proportion as they approach the centre. 
 A spectator, who has not heard this account of it, would think 
 this circular mount was not only a real one, but that it had been 
 actually scooped out of that hollow place which I have before 
 mentioned. I never yet met with any one who has walked in this 
 garden, who was not struck with that part of it which I have 
 here mentioned. As for myself, you will find, by the account 
 which I have already given you, that my compositions in gardening 
 are altogether after the Pindaric manner, and run into the beautiful 
 wildness of nature, without affecting the nicer elegancies of art. 
 What I am now going to mention will, perhaps, deserve your 
 attention more than any thing I have yet said. I find that in the 
 discourse which I spoke of at the beginning of my letter, you are 
 against filling an English garden with evergreens; and indeed I 
 am so far of your opinion, that I can by no means think the verdure 
 of an evergreen comparable to that which shoots out annually, 
 and clothes our trees in the summer season. But I have oftea 
 wondered that those who are like myself, and love to live irt 
 gardens, have never thought of contriving a winter garden, which 
 should consist of such trees only as never cast their leaves. We 
 have very often little snatches of sunshine and fair weather in 
 the most uncomfortable parts of the year, and have frequently 
 several days in November and January that are as agreeable as 
 any in the finest months. At such times, therefore, I think there 
 
 S. L. R. II. 16
 
 242 ADDISON 
 
 could not be a greater pleasure than to walk in such a winter 
 garden as I have proposed. In the summer season the whole 
 country blooms, and is a kind of garden, for which reason we are 
 not so sensible of those beauties that at this time may be every 
 where met with; but whenNature is in her desolation, and presents 
 us with nothing but bleak and barren prospects, there is some- 
 thing unspeakably cheerful in a spot of ground which is covered 
 with trees that smile amidst all the rigours of winter, and give us 
 a view of the most gay season in the midst of that which is the 
 most dead and melancholy. I have so far indulged myself in this 
 thought, that I have set apart a whole acre of ground for the 
 executing of it. The walls are covered with ivy instead of vines. 
 The laurel, the horn-beam, and the holly, with many other trees 
 and plants of the same nature, grow so thick in it, that you cannot 
 imagine a more lively scene. The glowing redness of the berries, 
 with which they are hung at this time, vies with the verdure of 
 their leaves, and is apt to inspire the heart of the beholder with 
 that vernal delight which you have somewhere taken notice of in 
 your former papers. It is very pleasant, at the same time, to see 
 the several kinds of birds retiring into this little green spot, and 
 enjoying themselves among the branches and foliage, when my 
 great garden, which I have before mentioned to you, does not 
 afford a single leaf for their shelter. 
 
 "You must know. Sir, that I look upon the pleasure which we 
 take in a garden as one of the most innocent delights in human 
 life. A garden was the habitation of our first parents before the 
 fall. It is naturally apt to fill the mind with calmness and tran- 
 quilHty, and to lay all its turbulent passions at rest. It gives us a 
 great insight into the contrivance and wisdom of Providence, 
 and suggests innumerable subjects for meditation. I cannot but 
 think the verv complacency and satisfaction which a man takes 
 in these works of Nature to be a laudable, if not a virtuous habit 
 of mind. For all which reasons I hope \ou will pardon the length 
 of my present letter. 
 
 "lam, Sir," &c.
 
 ANDREW MARVELL 
 
 Andrew Marvell (1621-78) was, like his friend and fellow-puritan Milton, 
 a Cambridge man. He took a prominent part in the politics of the 
 Commonwealth, and was for a time joint secretary with Milton to the 
 Council of State. He wrote much in jirose and- verse, but is remembered 
 now by a few short poems, the best being the Horatian Ode on CromweU's 
 Return from I r, 'land. 
 
 THE GARDEN 
 
 How vainly men themselves amaze, 
 To win the palm, the oak, or bays; 
 And their incessant labours see 
 Crowned from some single herb, or tree. 
 Whose short and narrow-verged shade 
 Does prudently their toils upbraid ; 
 While all the flowers and trees do close. 
 To weave the garlands of repose ! 
 
 Fair Quiet, have I found thee here, 
 And Innocence, thy sister dear? 
 Mistaken long, I sought you then 
 In busy companies of men. 
 Your sacred plants, if here below. 
 Only among the plants will grow; 
 Society is all but rude 
 To this delicious solitude. 
 
 No white nor red was ever seen 
 So amorous as this lovely green. 
 Fond lovers, cruel as their flame, 
 Cut in these trees their mistress' name: 
 Little, alas ! they know or heed. 
 How far these beauties her's exceed ! 
 Fair trees ! wheres'e'er your bark I wound. 
 No name shall but your own be found. 
 
 When we have run our passion's heat, 
 Love hither makes his best retreat. 
 The gods, that mortal beauty chase, 
 Still in a tree did end their race;
 
 244 ANDREW MARVELL 
 
 Apollo hunted Daphne so, 
 Only that she might laurel grow; 
 And Pan did after Syrinx speed, 
 Not as a nymph, but for a reed. 
 
 What wondrous life is this I lead ! 
 Ripe apples drop about mv head; 
 The luscious clusters of the vine 
 Upon my mouth do crush their wine; 
 The nectarine, and curious peach, 
 Into my hands themselves do reach ; 
 Stumbling on melons, as I pass, 
 Insnared with flowers, I fall on grass. 
 
 Meanwhile the mind, from pleasure less, 
 Withdraws into its happiness ; 
 The mind, that ocean where each kind 
 Does straight its own resemblance find; 
 Yet it creates, transcending these. 
 Far other worlds, and other seas. 
 Annihilating all that's made 
 To a green thought in a green shade. 
 
 Here at the fountain's sliding foot. 
 Or at some fruit-tree's mossy root. 
 Casting the body's vest aside. 
 My soul into the boughs does glide : 
 There, like a bird, it sits and sings. 
 Then whets and combs its silver wings, 
 And, till prepared for longer flight. 
 Waves in its plumes the various light. 
 
 Such was that happy garden-state. 
 While man there walked without a mate: 
 After a place so pure and sweet, 
 What other help could yet be meet ! 
 But 'twas beyond a mortal's share 
 To wander solitary there : 
 Two paradises 'twere in one. 
 To live in paradise alone.
 
 ANDREW MARVELL 245 
 
 How well the skilful gardener drew 
 Of flowers, and herbs, this dial new; 
 Where, from above, the milder sun 
 Does through a fragrant zodiac run. 
 And, as it works, the industrious bee 
 Computes its time as well as we ! 
 How could such sweet and wholesome hours 
 Be reckoned but with herbs and flowers ? 
 
 TENNYSON 
 
 (From In Memoriain) 
 
 Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky. 
 The flying cloud, the frosty Hght: 
 The year is dying in the night; 
 
 Ring out, wild bells, and let him die. 
 
 Ring out the old, ring in the new, 
 
 Ring, happy bells, across the snow: 
 The year is going, let him go; 
 
 Ring out the false, ring in the true. 
 
 Ring out the grief that saps the mind. 
 For those that here we see no more; 
 Ring out the feud of rich and poor, 
 
 Ring in redress to all mankind. 
 
 Ring out a slowly dying cause. 
 
 And ancient forms of party strife; 
 Ring in the nobler modes of life. 
 
 With sweeter manners, purer laws. 
 
 Ring out the want, the care, the sin. 
 The faithless coldness of the times; 
 Ring out, ring out, my mournful rhymes, 
 
 But ring the fuller minstrel in.
 
 246 TENNYSON 
 
 Ring out false pride in place and blood, 
 The civic slander and the spite; 
 Ring in the love of truth and right, 
 
 Ring in the common love of good. 
 
 Ring out old shapes of foul disease; 
 
 Ring out the narrowing lust of gold ; 
 
 Ring out the thousand wars of old, 
 Ring in the thousand years of peace. 
 
 Ring in the valiant man and free, 
 
 The larger heart, the kindlier hand; 
 Ring out the darkness of the land. 
 
 Ring in the Christ that is to be. 
 
 H. C BEECHING 
 
 Henry Charles Beeching (b. 1859), Dean of Norwich. 
 GOING DOWN HILL ON A BICYCLE 
 
 A Boy's Song 
 
 With lifted feet, hands still, 
 I am poised, and down the hill 
 Dart, with heedful mind; 
 The air goes by in a wind. 
 
 Swifter and yet more swift, 
 Till the heart with a mighty lift 
 Makes the lungs laugh, the throat cry: — 
 "O bird, see; see, bird, I fly! 
 
 "Is this, is this your joy? 
 O bird, then I, though a boy. 
 For a golden moment share 
 Your feather}' life in air ! " 
 
 Say, heart, is there aught like this 
 In a world that is full of bliss ? 
 'Tis more than skating, bound 
 Steel-shod to the level ground.
 
 H. C. BEECHING 247 
 
 Speed slackens now, I float 
 Awhile in my airy boat; 
 Till when the wheels scarce crawl, 
 My feet to the treadles fall. 
 
 Alas, that the longest hill 
 Must end in a vale; but still, 
 Who climbs with toil, whereso'er. 
 Shall find wings waiting there. 
 
 NEWBOLT 
 
 Sir Henry Newbolt (b. 1862) was born in StafFordshire and educated at 
 Clifton and Oxford. He has written stories and essays in addition to his^ 
 fine stirring poems. 
 
 THE BEST SCHOOL OF ALL 
 
 It's good to see the School we knew. 
 
 The land of youth and dream, 
 To greet again the rule we knew 
 
 Before we took the stream: 
 Though long we've missed the sight of her. 
 
 Our hearts may not forget; 
 We've lost the old delight of her, 
 
 We keep her honour yet. 
 
 We'll honour yet the School zve knew. 
 
 The best School of all: 
 We' II honour yet the ride we knew. 
 
 Till the last bell call. 
 For, working days or holidays. 
 And glad or melancholy days, 
 They zvere great days and jolly days 
 
 At the best School of all. 
 
 The stars and sounding vanities 
 
 That half the crowd bewitch. 
 What are they but inanities 
 
 To him that treads the pitch ?
 
 248 NEWBOLT 
 
 And where's the wealth, I'm wondering, 
 Could buy the cheers that roll 
 
 When the last charge goes thundering 
 Beneath the twihght goal? 
 
 The men that tanned the hide of us, 
 
 Our daily foes and friends, 
 They shall not lose their pride of us, 
 
 Howe'er the journey ends. 
 Their voice, to us who sing of it, ' 
 
 No more its message bears, 
 But the round world shall ring of it 
 
 And all we are be theirs. 
 
 To speak of Fame a venture is. 
 
 There's little here can bide. 
 But we may face the centuries, 
 
 And dare the deepening tide: 
 For though the dust that's part of us 
 
 To dust again be gone. 
 Yet here shall beat the heart of us — 
 
 The School we handed on ! 
 
 We'll honour yet the School we knew^ 
 
 The best School of all: 
 WeHl honour yet the rule zee knezv. 
 
 Till the last bell call. 
 For, working days or holidays, 
 And glad or melancholy days. 
 They were great days and jolly days 
 
 At the best School of all. 
 
 CAMBRIDGE: PRINTED BY J. B. PEACE, M.A., AT THE UNIVERSITY PRESS
 
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